9
“It’s…”
“You don’t have to say anything, Jess.”
“No, I just—“
“Seriously, I get it. It’s not ideal.”
“Not ideal? Matt, it’s a—“
“Yes, it’s a church basement! I’m aware, thanks.”
When Jessica awoke in Matt’s bed that morning, the sheets on his side had already gone cold. She’d stuck out one tentative hand, splayed fingers searching for the previous occupant before realizing what she was doing and immediately pulling it back in.
She took a moment to enjoy the quiet serenity of Matt’s room, early morning light filtering through the colored glass of the oversized windows. Jessica’s eyes caught on the slanted ceiling above and she was instantly transported back to the previous evening, back when Peter had dangled from the rafters and just about gave her a brain aneurysm.
The architecture immediately lost its appeal. She got out of bed.
It was instinct, now, to head straight for Peter’s crib once she was up. He was usually already awake, smacking his lips and looking around with those bright, inquisitive eyes, apparently not minding that his mom was a late sleeper. Jessica looked forward to the crooked smile he’d give when she came into view. Few people were ever that genuinely pleased to see her.
But when she approached the duct-taped Pack N’ Play and found it empty, a harsh shock of panic made the hair of her neck stand on end. Peter wasn’t in his bed. Why wasn’t he in his bed? Did he climb out again? Oh god, what if he climbed out again?
Jessica turned on her heel and ran for the sliding bedroom door, throwing it open so she could slip and slide across the living room on her socked feet.
“Matt? Matt! I can’t find the baby! He’s gone, he’s probably on the fucking ceiling again, he’s…He’s in your arms.”
If she’d been less panicked she may have heard the bacon sizzling on the stove. Would have seen Matt carefully spooning yogurt into Peter’s mouth. Would have noticed Peter, still in his pajamas, sitting happily on Matt’s hip.
Matt, looking a little shocked but no less amused, smiled at her. “Good morning, Jessica.”
“You stole my baby. To make bacon.”
His eyebrows rose. “Pete’s an excellent cook. He burnt the first batch but I didn’t scold him too harshly.”
“Ah,” Peter said.
Her baby and baby daddy teamed up against her? Fine. If it wasn’t so endearing, she’d be pissed.
She slid onto one of the bar stools, not yet awake enough to bother standing any longer. “So tell me, why are you up at the crack of dawn cooking breakfast?”
“It’s 9:30.”
“My question stands.”
Peter was getting antsy now that his mother was in sight, wriggling in Matt’s arms and throwing one grabby hand out toward Jessica. His other palm was stuck to the shoulder of Matt’s t-shirt. Peter pulled the fabric harshly across his dad’s neck as he struggled. Matt gave up and pried him off. Peter squealed with glee once Jessica had a hold of him, and she planted a quick kiss on the top of his head.
Matt pulled the bacon skillet off the burner and switched off the stove. Jessica thought about waiting patiently for her portion, then realized that benefited her in no way whatsoever and reached across the bar with her free hand to snag a still-hot piece.
“I’ve been making some calls.”
Jessica looked up from her bacon. How was a blind man so good at cooking? It was perfectly crispy. Asshole. “Oh?”
“Yeah. To sort out our…situation.”
A good night’s sleep almost made Jessica forget about the situation. But now that it’d been brought up, it was hard to forget how gone-to-shit things had gotten. If Fisk was going to keep interfering in their lives, he needed to start paying child support.
“And is it? Sorted, I mean.”
“A part of it. We’ve got somewhere to stay for a bit, at least. Until this passes.”
They discussed it a bit more, Jessica asking questions and Matt offering nothing but vague shrugs or half-assed descriptions. Pretty windows. Historic building. Friendly neighbors. Anyone with a fucking brain would know he was being secretive, and the second they stepped out of the cab with a few duffle bags and a new Pack n’ Play Jessica knew why.
Apparently all of those early morning calls Matt was making went to Father Paul Lantom, an old friend and mentor of Matt’s and pastor of Clinton Church.
They stepped out of the cab and Matt tried to gently push her toward the chapel steps with a hand on her back – she was blocking the sidewalk with all of her luggage – but she was stuck. Nailed to the curb by a memory of pounding rain and an oversized sweatshirt stretched over her own very pregnant belly. “I’ve been here before,” she said. “I know I have.” If she focused hard enough, she could still picture Karen and Foggy whispering between the pews.
Matt frowned. “Sure. Let’s get inside.” He kept looking up and down the street as if scanning for threats. Peter was oblivious to his dad’s unease, content to sit in Matt’s arms and happily gnaw on the foot of his stuffed elephant with rattles in the feet. He gave it a single excited shake and Jessica pulled herself out of her own head.
