Black and Midnight Blue

Coffee is an incredible blessing, to say the least. It unlocks the energy trapped beneath any shroud of long days and sleepless nights, drawing you out into an energized daylight, free from the chains of exhaustion. You could feel its buzz already coursing through your veins. It hit every nook and cranny of your tired body, even passing around the stitches that held your calf wound together with all their threaded might. 

Two drinks down just to keep you awake. You didn’t want to think about how much more you might need later.

Coffee, though, can also be a curse. It’s one of the few things in your life that you sometimes allow yourself to depend on. Dependency should never be an option, you know that, but there have been many occasions in your life where you were forced to rely on the silken flow of caffeine to keep your eyes open. And, okay, the post-coffee crash is not your favorite time of day, but everything has its pros and cons. Nothing a nap can’t fix.

Holding another cup of the stuff in one hand, you cursed yourself for forgetting to grab a sleeve. The scalding water burned through the paper cup as if you held it against your bare skin. 

Another con. Still worth it.

You gritted your teeth as you walked to Ray’s cubicle, grateful that the cup’s lid prevented the hot stuff from sloshing onto your clothes. Ray didn’t lift his head at first when you stepped inside, his eyes buried between stacks of papers and a few documents open on his computer.

“Morning, Special Agent!”

He turned his head towards you before his eyes followed, as if they were magnets and his computer screen was a fridge door. “Morning, Sel.”

Busy morning, I guess.

“Brought something to tide you over.”

Ray’s eyes almost bugged out of his head at the cup of pure life force in your hand. You held it out to him, and he grabbed it right over his desk - and thank goodness for that. Your hand was beginning to shake with the heat, and you were sure Ray would not appreciate you spilling coffee all over his files.

“Selena.” Ray’s words dripped with both appreciation and desperation, and you sensed he hadn’t had time to get his own caffeine fix just yet. “You are a godsend. You have no idea how much I need this right now.”

You gestured to his thoroughly crowded desk and laughed. “Think I can guess.”

Ray took off the lid and downed a gulp with no regard for the safety of his mouth, not caring about a burnt tongue if it meant he could get a caffeine buzz going as quickly as possible.

Your heart thumped in your chest just slightly. It wasn’t the greatest for you to request something of Ray on such a hectic day, but this was necessary. Hopefully, he could find it in his heart and in his schedule to do a favor for a friend.

“Hey, Ray,” you began, his eyes peeking up at you from behind the coffee cup. “I don’t mean to add more to your plate today, but I need a favor.”

“A favor?” He queried, placing the cup down. “What kind of favor?”

The caffeine in your veins mingled with your light anxiety to build up the thumping sensation in your chest. It felt like your heart was trying to escape your ribcage. You pulled out the chair on your side of the desk and took a seat, leaning in close, your voice little more than a whisper.

“The kind of favor that gets me Level One clearance.”

The promotion you’d been gunning for would have been helpful for a plethora of reasons. It would put you in a higher pay grade, and enable you to begin, lead, and individually carry out missions and investigations. With this higher level of independence in the workplace, you’d also have access to a higher level of classified items and information. This included things like Level One mission and investigation reports, video and audio from interrogations, and deeper information connected to civilians of all backgrounds - criminal or not. This information could be incredibly useful to you for some obvious after-hours reasons, and you were itching to get your hands on it however you could. 

If you couldn't get what you needed on your own, what better way was there than Ray?

Ray examined you for a moment, brows furrowing and unfurrowing. “Selena, if there’s something you want me to look into, I’m happy to do it for you.”

You shook your head, determined to ensure this stayed in your hands and no one else’s. “I can’t draw you into it. You’re busy enough, anyway.”

His eyes narrowed. “Is there something I should know?”

“No, no, I just-“ you sighed. “I might have a lead on the beginnings of a... case. One related to some dangerous people. And, there are some files, documents on people, and past Level One missions that I really need to look into.” You bit the inside of your cheek.

It’s not a total lie.

Ray glanced to the opening of his cubicle before leaning towards you, lowering his voice as much as possible. “You know I can’t just give that to you.”

“I’m telling you, Ray, it’s safer for me to do the research. This could be something big.”

“Selena, I’m not gonna set you up for something that could get you hurt.”

“Isn’t that what we do every day, anyway?”

Ray clenched his jaw and leaned back in his chair. You played with the hem of your shirt nervously, desperate for this conversation to start going in a direction that favored you, instead of following the downward spiral you felt gnawing its way through Ray’s desk.

“You know I could get in trouble if anyone found out.”

“They won’t,” you insisted. “You know me. You know I can get in and out without anyone knowing.” You paused, considering your words and tracing your gaze over the lines in Ray’s forehead. “But, if they do find out, I’ll take the blame.”

He scoffed. “What, you’ll say you stole my keycard or something?”

“If I have to.”

Ray ran his hands through his hair. “You could lose your job.”

You leaned in further, dropping your voice another octave. “Goes to show how much this lead matters to me, Ray. How important this case could be.” You shifted your jaw as he shifted his. “You know I don’t fuck around.”

Ray stared back at you, his stern glare holding a softened edge that showed you were right: he knows you don’t fuck around, not with stuff like this. He blinked once, and you held your gaze steady, refusing to back down. 

Ray sighed. “You gotta give me at least a few details, Sel.”

Yes. Breakthrough.

“I can’t tell you much,” you began carefully, your voice treading the edge between safe secrecy and dangerous clarity. “I’ve found multiple connections within organized crime in Hell’s Kitchen - connections we haven’t come across before, not in the way I’ve seen them. Recently, I came across a lead that could open the door to all kinds of criminal enterprises, things we haven’t even begun to explore - darker stuff.” You took a breath, forcing down the image in your head of bloodied gym mats, ropes like fire, and sightless eyes. Then, another image of damp alleys, blood-smeared knives, and the shadow of the Devil over a dead man. “I just need more information.”

You wanted so badly to explain it all to Ray, to tell him everything - but you knew that wasn’t an option, no matter how much easier it would make your mission and your life. So, you settled on telling it to yourself, the only person in the world you could truly be honest with.

I need to know more about Union Allied Construction. I need to know more about its related companies. I need to know more about Turk Barrett, about the Ranskahovs, about Leland Owlsley, James Wesley, John Healy.

I need to know the story behind the name ‘Wilson Fisk.’

Ray chewed the inside of his lip, his eyes searching between the piles of paper on his desk. He opened his mouth to speak but hesitated. “Darker stuff?”

You steeled yourself, a sharp intake of cold air doing little to settle your heartbeat. “I told you, I can’t tell you much, but based on what I’ve gathered so far - I can’t let this go.” You met Ray’s eyes once more, shooting every ounce of determined severity in your body at him through your gaze. “I need to do something before more people get hurt.”

Ray broke away from your gaze and dropped his head into his hands. “Jesus, Selena.” He dragged his fingers down his face until they hit his jaw, shaking his head. “This sounds like a lot more than some Level One clearance thing.”

