in technicolor

It was Brett’s  understanding that there was a conflict brewing in and among certain Teams of a certain color and that the interloper, according to Foggy, was the suggestion of a costume change.

Brett could not imagine anything he cared about less in his entire life.

Foggy had opinions on it, however, and they were currently locked in a stalemate because Fogs had snapped a photo of the state of Brett’s desk at the station and had threatened to send it to his mom if Brett sent Mrs. Nelson the picture of Foggy’s industrial piercing. This meant that Brett was gonna hear this shit whether he wanted to or not.

“Pete’s thinking about making a black suit, and Double D’s already switched to a black suit, and I think Wade’s going to have a breakdown.”

“The hell does the kid need a black suit for?”

“Stealth, so he claims.”

“Dude.”

Fogs shrugged hard.

“Rumor has it Stark has him training with the Black Widow.”

“Nah.”

“It’s true.”

“Nahhhh.”

Brett checked his phone to make sure none of his coworkers were messaging him. Foggy pouted and flicked the flat of his nail against the side of his glass. He’d been weird these last couple weeks, Fogs. Brett was suspicious. Suspicious in all the ways his relationship with his sister had taught him to be.

According to his Spidey Sense, Fogs was either gonna drop an “I’m pregnant” or throw a shoe at him in the imminent future.

Hey, he never claimed that his Spidey Sense was as good as the kid’s.

“Brett, can I tell you something?”

See? See???

Not as good, but pretty damn close.

“Sure.”

Foggy snagged Brett’s beer, ignoring his yelp over this, and squinted at him hard.

“Swear you’re not going to judge me.”

Psh.

As if there was anything left to judge the guy about. Brett already knew every embarrassing moment he’d ever had. He’d been there, suffering through the secondhand embarrassment with his hands slapped up against his jaw in anguish.

“Brett.”

“Okay, okay. I swear.”

“I mean it.”

He chuffed.

“Man, there is nothing you can tell me at this point which is crazier than the life I’m already out here livin’.”

Silence.

Extreme squinting. Brett restrained himself from squinting back. That would just be rude.

“Nevermind.”

What.

What the hell?

“Hey, I’ve got an early morning, I’m taking off,” Fogs said, pushing Brett’s beer back to him and standing up. He rummaged around for his bag.

Wait. No. What just happened?

“Hey, wait, wait, wait,” he called after Foggy. He didn’t turn around. Brett threw down a tip and tossed the strap of his own bag over his shoulder to follow Foggy out the doors.

He had to jog a little to catch up with the guy. It was cold and their breath made clouds. He fell into step next to Foggy and nudged him a bit with his shoulder.

“C’mon, man, don’t be like that. What’s up? You can tell me.”

“Leave it, man,” Foggy told him, edging out of the proximity a little.

It was so unlike him. Like, yeah. He and Brett had this little feud thing going on, but they both knew that that wasn’t the whole of their relationship. There was a reason why he’d stuck by this weird kid through all of elementary and middle and—fuck basically their entire education. Maybe Fogs had gone off to law school for a bit and yeah, maybe Brett had gone to the academy and okay, so technically they were on opposite sides of the courtroom or whatever.

But Fogs was still Fogs and Brett was still Brett, and he’d do anything for the guy. Had Foggy forgotten that?

He didn’t say anything for a block or two and let Foggy have his space. He wasn’t quite sure where they were going because it wasn’t in the direction of either of their apartments.

The tension got a little too much for off-duty Brett to handle. He caught Foggy’s arm and Fogs pulled a little bit against it but seemed to have already resigned himself to having this interaction.

It was kind of a relief. They could drop the masks for a second in the cold.

“What is it?” Brett asked.

“I can’t tell you,” Foggy said, not looking at him.

“Can’t or don’t want to.”

“Can’t.”

“Client?”

“No.”

“Fogs—”

“I just can’t Brett, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have brought it up.”

Ouch.

It shouldn’t have stung, but it did. He let go of Foggy’s arm.

“Sorry,” he mumbled.

“No, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said anything,” Foggy sighed. “I’m gonna to talk to a friend of mine, sorry to leave you here, man.”

That just wasn’t right.

Something here wasn’t right.

“Yeah, no. It’s cool. Hey, take it easy, alright?” he said. He got a little nod in return and they parted ways. Brett headed back towards his place but the cold in the air got stuck in his lungs.