“Right, yeah.”
They bypassed the main chapel, instead heading for a dim hallway off to the side. Jessica didn’t even have time to ask where the hell they were going before they were down a set of steps.
Jessica visually swept the church basement that would be their temporary home. Stone walls, concrete floor. Tall archways with squared-off pillars stretching from the staircase to the end of the room. Intricate stained glass windows depicting people and places Jessica couldn’t identify. It was obvious the space may have served a greater purpose in the past but was now largely forgotten, used to store various unused church relics or chairs for AA meetings.
Most intriguing were the statues, angels in various stages of worship or prayer positioned equal distances from one another. Their big wings stood wide and tall behind them, and they looked down their stone noses at one another as if they’d been having important, intellectual chats before being turned to rock.
Then started Jessica’s quick spiral into confusion, and anger, and wondering how the hell she’d gone from waking up in Matt’s bed to sleeping in the lower level of his favorite church in a single afternoon.
Which brought them to now; Jessica, staring incredulously at Matt despite him not being able to see it, and Matt very blatantly ignoring her.
“You’re aware it’s a church basement,” Jessica said, “and you still think this is the best place to hide out?”
Matt handed Peter off to her before dragging the new Pack n’ Play box to the side. He tore the tape off the seams with brutal efficiency. “We needed something quick. I know these people, they’re a good lot. Father Lantom. The Sisters. They’re most of the reason why I’m alive right now.”
“You…You stayed here? I know you mentioned a church, but—“
“That cot in the back was my best friend for a while.”
Jessica peaked around the corner into the basement’s back section. A single, twin-sized sleeping cot with a thin mattress and white sheets was pushed up against one wall, a sink and cloudy mirror on the one directly across. The mosaicked windows cast the place in shades of red and purple.
So this wasn’t just a basement. It was, with its musty crates and radiating cold, but it was also a place Matt had found refuge in the months when it wasn’t safe for even his friends to know he was alive. Jessica’s concern over their new arrangement declined, if only marginally. If Matt thought they’d be protected here, she could give him the benefit of the doubt.
“So what now? We sit and wait for something to happen?”
Matt wiped excess dust particles off his hands. Motes fluttered along the beams of colored light. “Honestly? Yeah. We’re almost sure Miss Wesley was Fisk’s first play to get the Daredevil wheels moving. We’re also almost sure Fisk knows who I am. We’re also also—“
“I get it, Matt—“
“—almost sure the copycat works for him. To top it off, I myself am very sure he’d report back to Fisk that Daredevil made contact with someone claiming to have his child.”
Jessica subconsciously bounced Peter on her hip. The baby peered around the basement with wide, shiny eyes. One miniature palm was stuck to Jessica’s jacket — it happened when he got excited.
Watching Matt work, the way the skin between his eyebrows crinkled as he meticulously put Peter’s bed together, Jessica felt oddly calm. More in-line with herself than she’d been in months. Matt ran a careful finger down one of the posts, clicked a corner of the frame into place, and the exhale she didn’t know she’d been holding seeped slowly out her nose.
She never thought she’d know peace, not after the death of her family. And life at the Walker home was loud. Reeked of cotton candy perfume and teenage despair. Jessica wasn’t the one getting bruised, but it wasn’t an environment where she got a hug after a bad day.
After that it was easy to float. Jump around, on those superjuiced legs she didn’t ask for. Smash her way through multiple boyfriends and more booze than she’d ever be able to recall. Being a Private Eye became her reprieve. It was a relief to see other people fucking up their lives of their own volition. The petty crime? The infidelity? At least Jessica could blame trauma for her own unresolved issues. Those shmucks whose spouses and parents and who-the-fuck-ever paid her to dig up dirt? Their choices were seemingly their own. Jessica didn’t know their motivations and she didn’t care. It was easy to pretend they were just idiots. Lesser beings, with evolutionarily tinier brains.
Jessica, on the other hand, was guided by the voice of her brother. The way he’d laugh with a voice still cracking. It was him she pictured when the liquor store cashier handed her the brown paper bag.
She was guided by her father, who bought and hung her Nirvana posters when she decided that being an asshole and buying jackets made of leather was a young woman’s right of passage.
She was guided by her mother. Alisa Jones, wearer of colored cardigans and possessor of one of the foulest mouths Jessica had ever heard. She had to get her own swearing habit somewhere.
Her guides were dead. Words carried on the breath of ghosts.
But then there was Matt, stubbly and willing to buy her tea bags for her and painstakingly alive.
And then, then, there was Peter.