“It might be,” you all but confirmed, “but the clearance is the first step. Once I get what I need, I’ll be out of your hair. You won’t need to be a part of it at all.”

His eyes shifted back to yours, cutting through your skin. “Maybe I should be.”

“No, no, no. It’s not necessary. I just need the clearance so I can verify some things, get some more information-“

“Do you hear yourself right now?” Ray’s tone shook you just slightly. His mild, humorous attitude was seldom displaced by emotion like this. “You’re doing an unauthorized investigation and unauthorized missions, I’m sure, talking about what sounds like some pretty dangerous shit. This is insane.”

Fading trails of steam floated up from Ray’s coffee, and for a moment, you wished you were holding that scalding cup again instead of getting an earful from him. Yes, what you were doing was unauthorized, but it wasn’t criminal. Per se.

At least not during the day.

You scoured your brain for a counterargument - and found one, setting your jaw. “Remember Bauvella?” 

The case of Lionel Bauvella was the one that got you promoted from Level Three to Level Two. It started when you overheard a restaurant conversation that you realized connected with some of your desk work. You’d found leads, had your own late-night stakeouts, and even took on a few undercover roles to finally discover that this Lionel Bauvella was running one of the fastest-growing cocaine operations in Midtown Manhattan, with international connections to boot. It was risky, incredibly taxing, and took up all your energy, time, and money - but it was worth it. It was your job.

Ray kept his eyes on you carefully. “Yeah, I remember Bauvella.”

“That case started as an unauthorized investigation, didn’t it?”

He clenched his jaw. “Yes.”

“Yes. And who carried out that unauthorized investigation?”

“You.”

You smiled. “Me. And - in turn - who eventually cracked the case that led to one of the biggest Midtown drug busts of the last few years?”

Ray sighed, an almost-smile ghosting over his lips. “I don’t suppose this coffee was more of a bribe than a friendly gesture?”

Your lips turned up halfway in a tight, scrunched expression. “Can’t it be both?”

The air in the room had been heavy, but in this moment, it felt lighter, the spiral fading, a faint shine glowing from the end of the tunnel that was Ray’s cubicle. He looked at you, noticing the way you still fiddled with your shirt, and you stilled your fingers. 

He had to let you do this. He trusted you; he just needed to trust you a little more.

“If I let you use my clearance - and that’s a strong if,” Ray began, his words sending the slightest twinge of hope back through your core, “we’re gonna need to be very careful with how we go about it.”

“Of course,” you assured. “I have a whole plan. Nothing you need to worry about. I can explain it all to you-“

“Knock, knock!”

Ray turned his focus to a point just behind you and smiled. You turned to offer your own quick smile to the new Level Three standing at the end of the cubicle. Didn’t know his name yet, but he was cheery and energized enough to not be forgettable.

“Sorry to interrupt, but Janelle wants us all to join her in the meeting room.”

“Sounds good, man,” Ray nodded, his grin as bright and friendly as ever. “We’ll be there soon.”

The new guy gave a short nod before he ran off, the pep in his step showing just how keen he was on making a good impression. You turned back to Ray and watched as he slowly dialed the grin down to a neutral expression. That was one talent you shared, and although you were more skilled than him at masking your true feelings when you needed to, Ray wasn’t half bad. FBI, after all.

You swallowed. “So, I can explain it all to you-“

The squeal of Ray’s chair across the floor interrupted your sentence. “Meeting first. And don’t forget that this is very much an if, Selena.”

“Ray,” you pleaded, getting to your feet. “I promise you-“

“Don’t push it.”

Ray gave you a look like a teacher scolding their student, and you groaned internally. He grabbed his coffee and stepped around the desk, never failing to keep eye contact.

“Haven’t even finished all of my bribe, anyway.”

“Ugh, Ray,” you swatted at his arm as he smiled into the coffee cup. Yes, you could have your differences, and yes, you really, really needed him to agree to this, but you were still friends. Nothing could change that.

The two of you marched out of the cubicles towards Janelle’s office and beyond to an expansive, modern meeting room. The main table was larger than most other meeting tables you’d seen, surrounded by a multitude of black leather office chairs. Navy blue walls were lined with service awards, a few windows, and two TVs, and the lighting in the room was clear, albeit slightly clinical. Some other officers lined the walls, chatting amongst themselves as to what the meeting was about. You could just barely make out a few stray comments here and there:

“I’m not surprised-“

“-heard he worked some hotline-“

“-extensive military service-“

“I like him, I do-“

“-think he deserves it, anyway.”

Though it hadn’t been very loud, a slight hush fell over the room as Janelle entered, the slim heels of her cheetah-patterned pumps working overtime, every click-clack on tile reverberating through the space. Her second-in-command followed closely behind - Tammy Hattley. She was a bit more demure, black loafers and a navy pantsuit matching her calm expression, but she was no less intimidating than Janelle. Maybe even more so.

And following behind the two women was none other than Dex, that lopsided smile pasted onto his bitterly pleasant face. 

Great.

Wait.

What?

Dex strode over to the head of the table, the only evidence of his smugness being a subtle glint in his eye - and you were sure you were the only one who could see it. He pulled out the chair and took a seat as Janelle and Tammy flanked either side of him. Dex looked to Ray with a smile before his eyes fell down to you briefly - and moved right off of you. You felt your brow furrow just slightly, a small wave of uncomfortable warmth moving its way through your gut, heat rising in your throat like bile.

“Good morning, good morning, everyone!” Janelle began with uncharacteristic enthusiasm, veiled under a film of honeylike nonchalance. “I apologize for taking you away from your work on a day that I know is quite busy for most of you - however, working here, I’m sure you don’t mind the break.”

The room laughed. You joined in, just slightly out of sync.

“I wanted to gather you all here today for a special announcement. As you all know, due to an increase in casework demands and Ronson’s retirement, Tammy and I have decided it’s high time to expand our pool of Level One Agents.”

Your pulse picked up as your breathing crashed to a halt.  No way.

Tammy nodded at Janelle and turned her focus to Dex, who sat there with his hands in his lap, doing a poor job of holding back his grin. Ray stilled at your side, and you felt him look at you, but you couldn’t look away from Dex and that cocky flash in his eye. 

Dex.

Really?

Of all people?

Your face burned a fiery red, the bile tasting sour on the back of your tongue. You’d rather carve out your eardrums than listen to what Janelle had to say next. Unfortunately, you didn't have your knives on hand, so you had no choice but to hear it, loud and clear:

“So, to keep it short and sweet, I’d like to introduce our newest Level One - Special Agent Benjamin Poindexter!”

The room erupted in cheers and claps, and Dex finally let that grin break free. You felt frozen for a second, the air like a hazy Jell-o, your hands moving so slowly up to clap that you couldn’t believe people weren’t staring.

