daredevilkink | Prompt Post #5

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Prompt Post #5

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Hahaha! I love this!

such a good fill! I'm a sucker for any kind matt & foggy confrontations <3

[pokes head in]

http://archiveofourown.org/works/4076863/

Not a proper fill, but has lots of super naughty Clairedevil antics.

[runs away]

It took two full weeks before Franklin finally saw his mother for the first time since he stormed out of his father's apartment. By that point, it had been months since he last saw her. All he wanted was to talk to her, to explain what had happened and hear her tell him that everything was going to be alright, that he could stay with her and that they could fix things together. Instead, he spent his days alone in her apartment, on the phone to Marci or watching television, waiting.

When she did finally arrive home at her Boston apartment one evening, the reaction that Franklin got was not what he expected.

He had fallen asleep on the couch in front of the television when he heard the door open. She was on the phone, and as she entered the apartment she kicked her heels off but didn't turn on the light.

"I don't care if Martin doesn't agree. The paperwork was filed this morning, and the hearing date has been set already-" She noticed someone on the couch and stilled, removing the phone from her ear. Her body tensed and her hand moved to clutch her purse.

"Who the hell is there?" she asked coldly.

"It's just me, mom! Remember?" Franklin told her.

She breathed a sigh of relief. "For God's sake, Franklin, what the hell are you doing here?" she asked. She turned the light on finally.

Franklin sat up slowly, tired. "I've been staying here. I fought with dad? He kicked me out?"

"Kicked you out?" Rosalind asked. "He most certainly did not! When?"

Franklin was confused. Hadn't David told her what had happened? "Two weeks ago, mom! I called David and he said you knew."

"Right," she said. "I've been busy. Well, let's get this sorted then. What happened?"

Franklin didn't want to tell her. Suddenly, all of his optimism that Rosalind would understand why his SAT scores were low or that she would want him there evaporated. Panic surged in his body. He didn't say anything.

"Franklin," Rosalind said, "You are going to tell me what happened with your father right now."

"I finally told him off," Franklin told her, exaggerating slightly so she'd be less angry. "I was upset because my SAT scores came in and they... well, they weren't good. And he didn't care. So I told him the truth. That is was his fault. That he wasn't creating the kind of atmosphere I needed to be successful. That I wasn't going to watch the store or Candace for him anymore. And he flipped out on me."

"How bad were they?" Rosalind asked. Of course she would zero in on that aspect of what he said.

He didn't respond.

"Franklin? Tell me." Rosalind said again.

"1260," he replied finally.

"12-" Rosalind said, cutting herself off and shaking her head with a sigh. "That is..."

"Bad. I know," Franklin said. "But it wasn't my fault."

"Oh? Did your father take the test for you then?" Rosalind asked.

"No!" he replied. "But..."

"Don't you dare try and blame what happened on anyone but yourself, Franklin," she said coldly. "I spend my living making excuses for people and I have no interest in hearing any from my own son. Your father didn't take that test. You did. He may be a miserable failure, but he isn't the failure here. Take responsibility for your own actions and do what you have to do to fix things. Tomorrow, I'm going to call a tutor to prep you over the summer so that you can take the test again next year. And you're going to call your father and apologize."

"What?" Franklin asked. "Why? Why can't I just stay here?"

Rosalind laughed. "I'm working, Franklin," she said. "On a very important case. I don't have time to babysit you. And besides, that wasn't what we agreed to. I booked some time later in the summer once my case is over for us to head up to the Vineyard. We'll be together then."

"But I hate it there. I hate him," Franklin said. "I want to stay with you."

"Well consider this an important lesson. We don't always get what we want in this life," Rosalind said.

Franklin felt like he had been hit by a truck. He hadn't expected Rosalind to respond this way. Another rejection. It stung. He could feel tears welling up in the corner of his eyes.

"You know, dad said that you would do this," he spit at Rosalind. "He said that you didn't want me, that you never wanted me. I guess I should have listened to him."

He watched the way Rosalind's entire body stiffened and suspected that he had said the right thing to get what he wanted.

"Your father shouldn't be talking to you about me that way," Rosalind said. "He never understood me when we were together and he certainly doesn't know a damned thing about who I am now. But I see what you're trying to do, Franklin. And it changes nothing. You will call him tomorrow."

"Please," Franklin begged, changing tactics and letting the tears fall. It was cathartic, but also useful. "Please, mom, don't make me go back. In the fall I will, but please, can't I stay for the summer. I'll stay out of your way, I promise. You won't even know I'm here. I just can't... I can't go back there. They hate me. They don't want me. Nobody does."