Peter didn’t make her think of sloshing glass bottles. He had Matt’s eyes and her own slender fingers and a future so blindingly bright it might as well have been divine intervention, him being put in Jessica’s life. She usually wasn’t one to assume god did her any favors. But there just wasn’t any way Peter could be a punishment, either.
She would do whatever it took to keep her family safe. Peter was her family, first and foremost. And Matt? He was family in a very different sense of the word, but still close enough for her veins to open into his. If one bled, they all suffered.
“You can chill, Matt. This’ll do just fine.”
Matt had an ear turned slightly downward, so far that she was moderately offended he wasn’t listening to her until she realized where the attention was directed. Peter was knocked out in her arms, head resting against her chest. It wasn’t quite time for his nap, but all of the excitement must have worn him out.
Matt’s lips quirked. He carefully pulled Peter out of Jessica’s arms to deposit him in the now assembled Pack N’ Play. Getting Peter asleep and keeping him that way was a practiced system for them now, and they left him to doze in the front room while they went and took a seat on the cot in the back.
“You know,” Matt whispered, elbow bumping Jessica’s as they both settled in for the time being, “we only have another couple years of nap time before he spends full twelve-hour days terrorizing us.”
The cot was too small for both of them to comfortably sit at once, but neither cared to point it out. They’d need to find a solution when it came time to sleep. Otherwise one of them would end up in bed with Pete. “He already terrorizes me, Matt. His existence is horrifying, because him being here means that there’s a chance of something happening to him.”
“It won’t come to that.”
“But what if it does?” It always seemed to, with her. Every situation wound down to the worst outcome imaginable.
“That’s why we’re doing all of this, Jess. We’re going to figure this out. I’ll find the copycat. We lay low until I can get solid intel, I take care of it, and we go back to our lives.”
“I want to help. This guy attacked me too. On a Hell’s Kitchen subway, no less. How embarrassing.”
“He’s trying to lure me out. I’m not letting you get involved.”
One step forward, three steps back. Jessica wanted to groan. When would Matt realize his chivalry was more patronizing than reassuring? “I’m not just going to stand by and let you do all the work.”
Matt readjusted on the cot, like sitting that long was making his tailbone numb. “I can take care of myself and the problems I create.”
As cruel as it seemed, Jessica was sometimes thankful Matt couldn’t see. It meant she could get away with staring at him way longer than she could at the average person.
Unintentionally fluffed hair. Tired lines around his mouth, like he’d spent the last few years frowning. A splotch of red slowly spreading around the edge of his shirt sleeve. He’d decided against his usual jacket and slacks that day for the sake of blending in, and the thin cotton of his t-shirt did little to hide the weeping of his wound.
“You’re bleeding,” Jessica pointed out, tugging on the stained fabric. So what if her hand lingered on his arm a bit longer than necessary? “Your cut from last night reopened. And you didn’t notice.”
His own fingers came up to rub at the damp spot. “Must have pulled it carrying Pete’s bed box inside. It’ll be fine.”
Matt’s hand slid upward. He wrapped it around the tops of her fingers, gave them a light squeeze as if that would be enough to reassure her he was alive and in one piece. The joke was on her. She never stopped worrying. But she’d take the physical proof nonetheless.
“My point stands, Matt. Sometimes you can’t take care of yourself. And even if you can, refusing help doesn’t get you anywhere. Fisk and the copycat aren’t just a you problem. I live in this city. Our son lives in this city. Let me help defend it.”
Matt obviously knew what he needed to say, but he wasn’t prepared to say it. They sat with their hands still entwined while Jessica watched him work through the stages of his own grief. He was mourning his self-conjured image of a normal life. He should have known from the start neither of them were capable of such a thing. If they wanted to get anywhere near it, they needed to take care of Fisk and everything that came with him.
Jessica knew what it took to eliminate that kind of evil. She didn’t find joy in killing, but there was a sick sense of relief that came with snapping Killgrave’s neck. If it came down to it, if she had the chance, she’d do the same to Fisk. Even if that thick fucking neck took a little more pressure to pop than usual. His copycat would receive the same treatment, though the catching process would need to be reevaluated. From what Matt revealed of his own encounter, the guy seemed unusually slick.
That’s what she’d do for their family. Keep them from harm in the most soul-damning way possible.
She feared Matt wouldn’t do the same.
Good Christian Matthew Murdock refused to kill Fisk the first time around. If he had, they wouldn’t be in their current situation.
That was probably a talk they’d need to have. What exactly it would take to make sure Fisk couldn’t hurt them or anyone else ever again.
But not right then. Peter was napping, and Jessica was worn out, and Matt still hadn’t let go of her hand.