Of course they weren’t staring at you, though.

They were staring at Dex.

Level One Agent Poindexter.

With Level One clearance.

You were clenching your jaw so hard you thought the bones might break, and you pictured your teeth snapping in half from the pressure. Dex got to his feet, shook the hands of Tammy and Janelle, and stepped around the table to greet the other agents, all so happy for him - so very happy that Dex was getting what he deserved.

“Should’ve been you,” Ray whispered. You shook your head.

“I can’t believe it. I’ve done everything right.”

“I know. You’ll get there, I swear.”

You snorted, and your hand flew up to cover your mouth, having forgotten for a moment that you were in a room full of your colleagues, congratulating one of them on a promotion. Still, it was hard to be respectful when the guy getting promoted was someone you disliked and distrusted as much as you did Dex. Especially when that promotion would have made your life a million times easier.

“She’ll never promote me. You know that.”

“That’s not true. You deserve it.”

“Yeah,” your tone, though still a whisper, was impatient. “Yeah, I could deserve it as much as anyone, but you know Janelle. Only promotes once in a blue moon.”

“Next quarter’s yours, then.” Ray insisted. As much as you appreciated his undying, ever-optimistic support, it wasn’t helping you, not now. Dex’s shit-eating grin was branded into your brain, glowing there in a deep crimson as if it had been crafted just for you.

“Hey, Dex!” Ray called out as Dex came closer to the two of you. Dex turned his head, still ignoring your eyes. “Congrats, man.”

“Thanks, Ray.” He reached out to shake Ray’s hand, firmly and friendly and proud. Then, finally, he turned to you. You swallowed. 

“Congrats, Dex. You’ll be great.” The words felt like sandpaper in your mouth, but to anyone else, they were cotton candy, bright and light and oh-so-sweet. Dex smiled, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“Thanks, Selena. Bet you’ll be up here with me sooner rather than later.”

You smiled back, just barely hiding the bitterness twisted between your teeth. He moved on to the next few colleagues, onto more hands to shake, more smiles to give and receive, and your feet were moving before you could stop them.

“Selena?” Ray called out after you, but the sound tunneled to the back of your mind, your only true thought being how to get the hell out of this boardroom. You walked calmly but briskly past the doors and into the hallway, past Janelle’s godforsaken office, past cubicles and desks and half-downed coffees and papers strewn about like scattered autumn leaves, waiting for winter to crush them under the unforgiving cold of snow and ice. You shoved the door to the women’s washroom open and finally stopped in the center of the gray tiled floor, placing your hands against your head as the door tilted slowly to a loud shut. Tears pricked at the back of your eyes, and you clenched your jaw to hold them back, not wanting to ruin your makeup and certainly not wanting to cry over anything to do with Benjamin fucking Poindexter.

That promotion was yours. You’d taken all the right steps, put in the extra hours, given anything and everything to your job - and for what? For Poindexter to saunter in and take it all away from you with a handshake and a lopsided smile?

You thought back to the day of your meeting with Janelle. You’d been nervous but sure of yourself; your outfit was polished, your interview prep practiced until you were fluent in the language of your strengths and weaknesses, and Janelle sat there smoking up the room like she was lounging in the back of a seedy strip club. She told you to ‘remember your position,’ whatever that meant. And the cherry on top of that miserable sundae was Dex’s grand entrance. Took him one knock on the door to fuck it all up, once and for all.

Not interrupting anything, my ass.

Your heels clacked lightly on the tile as you stepped over to a sink. Thankfully, no one else was in this washroom, all the rest of your coworkers presumably still shaking the hands and kissing the ass of the newest Level One Agent. The ceramic didn’t feel cold enough as you placed your weight on it, hands gripping the sides of the sink like it was keeping you from flying apart. The air felt stale, musty, and devoid of real oxygen, but you fought to fill your lungs as much as you could with every breath. The faucet dripped water into the sink, every leaked droplet smashing on ceramic like porcelain on concrete. Your mind flashed back to Turk Barrett’s head on his own bed of concrete, and you cringed.

Smash. Smash. Smash.

The blazer you wore felt too tight. It was stifling. Your shoes felt too loose, your hair not clean enough, your jewelry more like chains than pretty adornments. You met your own eyes through the mirror, discomfort and disappointment shooting back to pierce your soul. Miraculously, the few tears that had welled in your eyes had left your eyeliner untouched, and as your eyes dried and the redness faded, your sharp gaze felt less pained and more resolute.

Powerful.

You were still powerful.

And yet, all alone in this room, another chance slipping out of your grasp, you felt so very weak.

You hung your head in silence, the only movement or sound in the room being the slow drip of water as it leaked down the drain.

After reluctantly guzzling your third coffee, the rest of the day went by in a blur. Your cubicle felt like a prison, but anywhere else would feel like a celebration dedicated to Dex, the agent of the hour, so in the cubicle you remained. It was nice to get lost in your work for a while. You got caught up on the “Big One” and made a few connections between the targets of that case and what you’d learned from Lionel Bauvella.

The Big One followed the Velluchi family, tight-knit relatives who built their lives on political connections over the criminal underground. They’d integrated themselves into politics over the years, suspected of using bribery and other less-than-savory tactics to keep themselves in positions of power. This also made it possible for their various suspected illegal activities to remain operational - things like drug and human trafficking, or so the Level Ones believed. When one of the Velluchi siblings, Marcus, turned up dead in the Hudson River, all attention was drawn back to the family and their integrity. Naturally, they painted it as a poor decision and a horrible accident: a booze-driven midnight swim gone wrong. Turns out, Marcus Velluchi had recently begun to speak out against the family’s ways - and as soon as he tries to disentangle himself from them, he turns up dead? Too suspicious to be an accident.

This proof of a "lack-of-accident" was left all the more certain by Marcus' autopsy report, which carried a great amount of detail in relation to not only the water in his lungs but the bullet lodged in his skull.

You found the case morbidly interesting. What a family, wherein the ties of so-called love were too strong to be severed unless by death at the hands of the family itself. And imagine living a life where the choice to follow a righteous road was considered the ultimate betrayal, worthy of a cold, watery grave; the complexity of it all was fascinating, even as it sent shivers down your spine.

Any case like this was always a good distraction for you. Whether something at home, with friends, or at work was bothering you, you could easily lose yourself in the haunting mystery of big cases, enthralled by their dark core and profound impact. It was the intricacy of human nature, the darker side of what it can mean to be human, that captivated your interest.

A flicker of the Devil darted through your mind, his grin and lilting tone a velvet whisper in your ears, through your stitches, over your cuts and bruises and the softer parts of your skin.

“See you when I see you, Nightingale.”

Fuck.

It seemed he understood this, too - how the light and the dark of humanity coexist. Not always peacefully, but both are always there. Some people fight the dark with light, some embrace the shadows, and some use the power of both to build a safer world, risking their own corruption in the name of justice. He didn’t know you, you didn’t know him, but this was one small way you understood each other like few others could.