He was a fucking detective. He’d get to the bottom of this.

He started with interrogating Murdock because if there was anything he’d learned in this godforsaken career it was that 90% of the time, the culprit was the partner.

Matt Murdock was puzzled to be in Brett’s presence for so long without hostility.

“Can I buy you a coffee, Matt?” Brett asked, hoping that first names would make his intentions apparent.

“Why, detective,” Murdock gasped, “I’ll have you know, sir, I’m a committed man.”

Yeah, sure whatever.

Brett knew more than this guy even knew he knew about his sex life.

Matthew Murdock, for example, was not half as suave or romantic as he was in public in the sack. He was apparently extraordinarily ticklish and did not respond well to surprise sexy-times butterfly kissing. Or sneakily placed hickeys. So Fogs had told Brett while gesturing to his fat lip. He’s bony, Foggy had added irritably.

Such knowledge as this made Brett immune to the guy’s charms in person.

You sir, are a dork. And a nerd. And no amount of hair wax or crow’s feet was going to get you out of it.

Murdock seemed to realize that his dashing nature was not having the desired effect and pouted a little, although he agreed to the coffee after he got out of court.

Matt Murdock was an emotional brick wall, Brett came to see.

He did a really good job of pretending to understand what was going on and an even better job of sympathizing with Brett’s concerns, but Brett didn’t feel like they were on the same page at all.

When Brett said, “Fogs has seemed kind of out of it lately. A little distant. Almost like he’s faking it.” Murdock’s immediate response was to stiffen a bit and then force himself to ease up and say, “That’s strange. I haven’t noticed anything different.”

“You haven’t noticed him acting any different?” Brett repeated because he couldn’t really believe that. Foggy was the most open of all open books. His pages were public domain and practically scattered to the wind.

“No, I don’t think so. He’s been spending more time with Jess and Claire lately, but besides that, nothing out of the ordinary.”

Jess and Claire. Brett made a mental note of the names.

“I’m worried about him,” he said.

Murdock walled right the fuck off.

“I’ll talk to him,” he said sincerely. What he didn’t say is “and I’ll tell you exactly nothing, and I don’t want to discuss this further,” but Brett heard it all the same.

Murdock had problems, Brett knew that he had problems. No one lived the kind of life that Matt had and came out of it unscathed.

While Foggy and Brett had lived in Hell’s Kitchen and endured their working-class childhood the way most working-class kids did, Matt Murdock had grown up a few blocks over and down and that was. Well, there was no nice way to say it.

It was a shithole.

Matt was one of those kids who, when asked where he’d grown up would probably say simply “Hell’s Kitchen” or would throw out a few cross streets because he’d moved so much as a baby that he couldn’t remember having an address for more than maybe a year at a time. Foster care probably hadn’t helped that.

Matt Murdock, however, was one of those people who shut down their trauma, rather than dealing it in screams and violence.

He had problems, yeah he did.

Brett could only imagine what kind; maybe he and Fogs were trying to deal with some of them. Maybe Foggy was worried about Matt, was scared that he might do something to hurt himself or someone else.

90% of the time, it was the partner.

He had to trust his gut.

He “bumped” into Karen and offered to replace the drink she spilled all down her front. She told him he didn’t have to, but he did it anyways.

It gave him an excuse to talk. To bring up Fogs.

“No, I think he’s working through something,” Karen noted as they waited for her new drink to be made. “He’s been a little down lately, but I think he’s trying to hide it from Matt.”

Ah. So Murdock wasn’t the problem here? Doubtful. Continue, Ms. Page.

“I heard him and Matt talking yesterday, but they didn’t get very far. Fogs kept shutting him down.”

A snoop after Brett’s own heart. Do continue.

“I dunno, I thought they were fine, but whatever it is, it’s freaking Matt out a little. He’s doing his nervous thing.”

What nervous thing?

“He kind of fidgets like this.”

Karen showed him with her hand, she rubbed her thumb against the first knuckle of her middle finger on same hand.

“He does it when he thinks, but he also does it when he thinks someone is upset with him.”

Yes, because even though Matt Murdock hid his problems, he couldn’t shut them out completely.

“I’m just kind of worried about Fogs,” Brett told Karen. “I don’t like to see him upset. I get that that doesn’t come across much, but I really do give a shit about him.”

Karen evaluated him for the veracity of this statement and pursed her lips. In the time it took for her to retrieve her new drink, she’d made up her mind.