Yeah. It could wait.
“Have you seen Murdock today?”
Foggy barely had the presence of mind to stop walking, so focused on the stack of files in his hands that he didn’t immediately realize the question was directed at him.
He caught himself gracelessly, the soles of his leather shoes squeaking against the office’s polished tile. “Come again?”
Jeri Hogarth was staring at him. Her hands were on her hips. “Matthew Murdock. I understand that you guys are close friends?”
“Yeah, uh, good buddies. Known him for a long time. Why?”
It wasn’t rare for people to ask Foggy about Matt. He had random girls coming up to him all the time in college, each inquiring about the cute blind guy from the party or the really smart one with the cane from their Account Auditing class. But it started happening less and less as his and Matt’s sad professional life closed them off from old peers and business contacts.
“He’s been handling stray cases. You know, taking things off our hands that I didn’t feel were worth our time but needed to get done to keep certain clients happy.”
“Sure, of course.”
“He was supposed to come in today to discuss a case, but called my assistant and canceled unexpectedly early this morning.”
Foggy tried to control the deep stress line he knew sat between his brows. Matt always told him that every thought he had went directly to his face. It was true; he couldn’t poker face worth shit. So what was he supposed to say in a situation like this? Oh, don’t worry about it. He’s hiding in an undisclosed location with his son and baby mama because he’s Daredevil and an evil copycat is trying to frame him for murder.
“It’s a shame. I was going to have him consult with a PI I know. More expensive case than what he’s used to working on, too, though I still think it’s a lost cause. I’d rather not waste my own time on it.”
Oh, the irony. The deep, deep irony of this entire situation. “PI?” Foggy asked. “I didn’t realize we kept any on the payroll.” Jessica complained about Jeri Hogarth maybe three times a day.
“Oh trust me, we don’t. That would be a publicity nightmare. She’s more of an independent contractor. You’ve probably seen her around. Name’s Jessica? Five-foot-nine, black hair, always looks like there’s a stick up her ass?”
Foggy’s mind conjured up an image of Jessica holding Peter, a pale finger wiggling beneath his chin as he squealed with delight. “Sounds vaguely familiar. I understand utilizing a PI on a case, but why the legal consult? With Matt, of all people?”
Jeri swiped nonexistent dust off her pencil skirt with a manicured hand. She seemed to be growing agitated, as if she’d already been standing there longer than intended and still hadn’t had her question answered. “The client is paying us with an astronomically large trust account. I can’t just blow her off. But none of my main people have time for a case that has no merit. I just want Murdock to look it over, corroborate that there’s no possible chance of winning, and sign off with the PI so the client knows we tried. I’ve had her waiting for months now under the guise of digging up info on the defendant.”
Matt and Jessica were great liars, both to their benefit and detriment. But Foggy didn’t know how willing they’d be to be seen around one other in public, especially now. Matt wouldn’t even tell Foggy where their safe house was because he didn’t want anyone he knew showing up in the area. Foggy had to beg him for the address under the pretense of knowing where to collect his body if anything went wrong. It was all-or-nothing with Matt, nowadays.
“If you don’t mind me asking, Hogarth, why has the case been so difficult? What is this person trying to achieve?”
“Now Mr. Nelson, you know I would never discuss the details of a case in which you’re not involved.”
“Of course, I’d never presume otherwise.”
There was a sparkle in Jeri’s eye, like she was just amused enough by his willingness to pry that she wanted to tell him everything. “Just get in touch with Murdock. I need to put this case to bed. The client’s getting antsy.”
Foggy tried to offer a small salute with his full hand and almost dropped one of the overstuffed files. “Sure, I’ll give him a call.”
“Wonderful, thank you.” She turned to walk away and stopped at the last moment. “If you happen to catch Jessica wandering the office, don’t let her into the break room. She always steals the iced tea bags from the drink cabinet. I’m surprised her teeth haven’t gone brown, truthfully.”
“Special Agent Benjamin Poindexter, pleasure to meet you.”
The officer took Poindexter’s outstretched palm, face weary but grip strong. The shake was awkward thanks to Dex’s lack of wrist mobility. “I’m Officer Mahoney. Welcome in.” His eyes flitted down to the splint locking Dex’s hand in place. “Hurt yourself, Agent?”
“Too many hours at a desk. Carpal Tunnel catches up to you.”
He was wearing a carpal tunnel splint, though it did nothing to ease the ache of the broken bones in his lower arm. He couldn’t be caught walking around with an obvious cast, not now, but he’d need to get it properly treated at some point. At this rate it would never heal.
“Huh, ain’t that the truth. Can barely tie my shoes anymore. But enough about that. Let me show you to your workspace.”