Plus, he was damn good at first aid. You still limped just slightly ever so often, but your calf wound was far less painful than it would have been if you’d stitched it yourself. Your stomach turned just picturing it. The awkward angles, the mess it would have made on your couch, the potential rip of tender tissue - ugh. It was risky letting him help you home, letting him into your place, no less, but it luckily turned out to be the best decision you could have made that night.

Thank you, Jack. Very much.

Heading out for the day, your shoulders felt a bit lighter, though the weight of Dex’s gain and your subsequent loss still left a bitter taste in your mouth. You’re not a jealous person; it was just so hard to see him easily slither into something you’d worked so hard for. Besides, it’s normal to be jealous sometimes. You’re only human.

You opened the door onto the sidewalk, briefcase in hand, when your phone buzzed twice. The first message popped up bright and distractingly perfect. You stopped in your tracks, your mouth dropping before curving into a relieved, almost disbelieving smile as you read the words over once, twice, three times.

RAY: i’ll do it.

The phone now felt like some priceless artifact in your hand, and you clutched it to your chest, almost daring a passerby to come up and try to wrench it from you. It buzzed once more, and you glanced down, the second message just as glorious as the first, maybe more so:

RAY: you better give me more details later. but i trust you.

You almost couldn’t believe his words. Did someone steal his phone? Maybe Fisk, out for my blood already? No, no. It was Ray, through and through. Always on your side. Sometimes you felt like you didn’t deserve a friend like him, but in moments like these, all you felt was gratitude that you were lucky enough to have him in your life - especially with the nature of your growing responsibilities.

Thank goodness for Ray Nadeem.

Buzzing with renewed hope, you opened your phone and scrolled to the other message you’d received:

FOGGY: hey secret agent! we still good for tonight?

You’d almost forgotten about drinks with Foggy, Karen, and Matt tonight. Your fingers sped across the screen, and Foggy responded just as fast.

YOU: yes! looking forward to it!

FOGGY: great! josie’s at 8. it's a diamond in the rough. you’re gonna love it

YOU: i’m sure i will. see you guys then!

The sun shone down hot and golden through the clouds, and you closed your eyes for a moment, letting the rays warm your skin. 

So, Dex got what you wanted. That sucked. But you had Ray - who was now unequivocally on your side, you were sure. And you also had a great night ahead of you, chock full of potential new friends or, at the very least, allies.

It wasn’t your favorite day, but it could be worse.

The night was dark, but the sign on the window of Josie’s was bright, red, and glowingly vibrant. The rest of the building’s front, however, was less than appealing; gray paint chipping at the edges to reveal old brick, a large steel door to match, and smudges and steam marks over the windows gave the whole place a very well-worn vibe.

Not well-worn, well-loved, you told yourself, stepping inside and hoping Foggy knew his bars as well as he claimed to.

“Let’s get a refill over here!”

“-gin and tonic, hold the tonic-“

“Josie, you’re a gem-“

Well, can’t judge a book by its cover now, can we?

The rough exterior was an excellent disguise for the lively spirit within the bar’s walls. Crowds shared drinks and bar food, some played pool on a table in the back, and though not all the faces were smiling, there was a distinct exuberance running through the space to the fairy lights decorating the walls. Voices and cheers and conversations filled the air, thicker than smoke - which was also present, wispy tendrils of one-person campfires floating up here and there. A few rougher characters stood out - no-nonsense types with tattoos, piercings, leather jackets, looks that could kill, the whole lot of it - but no matter. Didn’t bother you, and besides - you can’t judge a book by its cover. 

At the busy bar, you saw a middle-aged woman who could only be Josie, the sour look on her face doing nothing to impede her busy work of pouring drinks and clearing glasses. She didn’t have the most well-kept hair, and her clothes would not be found in a magazine, but you could tell she worked her ass off. A woman who runs shit and doesn’t take shit, you were sure.

“Josie, I asked for another shot-“

“And you’ll get your goddamn shot if you wait your goddamn turn!”

Yep. Legend. Also scary. Don’t piss her off.

Your gaze continued across the bar and landed on a waving hand, high in the air above a booth near the back. You followed the arm down to see Foggy, grin wide and cheery as ever. Karen sat across from him, turning to reveal an equally bright smile on her face, though it was more subtle, more reserved.

“Over here, agent!” Foggy bellowed.

A smile grew on your own face, and you skipped over to the booth.

“Not so loud, Foggy. You never know who could be listening.”

Foggy’s eyes grew just a tad, and his eyebrows began to dip, concern evident from his brow to his shrinking posture. “Shit, I-“

“She’s kidding, Foggy,” Karen laughed, swatting his arm over the table. You sat beside her, laughing as well. Foggy rolled his eyes.

“Well, sorry if I care about matters of national security,” he droned sarcastically before letting up a smile of his own. “Especially such as yourself, Miss Selena.”

“I do very much appreciate it. However, I have had more than enough work today.”

Foggy and Karen’s brows each knitted together. So caring, and you barely knew each other. It was very refreshing.

“Bad day?” Karen asked.

“Man,” you began, Dex’s stupid, stupid, stupid grin still burning flames against your mind’s eye. You ran a hand down your face, letting your back go slack against the green leather cushioned seats. “You have no idea.”

“Well, my friend, it’s a good thing you’re here because Josie has a wonderful deal on Thursdays.” Foggy spoke with his hands, and emphatically at that, his voice lilting upwards as if with pure joy on the words good and wonderful. 

That kind of guy, huh. Kind of love it.

“Thirsty Thursday!” Karen joked. You laughed.

“Yeah, well, might not have early morning classes, but work still calls tomorrow.” You smiled. “However, I may have to take Josie up on that wonderful offer for that very reason.”

“Matt and I can relate to that, let me tell you.” Foggy shook his head.

Of course. Their big case of the week was over, and you knew full well how it went.

“Oh?” You asked, working to keep your expression carefully concerned without going over the top. “Case not go well?”

Foggy shrugged his shoulders. “Went about as well as you sometimes expect.” He lifted the beer in front of him, clinking it in the air against another invisible glass bottle. “You win some, you lose some, and others? Sometimes you really just don't know for sure.”

“That’s the spirit, Foggy,” Karen nodded as he took down a swig of beer.

“Matt was incredible, though,” Foggy mused. “I mean, I’m good at my job, but the closing statement he gave? Poetry, through and through.”

Karen glanced at you, then back to him with a slight shrug. “Maybe he can reenact it tonight, so Selena and I can experience the magic for ourselves.”

“As much as I’m sure Matt wouldn’t mind the praise, I think we’d both prefer to focus on the Thirsty part of Thursday tonight instead of the work part.”

“Amen to that,” You smiled. You paused for a moment, eyes trailing to the empty space in the booth across from you. The inevitable question buzzed through your head and pressed against your lips until you let it free. “Where is Matt, anyway?”