She walked towards the door of the café and turned her head over her shoulder.

“Walk with me,” she said.

Karen Page, if she wasn’t such a pain in the ass and had more professional training, would have made a great cop.

She was just the right level of brutal and honest and she squared up like no one Brett had seen before.

He thought she looked like she could kill a man if she needed to.

Probably had. But that’s neither here, nor there.

“Foggy keeps a lot of people’s secrets,” Karen explained as they walked.

Yeah, no shit.

“He’s keeping some of Matt’s, too.”

Of course he was.

“I’m sure Matt’s keeping some of Foggy’s secrets, too,” he told Karen. She gave him a strong look.

“Let’s stop pretending that Foggy has secrets,” she said. “We both know the only secrets he keeps are other peoples’.”

She was sharp, Ms. Page. Now, lady, why you gotta be such a pain in the ass?

Also, involved with Frank Castle? Why you gotta go do those things?

“What’s Matt done to Foggy?” he asked.

“It’s not what Matt’s doing to Foggy,” Karen volleyed back.

It’s what he’s doing to himself.

“Is he aware of what he’s doing?” he asked.

Karen stopped. She turned to him.

“Detective, just think for a minute, would you?” she said. “You know what’s going on, you’ve been here the whole time. Think about it some. I think you’ll figure it out, and then you’ll get it.”

She had a meeting. Brett let her go.

So it had to do with Matt. And it had to do with secrets. And it had to do with a timeline of events.

This was detective work. Brett was a detective.

Matt Murdock was five feet, ten inches tall. He was, if Brett had to guess, between 160 and 180 pounds. It was hard to tell since he always wore suits.

He was white, third or fourth generation Irish. Catholic. Athletic build.

He went to church like clockwork.

He’d lived a life in the foster care system.

He was blind.

If you watched him closer than usual, perhaps the teeniest bit like a stalker with a good cause, no really, then you might notice that he moved his head around jerkily when he walked. He seemed startled sometimes when there was nothing to be startled about.

Sometimes, he had a gym bag slung over his shoulder.

If you watched like the good, friendly, well-meaning stalker you were, just a little closer than was probably acceptable even by undercover standards, you might notice that Matt Murdock went to an ages-old gym.

Fogwell’s was an institution. It was constantly being renovated, yet no matter how much renovation went on, it always managed to look and smell like the 70s. Maybe the 80s.

Battlin’ Jack Murdock had been a product of Fogwell’s gym. It only made sense that his baby came to visit his ghost sometimes.

It didn’t make sense that said baby liked to go around eleven at night, when the place was shut up. A set of keys were left on the counter, waiting for him.

So he and Fogwell had an arrangement. Noted.

There was no way for even the most accomplished stalker to watch a man inside a building from street level, so Brett went for a walk. Waited around. Answered work emails on his phone.

Waited until 12:30, when Matthew Murdock decided he’d had enough of whatever he’d been doing inside.

It was 12:30am. And he’d gotten a little lax.

He left the building without his cane.

He left the building without his cane.

It was really, really hard to breathe through that. To watch what was happening in front of him and to understanding that it really was happening.

He knew what he had to do.

He got out of his car.

He didn’t try to walk softly.

Eventually, he found himself standing behind Matthew Murdock.

Murdock stopped walking.

Brett did, too.

“It’s real fucked up, man,” Brett said to Murdock’s back. His breath made clouds in the air which he was now certain Matthew Murdock could see.

Matt tipped his head up to the sky and seemed to evaluate all his choices. He tipped it slowly the other way and, even though Brett couldn’t see him doing it, he knew he was smirking.

“You don’t even know the half of it, detective,” he said simply.

Anger pulsed hot in Brett’s neck and spread through his chest, through his lungs.

“Is this a game to you, Murdock?” he asked. “People believe you when you do your little act. I believed you.”

Matt said nothing, although he did balance his head out and tip it down.

“I’m insulted, detective,” he said.

“Yeah, so’m I,” Brett replied.

The air was cold and their breath made clouds, and although it might have been Brett’s imagination, Matt’s didn’t seem make as big of ones as he did. Probably all the anger.

“I’m insulted, detective,” Murdock repeated. “That it’s taken you this long.”

Sorry, what?

“What, to figure out you’re not blind, Matt?”

Silence.

A sigh.