Poindexter responded with a simple nod, and Officer Mahoney started a leisurely stroll through the precinct. “I was one of the responding Blues on the scene,” Mahoney explained as he stepped around a random knocked-over trash can in the middle of the bullpen. “Messed up, this case. I’ve seen a lot of stuff on the job, but this was…It was somethin’, man.”
Poindexter knew he should have been paying better attention, but he could hardly tug his eyes away from the disheveled mess that was the Hell’s Kitchen NYPD precinct. There were a few more precincts in the area, and he wondered if all were in such disarray. The place seemed to have been hit by a tornado — papers thrown about, files left open and splayed across desks. Someone spilled a cup of coffee across their keyboard, and they seemed more distressed by the loss of their beverage than the destruction of government property.
“I assume you’ve had your hands full,” Poindexter said simply.
Mahoney huffed. “You have no idea.”
The two of them turned down a side hallway near the back of the building. They passed multiple closed doors before hitting the end, marked by a plaque that said Conference in faded block letters.
“It’s not much,” Mahoney said, not sounding particularly apologetic, “but it’s quiet and private. I know you Feds like to be secretive and all.”
The smile on Poindexter’s face was forced. But he’d spent long enough honing fake displays of emotion that he knew it was believable. “I appreciate the cooperation. I know us taking over feels like an injustice, but the FBI wants the vigilante brought in as much as you guys do.”
Mahoney didn’t grace him with a response, just unlocked the door with a key on his belt and flipped the light switch.
It was a small meeting room, the rounded table in the center big enough for six or so people to sit uncomfortably. The police department was gracious enough to have it cleared off. A large dry-erase board took up an entire wall, along with a bulletin board on the opposite and a spattering of stray pins with paper still tacked beneath them, as if the documents had been ripped down in a rush.
“You said the rest of your men will be coming later?” Mahoney asked. “I’m surprised they sent you boys at all. I figured the higher-ups would want to keep you on the Fisk case. You’re spearheading that, right?”
“We’ve hit a bit of a standstill. Our financial forensic techs are sifting through the Fisk records, but until they find something concrete it’s out of my wheelhouse.”
It’s important to be vulnerable, Dex. Even in small ways.
“I’m great with puzzles. Not so great with the sophisticated computers required to solve these ones.”
Mahoney was just looking at him, silent, like he was trying to get a read on him and was having trouble drawing any conclusions.
“You must appear capable of empathy, Dex.”
“Am I, doctor? Capable of it?”
“Does it matter?”
“You just said it did.”
“No, I said you must appear capable. Appearing isn’t the same as being.”
“The techs give me the pieces, I connect the dots. Until we have more dots on the Fisk page, I’m most useful here. Like you said, this is a rather extreme case.”
Another moment of consideration from Mahoney. Then a nod, as if deciding his skepticism could be pushed aside for another time.
“And yes, Officer, my main detectives are following me, but the footmen will be staged at various precincts in the area in case we need to mobilize. It’s just easiest to have our lead guys on-location to consult with the original case managers.”
Poindexter assumed Mahoney would leave him alone as soon as possible; it was obvious the officer didn’t want to be the FBI welcoming party. The Feds weren’t wanted in close-knit neighborhoods like this. PD took care of their own. Strangers coming in and taking over personal cases only pissed off the locals. Despite that, Mahoney settled in for a chat and leaned a shoulder against the threshold. Poindexter stifled a groan.
Mahoney had a natural frown, but somehow the corners of his mouth dipped deeper. “In case you need to mobilize? Are you expecting a street war? It’s just one man.”
Dex was itching to reach for the disinfectant wipes in his bag — the table was filthy. There was something sticky on the far side.
He started unpacking to distract himself. A napkin would do for now, pulled out of his jacket pocket and folded meticulously into a bed of tissue so his pencils wouldn’t have to touch the tabletop.
“One dangerous, unpredictable man, Officer Mahoney. Daredevil is terrorizing your neighborhood. Don’t you want the threat neutralized?”
Doctor Mercer always said having a purpose, even a small, momentary one, would keep Dex balanced. Keep the compulsions at bay. A clean, tidy life gave him purpose. Logic and reason gave him purpose. A firm, guiding hand to shove him in the right direction — purpose.
Your internal compass isn’t broken, Dex. It just works better with a north star to guide you.
Poindexter remembered seeing Fisk at his press conference before he was taken to prison. Clean shaven. A strong composure. A suit so white Dex was reminded of just-fallen winter snow, not a spec of dirt or wrinkle to mar its bright surface.
Your internal compass isn’t broken, Dex.