"Oh, don't cry, Franklin, honestly..." Rosalind said, but she reached out and uncharacteristically rubbed her hand on his back. It felt wonderful, and he leaned into it but knew better than to try and hug her. He would take what he could get.

"Okay," Rosalind finally said. "For the summer. But you need to understand that I will not be here, and that when I am I will be working and need to be left to it. You'll also have to join me in court. I have no intention of leaving you to your own devices and letting you do whatever you feel like. And I may need you to come with me to certain parties and events that I'm obligated to attend. You can be my plus one. It will be a good networking opportunity for you, actually."

She stood up and he breathed an enormous sigh of relief.

"But don't think for a second that I don't see right through what you just did there," she said. "I don't appreciate being manipulated, Franklin. It had better not happen again."

"It won't," Franklin promised. "Thank you, mom."

"Do me a favour and don't sleep on the sofa. Take the blankets to your room. Good night, darling."

"Good night," he said, flopping back down onto the pillow for a moment as she turned the light out and left the room. He'd won the battle. Now he just had to figure out how he was going to win the war.

Matt was beyond frustrated. He felt like the work he had done as the Devil had sucked him into a literal hell - a Kafka-esque nightmare of legal contradictions and warped logic that altered reality and left him as the only one who knew the truth. Well, he and Karen and Foggy. The three of them had spent the last two weeks hunkered over their conference table going over every line of Marci's documents from Landman and Zach, every newspaper clipping or clue that Ben Urich had left them in one of his final acts, and every note they had taken on Elena's tenement case or Healy's murder charge. They were looking for something, anything, that could prove with no corroboration from Hoffman that Fisk was the man responsible for everything that had happened. Something that Rosalind couldn't have thrown out, that couldn't be pinned on Daredevil instead. And they had come up with nothing. Nothing substantive enough to stick, to convince a jury beyond a reasonable doubt. It was maddening.

They had turned the television off and refused to turn it back on. Having it on was only serving to discourage them. The press was slowly being fed stories by Fisk's defense team, and the tide was turning. Daredevil was once again being painted as a dangerous vigilante with unclear motives. And Fisk was being held up as an example of a noble man being judged as guilty until proven innocent, a philanthropist who made enemies who now wanted to take him down. Even his escape was being questioned, as people wondered whether or not it was planned by him or staged by someone else. Rosalind was ruthless, and she played dirty, which shouldn't have shocked Matt the way that it did. He knew the clients she took on and he had heard the rumors about her, even if he still couldn't get Foggy to open up about his childhood with her.

And in the meantime, Matt couldn't go out at night. He couldn't release the tension the way that he had come to rely on. Foggy wasn't wrong about Rosalind having them followed. The very night that he went to Foggy's after speaking with the DA, Matt sensed a presence stalking him, likely hired muscle. Foggy was being followed too. Going out would risk exposure, and that was the only thing that terrified Matt more than the thought of Fisk out on the streets again.

But the urge to crack skulls, to feel the blood drip from his fingers, to beat satisfying answers our of people who deserved it, was so strong. Every moment that he was Matt Murdock and not the Devil, people got hurt. Matt could hear the sirens becoming louder and more frequent. He could hear the screams and cries for help of a city increasingly in turmoil, even with Fisk behind bars. Someone was filling the void Fisk had left. Matt could sense it, and it ate at him, made his stomach churn and his heart race. And the longer things went on, the stronger the urge to go out became until Matt felt as though he were vibrating out of his own body with anticipation and desire.

Finally one night, in the middle of a marathon research session and well past the point when most of the people in the City that Never Slept were in bed, Matt's burner phone buzzed in his pocket. Foggy and Karen looked up at him. "Who's calling you at this hour?" Foggy asked.

"And why do you have two phones?" Karen asked, gesturing to Matt's cell phone sitting on the table even though she knew he couldn't see her do it.

"I don't know," said Matt to Foggy. He ignored Karen's question. He would deal with that later. He excused himself, which he knew made Foggy uneasy, and answered the call in his own office.

"Who is this?" he asked, blunt due to the hour and knowing that the person called expecting Daredevil anyway.

"You... y... you promised," he heard a quiet voice say on the other end, stuttering and sobbing.

"Melvin," Matt said, recognizing who it immediately. "What happened?"