“You’re all the same,” Murdock said, defeated. As if he was the victim here.

“I can’t arrest you for being a grade A piece of shit, but I can tell you to get your shit together for Fogs,” Brett said before he could hold back the words.

Matt turned around his way and strode purposefully towards him. He walked confident. Tall.

Squared up.

He got in Brett’s space.

“Mahoney,” he said softly, leaning forward like some kind of cat, “I’m bored of this game.”

This man was dangerous.

This man was so fucking dangerous.

How had Brett been fooled by that—

“You called in your expert Brett, couple weeks back. Dr. Mendez? Is that right?”

Dr…Mendez? Yeah the—

“Ophthalmologist. That’s right. Remember what she told you? She said, and I quote,  ‘I’m surprised he has eyes still.’ ‘It must have hurt like hell.’”

How could he know what she told them? He had been in the interrogation room.

“How do you—”

“So I think I’m done playing this fucking game.”

Matt Murdock took off his glasses and couldn’t meet Brett’s eyes. His own were light and dark at the same time, hazel almost. They were empty.

Empty like a wooden bowl with nothing inside its hollow.

“I. Am. Blind.” He said. “And it’s none of your goddamn business how I live my life. And it’s none of your goddamn business what I do with my partner. Keep the fuck out of it, detective. Or things won’t end nicely for you.”

Brett’s heart was pounding, every nerve in his body screaming danger. This man was danger.

Fogs couldn’t be with him. Brett couldn’t let Fogs be with him.

“Are you threatening me, Matt?” he asked as calmly as his pulse would allow.

“Are you scared?” Matt asked him with all those fucking white teeth.

Yes. Absolutely. You’re a psychopath.

“Scared or mad, it’s hard to tell sometimes,” Matt continued. “Doesn’t matter, though. Can’t do anything, can you, detective? Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going home.”

He turned around carefully and left Brett standing in a cold street at 12:43am.

There were a thousand times in his life where Brett had kept himself from letting his work life bleed into his personal life, but this? No. Brett couldn’t stand by and let this shit happen to Foggy.

Foggy didn’t deserve to be with a man like Matt Murdock—no wait, that wasn’t right. Matt Murdock didn’t deserve to be a with a man like Foggy Nelson.

Maynard noticed his bouncing knee at his desk and commented on it, but he ignored her. He couldn’t focus on anything. He dug out his phone and texted Fogs to get a drink after work.

It took Foggy a few hours to get back to him, but he agreed.

He’d barely gotten his drink at the bar and dragged Foggy over to the table when he was talking.

“Foggy, I need to talk to you,” he said. Foggy glanced from at the hand on his arm and then back to Brett’s face with a frown that only deepened with each passing second.

Brett prayed to God that he already knew. That this was a secret he’d been keeping. That they could work something—anything—out of this.

“Yeah, evidently. What’s your problem, man?” Foggy snipped at him.

“It’s about Matt. I know what’s happening, I get it. I know he’s—”

Foggy jerked back and pulled his arm away in shock. He reached behind him and lowered himself slowly into the chair at the table. Brett followed suit, biting his lip.

“Oh my god, he told you?” Fogs gasped. “He’s never told anyone by his own volition, before. That’s—I don’t even know what that is.”

Brett swallowed hard. Didn’t even look at his drink.

“Well, I mean. He didn’t exactly. Not in so many words, at least. I more figured it out on my own but listen Fogs. I get it, he’s—”

“Oh my god. You saw him?”

“Yeah, and he’s dangerous Foggy. He’s—”

“No, I know, Daredevil.”

“Not…Blind…”

That.

Was Not.

What he’d meant.

“Oh shit,” Foggy swore upon recognizing the long pause for what it was.

“Holy shit.”

“Oh fuck. Oh shit. No, I didn’t say that.”

“Oh my god,” Brett found himself whispering. It all made sense now. It all made so much fucking sense; how the fuck had he been so fucking stupid.

“Oh my god, Brett. It’s uh—”

Fogs, this whole time, had been covering for that motherfucker. Because that motherfucker was Daredevil. He came to Brett,  he trusted Brett because Foggy trusted Brett. He was at every Wilson Fisk scene because he’d made it to begin with.

“Oh my god, I fucked up so bad, Jesus. Brett, please, please, don’t tell anyone.”

Fogs had tears in his eyes, he was choking down and sniffing back a breakdown and Brett couldn’t, he just couldn’t, leave him like that.