Dex could understand why so many people followed him. Fisk was oddly compelling in his well-hidden hysteria. When he spoke, it was with the volition of a man who was firmly sure in himself. Oddly enough, Fisk reminded Dex of Doctor Mercer. Both had that look in their eye, the one that said, I see you. Through you, around you, and into you. And I will not back down.
“I don’t know. Between you and me, Agent, somethin’ isn’t right about all of this. The Daredevil from before beat up on people, yeah, but never good ones. Never innocent ones. And he left the ones he throttled tied up nice and pretty for the police. A public massacre? Killing an entire family in their home? It just doesn’t fit.”
“Then what does? We have witnesses placing him at the scene of both crimes.”
“One of which is a traumatized little girl.”
Poindexter turned away from his meticulously sharpened pencils to give Mahoney a sharp look. “Her testimony still matches that of the surviving train victims.”
“Yes, Agent, but I’m trying to say that it’s not so hard to impersonate someone these days.”
“These days?”
Mahoney waved a lazy hand through the air. “The PD gets copycat villains, like, twice a week. Granted most of them aren’t worth shit, but anyone with a couple hundred bucks can get a good costume. There’s a whole market for it.”
“But do those copycats go on a killing spree?”
“Not typically, no.”
“My point exactly.”
This…This was a person without purpose. Without direction. Poindexter could see the lack of discipline in every relaxed line of Mahoney’s gait. Soft men had soft resolves.
Fisk sat in the mental place where Poindexter kept his list of non-useless people. Beside him were Doctor Mercer, a select few world leaders, and Daredevil.
The real one.
Poindexter had to admit, the guy was resourceful. Not to mention he could throw a punch like no other. Dex had purple bruises from where the guy dug his knuckles into his kidneys.
Most impressive was Daredevil’s fucking moral code. Sure, some of the criminals the Devil walloped ended up with permanent damage, but he’d never actually left a body behind. Word on the street is the guy had gotten close, so close to just finishing it and always held himself back. It was a level of self control Doctor Mercer would applaud.
Daredevil was not soft. Not like Mahoney.
It made it that much easier for Dex to follow Fisk’s instructions. Men with straightforward principles made for straightforward subjects.
“Will that be all, Officer?”
“Oh! Actually, we’ve got one thing for you, give me a second…”
Mahoney disappeared from the doorway, and Dex had a few seconds of peaceful bliss before a large cardboard box was being dropped on the table. Dex’s pencils almost rolled off their napkin.
“The Daredevil files,” Mahoney said. “Everything we’ve compiled since he became active.”
Dex peered inside the box. “Multiple years and hundreds of civilian reports, and this is all you have?”
“Forgive us, Agent. The witness statements are never very thorough. Man in a red suit. Helmet with horns. Beat the shit out of some criminals. Ran away after. It’s always the same. And it’s not like the cases ever got resolved. We still haven’t identified him.”
Dex choked on a retort and covered it up by clearing his throat. He knew the NYPD had their issues, but this was further proof that Fisk’s methods were superior. All it took him was a grieving mother, a dead journalist and a train full of civilians to draw the Devil out of retirement.
And one night on a rooftop to find out Daredevil, against all odds, actually had something to lose. A girl, perhaps a girlfriend. Whoever was giving him attitude on the phone. And above all else, the icing on Fisk’s cake— Daredevil had a son.
“Hogarth is looking for you.”
It was uncommon for anyone to manage sneaking up on Matt, but the sheer volume of Peter’s wailing was making it hard to focus. A particularly noisy cop car had driven by; the sirens woke Peter from his nap. Matt was trying to keep the baby from deafening them all while Jessica dug through the diaper bag for the noise canceling earmuffs.
“What?” Matt asked over the din. “Fog, why are you here? I told you not to come, it’s not safe.”
“I brought chinese food!”
“You bought cheeky nudes?”
“No, I—I brought chinese foo- oh, wow, those things really work, huh?”
Jessica stepped away from Peter with her hands in the air as if relishing in the diffusion of a dangerous bomb. The earmuffs sat haphazardly atop the baby’s head. “Nobody move,” she warned. “We have to make sure it worked.”
The three of them waited with bated breath to make sure Peter was well and truly calm. Matt hardly dared breathe.
The baby hiccuped, smacked his lips, and went silent.
Foggy hefted a large brown bag into the air. His voice was a whisper as he said, “I brought Chinese food.”
“We can’t work on that case together. Both of us in the same room with James Wesley’s grief-stricken mother? No way.”