“Washroom,” Foggy pursed his lips. “Unless he fell down the damn stairs again.”

“Wasn’t it a kitchen accident this time?” Karen hummed thoughtfully but with concern.

“Same difference. Either way, he ends up battered.”

You winced, remembering the marks on his face from the day of your bagel delivery. “That can’t be fun.”

“Not at all,” Foggy agreed, eying you for a split second before he continued. “It’s like Matt versus The Floor, and Floor is winning a hundred to, like, five. I keep telling him he needs a dog.”

“Dogs are great, for any reason,” Karen smiled.

You raised your eyebrows, your expression agreeable. “I love dogs.”

“Thought we dropped the dog thing already, Fog.”

The voice of the other half of Nelson and Murdock caught you by surprise. You turned your head, and there he was, standing in front of the booth as he packed up his cane. Matt’s timbre was as smoothly rough as you remembered it from Bagel Day, and he towered over the three of you like a commander about to give a rousing speech to his soldiers. You would have been more taken with his good posture, his chiseled jaw, clean and well-fitting suit, had you not found your eyes drawn to his lips.

And, although they were nice lips, pink and dewy and soft-looking, it wasn’t the lips themselves that caught your eye.

It was the cut beneath them, stitched precisely and carefully.

Small enough to pass by but too obvious for you to ignore.

That’s… weird.

You felt your heart begin to pound and worked to quell it.

Coincidence. Super weird coincidence, but a coincidence.

At the same time as you noticed the suspicious stitching, Matt seemed to pause for a moment, cane half-folded and brows knitting together above his glasses. His lips opened and closed once before he finally spoke again.

“Selena!” He almost croaked and cleared his throat. “I totally forgot you were joining us tonight.”

Your throat felt almost crowded with all the questions you wanted to ask but couldn’t possibly. “Yeah, I- yeah.” Matt finally hit the un-pause button in his brain and sat beside Foggy - right across from you. “Foggy invited me, and the timing worked. I hope I’m not intruding.”

“Oh, no, no, God, no,” Matt insisted, the charm and ease in him snapping back into place like that weird moment never happened. “I’ve just been busy - slipped my mind, that’s all. It’s nice to have you here.” He smiled, pulling the sutures beneath his mouth taut.

“The more, the merrier.” Karen smiled, leaning towards you.

“Seconded!” Foggy cheered, lifting his beer in the air. “Or would it be thirded?”

Matt laughed. “In any case, we’re all glad you could join us.”

You smiled at them all, though you couldn’t help but let your eyes narrow. “I don't want to cross any lines, but….” you paused, tilting your head at Matt. He didn’t move, but you caught a flicker of tension in his neck. “What happened to your lip?”

The dim lights glinted off Matt’s glasses, and although you couldn’t make out his eyes beneath them, you could feel his gaze drilling holes through you whether he could see you or not. More flickers of tension returned in his neck and jaw, but his tone remained unbothered, effortlessly relaxed. “Kitchen accident. Never peeling apples with a knife again.”

“That’s dangerous even for people who can see, Matt.” Foggy gave Matt a knowing look, more father-to-son than friend-to-friend. “Why not just eat your apples as they are?”

Matt raised his eyebrows, smiling just a quarter of the way. “I deserve to have peeled apples if I want them peeled.”

“Of course you do. You also deserve help when you need it.” Foggy paused for emphasis, nodding his head to the beat of every word. “You need a dog.”

“What does a dog have to do with peeling apples?”

“Maybe you could get an electric peeler?” Karen chimed in.

Your eyes stayed on Matt; though he couldn’t see you, you knew he noticed it. “I’ve heard the electric ones are great.”

His smile was relaxed, though his jaw tightened. “I’ll think about it.”

“That’s the spirit!” Foggy cheered, sliding Matt a beer. “Here’s to thinking about it.”

The four of you each took a swig of your beers, Foggy and Karen smiling, you and Matt strung with thin lines of tension - nearly undetectable, but obvious if one knew how to spot it. 

In him, it was a clenching and unclenching jaw, muscles twitching in an effort to stay relaxed, a smoothly soothing voice that was just a touch too calm.

In you, it was the way your finger tapped against your beer bottle, the way your breaths came soft and controlled, the way your expression flickered between obliviously comfortable and sharply focused.

It was a coincidence.

It had to be a coincidence.

You just had to make sure.

“Looks like you needed stitches,” you noted, your words and doe-eyes painted with innocence. “Hope it didn’t cost too much to get done.”

Matt’s expression flashed red and hardened slightly as Foggy began to speak.

“Fun fact about Matt Murdock - for stuff like this, he never goes to the ER. Flat-out refuses.”

“Really?” you continued, turning to Foggy but keeping your focus on Matt, whose fingers had begun to tap lightly against the table. 

“Yeah. Love the guy, but he gets into enough little accidents that it would probably cost him less to rent out a penthouse than to go to the hospital for everything.”

You nodded. “Did you do his stitches, then?”

Foggy laughed. “I would have tried if I caught him in time, but no. Crazy guy does it himself.” He turned to Matt, clapping a hand against his shoulder. Matt smirked, but after another swig of his beer, the smirk was long gone.

You raised your eyebrows.

Karen leaned forward, her eyes glittering with concern. “Matt, by yourself? Is that… is that such a good idea?”

“Now, now, Karen.” Foggy gestured, holding his hands out for emphasis. “Do I agree with it? No. Is he actually impressively capable, and in turn, liable to freak us out when he can manage to do this stuff himself? Yes.”

Matt shook his head, chuckling, though you caught a twinge of nervousness in his laughter. “You don’t need to be freaked out. I’m fine.”

Foggy rolled his eyes with a smile. “Forgive me for worrying about you.”

“Alright, Fog. I get it,” Matt hummed, patting Foggy’s shoulder. “You just love me too much,” he shrugged, laughing.

“And don’t you forget it!”

The four of you laughed, your laugh ending sooner than the others, with Matt’s quick to follow. You focused your senses, your mental energy, all you had in you on Matt, and it was as if he could tell, the purse of his lips and continual flicker of his jaw all too obvious to you. His brow wasn’t quite furrowed, but the faintest lines appeared on his forehead, subtle but still there. Maybe it wasn’t apparent to Foggy or Karen, but you’re an FBI agent, for goodness' sake. Your training was based on this stuff. You knew when something was suspicious, and you knew how to draw on your suspicions until truth came pouring out like a shimmering, radiant waterfall of secrets.

“I don’t mean to pry,” you began, your voice cool and inviting, very much meaning to pry, “but how did you learn to do stitches? I mean, they’re perfect.”

Matt scoffed lightly, his jaw shifting. “They’re hardly perfect.”

Huh.

“Matt’s been stitching up skin since before he could walk,” Foggy laughed. “I swear, I don’t know how the guy did it when he could see.”