“Okay,” he gasped, practically heaving himself, “Okay, okay. This is fine. We’re fine. This is fine. Crazy. Dead fucking crazy but fine.”

That lasted maybe a second.

“Fogs, this is not fucking fine.”

“I know,” Foggy gasped miserably.

“Like, every kind of not fucking fine on top of a huge pile of not fucking fine, what the—”

“Brett, I know. I know, I swear to god, I know better than anyone.”

And he did. He had to. The back of Brett’s head made clicking noises and pieces slotted together.

“You’re worried about him?” he said slowly. Foggy wiped the unshed tears from his eyes and nodded soundlessly.

“You still love him,” Brett said.

More nodding.

“Despite all the--?”

“Yes,” Fogs said, like a man pressed in confession, “Despite and because. He’s a good person, Brett. You—you—I can’t explain it, you’ve seen it. You’ve worked with him, he’s sweet and dopey and excitable and he loves what he does and he helps people, Brett. He does, he spends every second of his life he can spare helping people.”

“He threatened me last night.”

Fogs stared heavenward and Brett hated that he felt a lump in his own throat at the guy’s distress.

“He only does that when he feels threatened.”

“He’s not blind, Foggy.”

Foggy’s brow creased like the words were physically painful. He swallowed hard.

“No,” he said, “He is blind. And that’s what makes this whole thing so much more surreal.”

He couldn’t be.

“Brett, he is, I swear to god. We lived together, we live together. I know.”

He’s lying.

“Not about this.”

The eye doctor, though. He can’t do parkour. He—

“He lied about that, but not about this.”

The silence that fell over their corner table was suffocating. The chatter of the rest of the bar seemed so distant.

“Brett, I’ve got to tell him. Come with me, he can explain. Give him a chance to explain.”

Well, what else was he supposed to do?

Matt’s apartment wasn’t too far away and rather than knocking, Foggy just said, “Matt, open the door,” when they were stood outside it.

It opened like he’d already been on the way to get it.

He wasn’t wearing gym clothes or lawyer clothes or Daredevil clothes. He wore jeans and an old sweatshirt, one that Brett recognized as Foggy’s. He tipped his head at Foggy in concern and then, a beat later, rounded on Brett.

All those teeth.

How had he not recognized that sneer?

They went inside in silence.

“Matty, I’m sorry.”

Matt said nothing, but hostility practically wafted off of him.

“I’m so sorry,” Foggy said, pulling at his hands. He managed to dislodged one of them from where Matt had crammed it against his ribs when he crossed his arms.

He was furious. Silently furious.

“I don’t know what else to say,” Foggy continued. Matt pulled his hand away and set his jaw.  

“It’s fine,” he said, flat as a board.

It wasn’t. Brett was looking at a guy who could have killed every single person he’d touched over the last what, ten? Twenty years? How long did it take to build up that kind of skill? How long had he been hiding it?

Fogs bowed his head in Matt’s kitchen and tried to fight back the tears and upset and it made Brett’s diaphragm squeeze and twist. Matt watched Fogs for a moment (was it watching? Or was it something else) before he softened and leaned forward to wrap an arm around Foggy’s waist. He pulled him in close and let him bury his face into his neck.

“It’s fine,” Matt said, far kinder this time, “It’s not your fault. It was going to happen, we both knew it was going to happen.”

Foggy said something which was muffled, but which Brett knew from his head to his knees was “but it shouldn’t have been me.”

Brett didn’t know what to say. He didn’t know how to make this right. He had a responsibility to do something, but he didn’t know what the fuck it even was anymore.

Matt stared at him over Foggy’s shoulder, cold, calm. Promising something which Brett couldn’t figure out. He gently pried Foggy out of his neck and thumbed away the tears. He pressed their foreheads together.

“It’s okay,” he said, “If the detective wants to know, then he gets to know. And then, we’ll let him decide how he’s going to handle it.”

Brett did not like the fucking sound of that.

He did not like Matt’s hollow gaze finding his own somehow.

It wasn’t violence that look was promising, it was a challenge.

Brett had walked into a minefield. A fucking minefield.

A field covered in goddamned mines, all of which were horrifying little bombs of information which could threaten the lives and wellbeing of every living soul in the city.

Matt Murdock told him patiently that yes, he was Daredevil. Yes, they’d worked together on multiple occasions, and yes, he took on much of the crime which the NYPD failed to catch in their nets in the Kitchen.