Foggy didn’t seem to mind eating on the floor, nonchalantly reaching for the various food cartons spread out around him with his legs crossed. A napkin scratched against his dress pants as he laid it over his lap. “Why not? You guys work for the same firm. It’s a big firm. And on paper you guys have no connection whatsoever.”
“Exactly,” Matt said. “No connection. I’d like to keep it that way.”
“Your son’s middle name is your name,” Jessica pointed out. “And I told the copycat you had a kid—“
Foggy choked on his lo-mein. “You did what?”
“—so there’s already a connection. It’s just a matter of whether or not Fisk will find out and decide Matt Murdock is actually you. Because let’s be honest, he’s been suspicious of you for a while.”
Matt remembered his and Foggy’s first run-in with Fisk and his men. Fisk hired them to represent one of his henchmen, some psycho on the line for assault and manslaughter. Matt didn’t need to track his heart rate to know he was guilty. The guy showed absolutely no fear or remorse — that is, until Matt roughed him up as Daredevil and got him to drop Fisk’s code name at the time, Kingpin. The criminal chose to spear himself on a fence post rather than face the consequences of his betrayal.
Nelson & Murdock had been targeted specifically because they were new to the playing field. Innocent. Had a provably clean slate, and couldn’t be connected to anything or anyone that might jeopardize the henchman’s chances of a rigged trial.
That law firm was Matt’s desperate plea for a chance at professional morality. It was what started all of this shit in the first place. When he enrolled at Columbia Law he didn’t expect it to lead him here; eating Chinese food in a church basement with his surprise baby, the baby’s mother, and his best friend.
Foggy was looking at Matt like he did when he knew Matt was wrong but didn’t want to argue about it. It was a twisted smile, one corner higher than the other, then a tight squinting of the eyes like Foggy was fighting off a headache. Matt couldn’t physically see the expression but he could hear it, muscle fibers stretching into that specific configuration. “You refusing to meet with Jessica will just seem suspicious to everyone, including Miss Wesley. Since Fisk is footing the legal bill she’s probably relaying everything Hogarth says back to him. If something’s off with the case, with you two, Fisk will know about it and start digging.”
Foggy was right. He was right, and his I was right face was right, and his words were right, and Matt hated that he was right. Being picky about being around Jessica in public would only stir up suspicion. They needed to go into the office and settle the case. It wouldn’t stop Fisk or the Daredevil copycat, but it would be an attack from one less angle.
Effectively resigned but no less angsty about it, Matt swallowed a particularly dry bite of egg roll. “When do we go?”
Foggy passed Matt his own soda and Matt took it with a nod of thanks. The carbonation had always been a bit much for his sensitive sense of taste - bubbles scraped harshly against superpowered tastebuds - but he’d always liked Sprite enough to handle the fizz. “Tomorrow if possible,” Foggy said. “Wesley has been waiting months. Hogarth can’t hold her off any longer.”
“Who’s watching Pete?” Jessica finally interjected. She was being oddly quiet about the whole situation. “We can’t take him to the office. And Foggy, I trust you and Karen, but I don’t want to leave him with someone who can’t fight. Not with the copycat running around.”
“No, I get it. Trust me. I’m all for finding someone that packs more of a punch.”
“Then who?” Matt asked. “We’re not exactly swimming in superpowered peers.”
Matt heard Jessica shift where she was sitting on the cot. Her leather jacket squeaked. “If only we’d taught Pete how to throw a right hook. That strength would really come in handy right now.”
“No way. Not until he’s at least fifteen.”
“Fifteen? Matt, our kid lives in Hell’s Kitchen. He’s gotta know how to handle a schoolyard brawl before he’s fifteen.”
“Guys,” Foggy said. “Pete is eight months old. He will not be breaking any jaws just yet. We need another solution.”
They sat in collective silence, each trying desperately to think of someone they trusted with the care of a baby. Their baby. The center of the universe, a son and star and gravitational pull with chubby cheeks and fuzzy brown hair and the key to everything locked up in a heart no bigger than Matt’s palm.
Moments like these made Matt realize how socially closed-off himself and Jessica were. Her, blocked by years of trauma and superpowered rage. Him, living a life of vigilante secrecy and almost dying. Neither of them were very great at making friends.
“I think…” Jessica was so busy digging through every pocket for her phone that she almost didn’t finish her sentence. “I think I have an idea.”
Jessica slept horribly.
She was too worried about the Wesley meeting. Not to mention the cot wasn’t much more than a smashed feather pillow on a metal frame, and her abused spinal column twinged painfully no matter how she positioned herself. Plus she felt bad for Matt, who’d insisted on making himself a pallet out of spare blankets and cozying up on the floor a few feet from Peter’s bed. His anxiety over protecting their son would have been endearing, had it been unfounded. But the reality of the situation made everything much more grim.