Your gaze darted to Foggy, not ignoring Matt’s slight squirm in his seat. “Sounds like a lot for a kid.”

Foggy shrugged. “Well, hey, I guess when your dad’s a boxer, it comes with the territory.”

Your jaw dropped, mouth pushed open by a million words you couldn’t possibly say, mind clouded with a million thoughts you couldn’t string into a coherent sentence if you tried.

A boxer.

Matt’s dad. A boxer.

Coincidence?

“Oh yeah, he was a boxer,” Foggy continued, assuming your jaw was dropped for all the reasons it wasn’t. 

“Wow,” Karen nodded. “That must have been a lot for you.”

Matt ran his tongue along the inside of his cheek. He shifted his posture away from you, and you watched his expression flicker as if he was calculating what to say next, before he settled back in his original position. He placed his elbows on the table - and the way he leaned forwards would seem casual to anyone else. To you, it felt like a challenge. A moment of intimidation.

“Nah, just a few stitches here and there. Nothing major.”

“Nothing major?” Foggy’s tone was incredulous, and you could feel Matt mentally willing him to shut up. “With the name ‘Battlin’ Jack Murdock,’ all of it sounded pretty major to me.”

Your jaw dropped even further. 

Shut the fuck up. Shut the fuck up right now.

Jaw shutting, lips curving into a relaxed smile, eyes narrowed and sharp like shards of ice, you turned back to Matt. 

“So your dad’s name… is Jack?”

Matt shifted his jaw once more, running his tongue over his lips.

“That’s a nice name,” you shrugged, the false shroud of nonchalance doing little to hide the panther-like claws of your focus from Matt. You’d found something solid to dig into, and you weren’t about to stop now. No way you’d let this escape your grasp. Your voice carried an acidic tang, light enough to be missed if one wasn’t listening for it, and reeking of venom for those who were. 

“Jack.”

Something thinly masked twitched in Matt’s expression. “It was his name. He died.” He took a bitter swig of his drink, too fast for anyone at the table to catch the look on his face - which you were sure was a pained one. Your claws retracted just slightly.

Karen gasped. "Oh, Matt."

You gasped as well, blood rushing to your face. “Shit, I- I’m sorry. I didn’t know.” 

“No, I know," Matt assured you. "Don’t worry about it. It was a nice name.”

A sad smile crept halfway across your lips. Matt’s moved in the same way, the tension thawing just slightly.

But still.

No half smile could hide the stitches beneath his lip.

And that name.

Jack.

It was all too obvious, yet you couldn’t bring yourself to believe it could be true.

Matt- Matt could be- Matt is-

“Enough about me for one night,” Matt declared with another gulp of his drink. “Somebody else share a family story, please.”

“Oh, boy,” Foggy exclaimed. “I’ve been waiting for this one!”

Matt shook his head, trying and failing to stifle a laugh. “Okay, maybe Karen? Selena? One of you could-“

“No, sir! The Foggy train has left the station, and you lovely people are all aboard.”

Karen smiled. “I wouldn’t mind a Foggy story.”

“Me neither,” you chimed in, a part of you excited to hear Foggy’s way of storytelling. You were sure it would be nothing short of entertaining.

Matt snorted. “With the number of times you’re gonna hear this one, you’ll mind pretty soon.”

“I’m gonna pretend you didn’t say that,” Foggy retorted, an exaggerated look of anguish crossing his face. He placed a hand against his chest like he’d been stabbed in the heart, and Matt shook his head with a defeated chuckle.

Matt turned to you and Karen, his warning look tainted with a relentless smile. “My advice, your funeral.”

“Well, ladies, if this is a funeral, it’s gonna be a celebration of life tonight - my life,” Foggy began, all exuberance and showmanship from his expressive hands to his wide eyes and wider grin. You and Karen giggled. “It all started with my wonderful mother, who daydreamed from dusk till dawn about her favorite son becoming the best butcher Hell’s Kitchen has ever known.”

Matt threw his head back. “Here we go again.”

“-and, of course, Brett wasn’t having that. So I had no choice but to hide his lunch.”

“Hide his lunch?” Karen asked intently, though her eyes fluttered once or twice.

Foggy’s storytelling was just as you’d expected. Bright, expressive, expansive, and detailed like nothing else - however, by the time he got from his possible butcherhood, through theatre camp, to his rivalry with Brett Mahoney, you had to hold your head in your hands to stay focused.

“And did I ever hide it well. I bet he’s still looking for it.”

“Yes,” Matt chimed in dryly, twirling his now-empty beer bottle. “I, too, am sure he’s still searching for the ham sandwich he lost in the third grade.”

“Sounded like a good sandwich,” you added. “Wouldn’t blame him.”

“Thank you, Selena.” Foggy gestured to you, gratitude stretching from the raise of his brows to the tips of his fingers. He shook his head. “And all because of a middle name. Percy actually means ‘destroyer,’ you know. Take that, Mahoney,” he exclaimed, flipping the finger to a non-present Brett. “Lame middle name, my ass.”

Karen laughed. “I don’t think ‘Percy’ means ‘destroyer,’ Foggy.”

“My goodness. Is everyone on Mahoney’s side now?” Foggy looked off into the distance wistfully and then looked back to Karen. “Do you have some incredible middle name that gives you the right to say such things?”

Karen flipped her hands up. “Sadly, no middle name for me. Karen Page, through and through.”

Foggy’s lips drew a tight line across his face. “That’s what I thought.”

Matt chuckled. “Try Matthew Michael Murdock. My initials are literally mmm,” he hummed, pressing his lips together to emphasize the buzz of the three letters. “I don’t know what my dad was thinking. If he was thinking.”

“Yeah, good thing we didn’t go to the same school.” Foggy grimaced. “I probably would have hidden your lunch, too.”

“Like you could wrench it out of my hands,” Matt scoffed.

“Do you doubt me, Murdock?”

The two of them turned to one another, all false intimidation, their grins poorly hidden under thin masks of joking aggression.

“Boys, boys,” Karen laughed.

You laughed with her. “Don’t make us get the principal in here.”

At that, Matt and Foggy gave each other a quick look and instantly sat straight up in their booth, posture like marble statues and faces the picture of innocence.

“We’ve done nothing wrong, miss.” Foggy proclaimed.

“Absolutely nothing wrong,” Matt added, his voice sharing the same serenity as Foggy’s. 

A moment passed, and the four of you cracked up, the laughter in your booth carrying through the rest of the bar. You smiled and lifted your drink to your lips, the bitter sip flowing bubbles across your tongue.

“What about you?” Foggy nodded your way. “Any names other than Selena and Special Agent O’Malley?”

You hesitated, eyes flitting to Matt, whose focus was on you intently. A nervous laugh left your lips. 

A few other names, actually.  

“Nothing as cool as Percy, that’s for sure.”

“Oh, please. Enough with the flattery - though I can’t say I mind it.”