That much, Brett could understand, but then Murdock brought out the big guns. The fucking scars on his body. His war with some kind of cult. His ongoing feud with Wilson Fisk. The associated drug rings,  human traffickers, assassins, lawyers, gunmen, mobsters, gangs, all of it. You name it.

Daredevil had his thumb on the pulse of Hell’s Kitchen and he traced the webs backwards and forwards through the bodies and the drugs and the bullets. He ran interference, kept Fisk’s guys from their power, cut off mob communications and resources everywhere he could, put his body between people and the dregs of society, even when poverty and desperation made those dregs unusually familiar.

“If you take me out, detective,” Murdock—no, Daredevil said in his emotionless tone, “That’s your prerogative. But just know that there are only two of us in this city who can do what I can, and the other one is much stronger and less discerning than me. Once I’m gone, you and your team will need to step up. It’s either that or someone else will or no one else will, and I can tell you right now that both of those are some pretty shit options.”

Only two people like him. How did he know that?

“Because my sensei only trained two of us.”

Oh, a sensei now? Was this some kind of Karate Kid shit?

“My life isn’t a fucking joke, Mahoney.”

Foggy hissed at Matt to be civil, which was, in itself, a validation of the truth in those words.

This was insanity. This could not be real. This didn’t happen to people.

“Yeah, I’m not people. I’ve been fucked since day one. Make up your mind, detective. I’d be lying if I said I wouldn’t fight you, but I’ll at least let you make your decision.”

He needed to think.

“If I don’t get time, then you don’t, either. Make up your mind.”

No,  he needed to think. He needed to weigh everything on the table here. Foggy wouldn’t look at him. Could he do this to Fogs? Could he take away the man he loved, the guy keeping all the shit in the city at bay? Could he do that?

“I need time, Matt,” he said firmly. Because he did.

“Me fucking too, pal,” Matt volleyed back.

Brett’s fingers and toes were freezing, and it wasn’t just because the room was cold. He took in a shuddering breath.

“I need to talk to one person,” he said.

“Who.”

Not a question.

He breathed out a shaky breath.

Amos was four years old and the light of Brett’s life. He didn’t have a wife or kids of his own, hadn’t really been interested in that kind of life for most of his time on the force. But the second Amos had been born, and Brett’s sister had laid him into Brett’s arms, he’d thought that maybe, actually, it might be nice one day.

Amos stayed at his mom’s on Friday and Wednesday nights so that his sister and her boyfriend could have a break. Date night, movie night, whatever. Brett tried to come by to spend time with him when he could so that his mom wouldn’t spoil the child rotten.

She was getting older, his mom, and Amos was getting bigger.

Amos had every Avenger action figure they could afford. He adored Captain America. He adored the Falcon. He’d wanted to be the Hulk for Halloween for two years in a row.

His new thing had become Spiderman lately and he agitated the fuck out of Kelly as to why there wasn’t a Spiderman action figure yet, and when were they making one, and could he have one, please, please, please, mama?

But Amos was an unusually aware little kid and he liked to climb into Brett’s lap and ask him to tell him about his encounters with the superhero of their neighborhood. The man who Uncle Brett worked with, his co-hero, because Brett was a hero in this baby boy’s eyes.

Amos was groggy and grumpy at being awakened at 2am on a Friday, but once he saw who it was waking him up, he shook himself out of it and demanded affection.

Brett held him close and pressed a kiss to the side of his warm head.

“Amos, I need your help,” he said.

Amos pushed against him so that he could sit up.

“Kay?” he said.

“I met Daredevil just now,” Brett told him seriously, softly so his mom wouldn’t wake up. “And I’ve got to decide whether I do my policeman job and arrest him, or whether I let him go.”

Amos stared at him like he was being dense, which was exactly what Brett needed in that moment.

“You can’t arrest Daredevil. He’s a hero,” Amos said with a frown. “He protects mom and dad and grandma, and you, Uncle Brett.” He thought for a moment and then brightened up, “And me! He protects me, too.”

Oh, honey.

Yeah, he does, doesn’t he?

“I want you to fucking know that I am not okay with this,” Brett told Matt in the doorway.

Matt cocked his head abruptly, listening for whatever the hell it was he did, and blinked at him.

Then he grinned.

“Welcome to the underworld, detective,” he said.