Talking it out with Foggy the day before only served to stress Jessica more. It was almost unjustifiable to leave Peter with anyone but her or Matt. How could they, when they were probably some of the only people equipped to handle their current threat?
But they weren’t the only people. Not in the world, not in the country, not even in New York City. Jessica had people in her fucking contact list who would be great for the task of protecting a superpowered baby from a murderous Daredevil imposter. And to her surprise, he picked up the phone when she called.
She just hoped the fact that she’d, one, shot him before, and two, slept with him, wasn’t going to be an issue.
“Oh my god, come here you beautiful piece of shit.”
Claire didn’t seem to mind the ferocity of Jessica’s hug, just laughed her sing-song laugh and returned the embrace. “It’s good to see you too, Jessica. It’s been too long.”
Claire watched Peter a few times when Matt first came around — Jessica hadn’t been sure how capable Matt was of actually caring for a child — but communications fell off after that. They were both busy people with busy lives, and Jessica could admit she was still working on making time for those she cared about. She wasn’t used to having so many of them.
Somehow Claire evaded the sense of dread that came with smelling like a hospital — she’d just come off a night shift, and her scrubs carried the faint scent of antiseptic. It reminded Jessica of nights spent forlornly staring at Peter through the NICU window. Despite that, the cold aura was offset by the artfully shaved hair patch over Claire’s ear and the pink flush of her cheeks. She looked healthier, less worn down.
Her lack of visible misery probably had something to do with the six-foot-three wall of impenetrable skin standing behind her.
“Jessica,” Luke Cage said in way of greeting.
“Luke.”
Nobody moved. Claire eyed them both with something like amusement, and eventually Jessica groaned and gave into the impulse. “Come here, you jolly giant.”
Luke had the audacity to laugh as Jessica hugged him as well, though with much less vigor. He took the moment in stride, and the way his strong hands rested on her back was a platonic sort of comfort Jessica hadn’t realized she’d been missing.
“Thanks for coming,” she said into the fabric of his hoodie. She pulled away and looked at both of her friends — two people who’d seen her at some of the lowest points in her adult life — and neither looked pissed. A great start. “You’ve probably seen the news. It’s a shit show. Claire, I assume you told him everything?”
“I tried, but—“
Luke shoved a single palm toward the two of them. “I made her stop after she told me who the father was. I thought she was pulling my leg.”
“You thought it would be someone else?”
Luke blinked at her. “Well yeah, Jessica. I thought Matt Murdock’s scrawny ass was dead beneath Midland Circle. It was shocking enough to hear you had a kid—“
“Luke!” Claire scolded. “That‘s rude—“
“No, Claire, it’s okay. Valid reaction.”
“—And to hear Murdock was the dad? A lot to process at once.”
Jessica couldn’t help but scan the rooftops, keeping a cautious eye out for anyone that might look suspiciously like Matt’s nighttime alter-ego. If she did see something, they were fucked; Matt was back at the church watching over Peter so she could collect their babysitters.
“I get it. The whole situation is ridiculous.”
A few years ago, Jessica would have imagined herself getting into ridiculous situations with Luke. There really had been something between the two of them, a sense of understanding that came with the kind of lives they’d led. They were beyond that now, knew that a trauma connection didn’t excuse everything wrong with their dynamic, but they both found their own thing. Luke had Claire. Jessica had…Her situation.
Jessica dug her phone out of her jacket pocket and checked the time. “Meeting’s in a couple hours. We better get moving. Sorry for all the secrecy and the random meetup location, but Matt didn’t want to risk anyone having physical proof of where we’re staying. I’m going to tell each of you the address and have you take different routes to get there.”
Luke huffed and shoved his hands in his jacket pockets. “Right. And I’ll put on a fake mustache to go buy a train ticket with unmarked bills.”
Jessica just stared.
“Wait,” he said, surprised. “You’re serious?”
Jessica bristled, suddenly defensive. “This is our kid, Luke. We’re not fucking around. There’s a mass murderer on the loose pretending to be Matt. He almost killed me and Karen Paige. He knows the real Daredevil has a child. We can’t take any liberties here.”
“Okay, Jess. I’m not questioning your motives. I was just…Surprised. In a good way. If this is what you think we need to do, we’ll do it.”
It was easy to come down from her indignation when she knew Luke wasn’t going to question her again. He’d always been an earnest guy, willing to say what was on his mind for the sake of open communication, and if he said he was good to go then Jessica would believe him. “R-right. Yeah? Okay. Time to form the most high-powered babysitting squad on the planet.”