You paused again, the growing intensity of Matt’s presence across the table forcing your gaze back to Karen and Foggy. The moment was short, although it felt like it lasted hours, their expectant, clueless eyes trained on you in waiting for what might as well have been the secret of the year. You turned back to Matt and caught that flicker return to his jaw, a few lines fluttering in and out over his skin as he pursed his lips and raised his brows.

If your suspicions were anywhere close to correct, then maybe - just maybe - this could be a good thing. A good step in a different direction. Different was risky, but sometimes risk is the only road to a real reward. Either way, you were already ninety-nine percent sure that you had Matt figured out; what great harm was there in dropping a little hint of your own?

And if your suspicions were wrong? Well, then, sharing a little fact like this was harmless. Nothing but banter between friends. 

Although, you couldn’t shake the way Matt seemed to examine you, his head tilted slightly to the side as air flowed in and out over his lips in a steady rhythm.

You took your own breath.

In.

Out.

Okay.

“Eve,” you finally shared, the word bittersweet from the back of your throat to the skin of your lips. Your eyes stayed trained on Matt, even as his eyebrows raised involuntarily, as his jaw dropped almost too slightly for anyone to notice. You noticed. “My middle name is Eve.”

Matt considered for a moment, quickly shutting his lips and relaxing his expression into something more composed.

“Eve.” 

His hum of your middle name buzzed from deep within his chest, thoughtful and sly. The corner of his mouth quirked up. “Pretty name.”

You could hear it in his voice, could feel him saying what the Man in Black had said to you that fateful night at the docks; after all, this was only four words away from the original.

Pretty name for a fake one.

“It is pretty!” Karen’s remark was almost jovial enough to shake you from your haze, but not quite. Foggy looked like he was gritting his teeth to keep from rolling his eyes at Matt.

“Prettier than Michael, that’s for sure.” Matt sat back and tipped his drink up to his lips, his focus on you not slackening for a second. You fought the urge to squirm, both from the straight-up flirtation and the river of knowing that ran through it, churning and sputtering water until waves of oh-my-god-he-knows crashed against your skin. 

“Not as pretty as Percy, though,” you pointed out, hoping the lighthearted remark would shake the burning concentration of Matt’s attention on you. It didn’t.

Foggy shrugged, the look on his face fading quickly back into a grin. “Afraid to say I’ve got you beat there.”

“That you do.”

Matt placed his drink down, the clank of the bottle unavoidable, no matter how gently he set it on the table. You gulped, fever rising from your feet through your chest. 

The stitches.

The boxing father. 

The name of the boxing father.

Your name, simple and sweet and oh-so-perfectly you in its disguise. On both sides.

Too much. It’s too much.

The collection of facts merging with possibilities swirled through every section of your brain, grabbing a ride on the backs of your neurons until they’d spread their jittery energy through every part of your body. It was one thing to know his secrets, to have the upper hand; it was another thing entirely for him to have you figured out. You let go of the bottle in your hand before your grip grew tight on it and moved your hands to your legs, tapping patterns into the fabric of your jeans to the tune of your surging nerves.

And, during this, Matt never broke his focus on you. 

Not. Once. 

His head remained tilted, his jaw shifting and clenching and relaxing before doing it all again, and his glasses did little to hide the look you knew lay beneath them.

A look of understanding, of knowing. Of puzzle pieces landing softly and perfectly into place.

Coincidence, my ass.

You cleared your throat, unable to sit any longer. “I’ll be right back, guys. Washroom.”

“Just to the back, on your left!” Foggy offered. You nodded and shot to your feet, walking away faster than you’d meant to.

It didn’t matter. You had to get out of there before you interrogated Matt’s brains out in front of everyone, had a nervous breakdown, or worse - exposed your own secrets.

Exposed them any more than I already might have.

You wormed your way through bar-goes and past pool players to the washroom, throwing yourself against the metal door marked “Women” in deep red lettering. 

Stepping inside the space, you were surprised to find yourself alone. Something about the situation struck you funny, and you snorted, despite your countless raging thoughts.

Well, damn, if I had a nickel for every time this happened today…

The black and white tiling threw glaring light into your eyes as you peered down at it, so shiny you could see your reflection through the floor. Your makeup was impeccable, clothing all in place, not a wisp of hair strung out from the rest.

And yet, you felt like a mess.

Matt- Matt is-

You couldn’t bring yourself to say it, to even hear the voice in your head narrate those fateful words.

One breath, two breaths, three breaths.

Matt is Jack. 

Jack is Matt.

Jack is the Man in Black.

Matt is the Man in Black.

All those possibilities-turned must-be-truths rang out like alarm bells in your head - but none of them compared to the loudest of all:

He might know who I am.

Over the course of this double life, no one had ever discovered your identity. Not when you were only hacking into databases and stealing criminal information, not when you were tracking the movements and activities of your own personal persons of interest, and not when you finally took the leap to act offline, pouncing on your prey in the dark of the night.

No, to any victim, client, or conquest, you were simply the Nightingale.

To Jack, you were the Nightingale, and you were Eve.

And now, as you knew many of his names, he may just know three of yours.

Nightingale.

Eve.

Selena O’Malley.

But if your real name was revealed somehow through all of this? All your work could be for nothing.

Nothing.

You swore, cursing your situation, your tormentors, your mother and father, and the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen. In your curse-out of the world, though, you paused for a moment.

Perhaps an ally - a true ally, not some fake-names bullshit - could prove useful.

Like you’d thought to yourself earlier: sometimes risk is the only way to a real reward.

But did he even know that you were Eve, that you were the Nightingale? Sure, hints were dropped, but how many people are there around with a middle name like Eve? You took a deep breath, steady in the thought that you may still have an upper hand.

And, at the very least, the chance of him betraying you seemed slim. He'd helped you home, stitched your leg together, of all things. He'd engulfed you in a hug so you wouldn't have to watch Healy croak. You knew you couldn't blindly trust another, especially not some lone vigilante - but his track record hasn't exactly been bad so far.

Maybe - maybe, maybe, maybe - maybe this could be fine.

The washroom door creaked open. Like second nature, you straightened, pasting on a perfectly friendly face, a subtle smile the stuff of magazines and red carpets. The middle-aged woman stepping in flashed you a brief smile in response, and you strolled past her and out the door, turning the corner-

-and nearly crashing right into the man of the damn hour, cane in hand, glasses flashing in the overhead light. You were taken aback, to say the least, struck momentarily speechless, frozen in his embrace once again. 

What are the motherfucking odds?

“Woah,” he managed, his hand on your shoulder, your hand on his chest. You swore you could feel his heart beating through the cotton of his button-down and pulled your hand away as fast as you could.

“Matt,” you breathed. “Sorry.”

“Selena?”

“Yeah.”

“I-“ Matt stuttered, stepping back from you. You did the same. “I just came to check on you.”

You half-laughed. “Check on me? I’ve been gone for, like, three minutes.”

“I know, I just-” he continued, a flash of something soft in his face quickly hardening into colder composure. “I just wanted - to check.”

The two of you stood in silence for a moment, so aware of one another, so many questions fizzing to a feverish boil from your head into your core. You opened your mouth to speak, and no words came out. Matt tilted his head, took a deep breath, and sighed.

“I’m sorry about being curt with you about my dad earlier.”

You frowned. Sure, he'd been short with you, but you were interrogating him about his dead dad. If anyone was in the wrong, it was certainly not him. “Oh, Matt, you weren’t-“

“No, no. You were just making conversation, and I was rude about it. You didn’t know, and I didn’t respect that. I’m sorry.”

Cool air filled your lungs and set your heart rate down a step. “That’s- it’s okay.”

“Okay. Good.”

Another pause. This time, the words came through.

“That must have been difficult for you.”

Matt paused a moment as if considering whether to open up or to clamp himself further shut. “It was. We were close.”

Huh. First option. Unexpected.

“I know how hard it was when my mom and I fell out. We’d been close, too,” you offered, hoping you could build the beginnings of a bridge of sorts. “I can’t imagine what you’ve been through. I mean, I can, but- I’m just sorry.”

His lips twitched into a sad smile. “Thank you, Selena.” The smile faded, then, into something more sure. Something pleasant, inquisitive, and calculated. He pursed his lips. “How’s the leg?”

You froze. “The leg?”

Matt shifted his jaw, a sure look of less than a smile and more than nothing cemented into his expression. “Foggy mentioned you hurt your leg. Something about a mission?”

You felt a flicker in your own jaw this time. You never told Foggy about your leg.

It's official.

It's him.

And he knows.

“Yeah, yeah. Right," you stammered. "Got it cut pretty bad. It’s much better now, though.”

“Good, good,” Matt nodded. “Is that how it is a lot of the time? Being a secret agent and all?”

You laughed warily, unsure of whether he was referring to the FBI or to your part-time job. “Most of the time, no. But when it gets risky, I won’t lie - things can get pretty dangerous pretty fast.”

“Sounds like a lot.” He leaned forward just slightly, voice lowering, lips curving ever-so-slightly more.

“I won’t worry, though. I’m sure you’re more than qualified for that type of stuff.”

Your breath hitched. Your mind fell back to the attack on Barrett at the docks, darting to the moment you convinced the Man in Black to let the two of you work together, your words echoing in your brain on a loop:

“…I’m sure you can tell I am more than qualified for this type of stuff.”

Cheeky bastard. Now he’s just playing games.

The burn of a blush spread over your face, thick with the feeling of being caught red-handed. Something else within you burned differently, though. The way he'd made you nervous, the way he seemed to toy with your mutual secret, even in the short length of your current unspoken understanding, wasn't gonna fly. And, although your anxiety had almost gotten the better of you, it was too late to turn back now. Might as well make your own mark on the Devil's psyche; no man gets to have a monopoly on your mental state, let alone the Man in Black.

That's the thing about games - you can play, too.

You steeled yourself, alert and waiting for a chance to fire back somehow, to show him he wasn't the only one with a winning hand. “Aw, Matt, that’s sweet. Unfortunately, I don’t think anyone can ever really be fully qualified, per se. It takes a lot out of a person.”

He nodded. “I- I get that. I can imagine.”

You examined his calm demeanor, noting how his brow could furrow even when he fought to keep it relaxed. “Well, as fun as it’s been, it’s probably about time for me to get home. Work tomorrow. You know how it is.”

“Ah, man. You should really consider starting your own agency,” he mused. “See, Foggy and I have some hours we should stick to, but if we need a late morning, all we do is put a little sign on the door and profusely apologize to the public later on. Claim medical emergency if we have to.”

You laughed. “Sounds like quite the life.”

He smiled, his voice still soft. “It can be, every once in a while.”

You moved to step around him, and he stopped you, a warm hand back on your shoulder. The two of you paused, and he pulled his hand back to his side.

“Thanks for being so nice about my dad. It’s refreshing to feel kindness like that from someone.”

Holy shit. 

There it is. There it is.  

A chance to play his game and play it better.

You watched him for a moment and saw the corners of his lips flutter slowly into a subdued smile, the soft curve of his mouth at odds with the sharpness of his jaw and the rough black of his stubble. As you leaned in just slightly, you felt more than heard his breath hitch, felt more than heard his pulse pick up, his lips part. Your pulse did the same, and before your lips could part, you morphed them into your own smile, this one coy and dripping with tease and game and gotcha.

Your hand flew up to his shoulder, and he bent down almost involuntarily, shifting his body to hear whatever you were about to say to him. Head tilting upwards, you could feel the buzz of his warmth against your skin as you reached your lips towards his ear. You knew he could feel your breath on his skin by the way he shivered. It was almost imperceptible, almost impossible to notice.

But, of course, you noticed.

Your voice was little more than a breath, a lilt fitting for a bedtime story, for schoolgirl gossip, for secrets of the night fleshed out under the dim glow of dive bar fairy lights.

“I can be much kinder. You’d be surprised.”

Matt froze there for a moment, held still by your words and the warm sensation of your hand on his shoulder, even as you pulled away. He stood still, his head still dipped towards you, but he straightened, shifted his jaw, smirked. Even though he wasn’t much taller than you were, the way he seemed to tower over you felt raw in its power, in its pure force. You took one more breath, one more look over Matt - from button down to neck to jaw to glasses and back to stitches and lips - and you left, dragging your hand smoothly down his arm as you stepped around and away from him.

Matt didn’t follow you as you left. In his mind’s eye, he pictured you grabbing your bag, saying goodnight to Karen and Foggy, and paying off your tab before heading out the door - which you did.

But no, he didn’t follow you.

He stood there for another moment, speechless and still, the smirk on his face growing into a sly grin, a chuckle, a conniving laugh to himself.

And you, Nightingale, walked home briskly, buzzing from such a bold move - no coffee required. Though you moved inconspicuously through the night, you couldn’t mask your own grin, that same sly expression as the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen radiant on your face, leaving the sidewalk illuminated in streetlights and shadows alike. Your gut still burned with worry, drowning in the risk that came with letting anyone in.

Too close to the sun, and you get burned. That's how it works.

Along with that worry, though, was something else entirely. It was a warm, melty feeling, deep in your core, that had your mind chasing the feeling of his arms around you, the rough rumble of his voice, the pure intensity of his presence. You saw that last smirk of his in your mind's eye, vivid and tantalizing, really; something about its cockiness just sent more waves of warmth through you.

And, really, who would he tell about this? He's got his own identity to protect, after all. He'd have no reason to rat you out, no reason to ruin you.

Your grin held steady, impenetrable, coy, shining through this night's mystery in anticipation of what might be to come.

This could be dangerous-

-but it could also be fun.