"Betsy..." Melvin cried out. "Oh, Betsy! You said she'd be safe. They... they took her." Matt could barely understand the man between choked sobs. "Liar," Melvin said. "You lied."

"Who?" Matt asked, upset. "Who took her, Melvin?"

"Fisk," Melvin told him.

"Fisk is in jail, Melvin. It wasn't him. Who took her?" he asked.

"Fisk," Melvin told him again. "They said. They told me. It's my fault. I helped you and it's my fault. I did it. Oh God!"

"Melvin, you need to calm down," Matt said, anxious and confused. "What else did they tell you?"

"To call you," Melvin said. "To tell you that you can't win. Please help me! Please find Betsy!"

"I will, Melvin," Matt promised. "I will."

He hung up the phone and stood still for a moment, unsure if he could will his body to move and do what he knew he needed to do. Melvin had to be wrong. It couldn't be Fisk. He'd dismantled the man's empire. Whoever had taken Betsy was luring him into a trap.

But... Matt wondered. What if? What if Fisk's empire was slowly being put back together while he was awaiting trial, being kept warm for him in anticipation of his return? Even without the Kingpin in charge, there may have still been people out there in his pocket working on his behalf. Hoffman couldn't possibly have known the name of every person on Fisk's payroll.

And here Matt was, sitting in his office, cowering.

He'd had enough.

He walked back into the conference room and, before he could even say anything, Foggy was already shaking his head.

"Nope," Foggy said. "No way, buddy. I don't know who that was and I don't care, but it is too risky for you to be..." he stopped as he realized that Karen's ears had perked up, "... going out on your own at this hour. I know that you hate it, but you're more vulnerable than other people right now and you know it."

"Foggy..." Matt said, his tone firm as he gathered his things to leave.

"Uh uh," Foggy said, and Matt felt a hand grip his wrist. "Can I talk to you for just a minute? Alone?"

"Wait a second, Foggy," Karen said, shaking her head in protest, "What is going on? I have a right to know. I'm a part of this."

"No, Karen," Foggy snapped back. "You're really not. Would you excuse us please?" He practically dragged Matt out of his room and into his own office and closed the door behind them.

"You can't go out. You know I'm right," Foggy said. "Rosalind has people on both of us. What if she figures out what you're doing?"

"Somebody kidnapped Betsy Beatty, Melvin Potter's parole officer," Matt told Foggy. "They did it to send me a message, Foggy. I think Fisk might still be acting as the Kingpin from jail somehow."

"What?" Foggy asked. "That's..." he trailed off in confusion. "Did they do it to send you a message or lure you into a trap, Matt? Because either way you would be stupid to take that bait."

"I promised Melvin that I'd keep her safe, Foggy," said Matt. "I have to go."

"But you can't!" Foggy said.

"It'll be okay, Foggy," Matt said. "I'm going to go out the window and keep to the rooftops, lose the tail and make them think I'm still here while I pick up my costume."

"And if they've bugged us? If they've somehow heard everything we've been talking about? Why did you even have that burner phone on you? Jesus, Matt!" Foggy said, "Do you know what will happen if Rosalind finds out..."

"No," said Matt, opening his office window, "But it seems like maybe you do, don't you? She's your mother after all, isn't she? So why don't you tell me? What will happen, Foggy?"

"I don't know," said Foggy.

"I think you do," Matt said. "And you don't want to talk about it. And that's fine. But I'm not afraid of her. You stay here with Karen. Tell her I went to meet a woman I'm seeing."

"Right," Foggy said, exasperation in his voice, "Because that makes total sense and won't make her suspicious at all. Thanks for leaving me to deal with that."

"I'm sorry," Matt said genuinely, putting a leg out onto the window ledge and gripping a nearby eaves-trough. "But you know I have to do this. I'll call you later."

And with that, he was gone.

Foggy sighed heavily and headed back towards the conference room. He wasn't surprised to find a very pissed off Karen pacing there with her arms crossed.

"What the hell was that about?" she asked.

"Don't worry about it, Karen," he told her.

"Is Matt gone? What did he do, jump off the fire escape?" Karen said. "Jesus! You two must really think I'm stupid."

"Oh, what is that supposed to mean?" Foggy asked, frustrated and not sure how to deal with the situation.

"Matt has a burner phone to take anonymous phone calls on. For months now he's been showing up every day with bruises or cuts, or limping like he's injured himself. Except for the days he doesn't show up at all and you're clearly covering for him," Karen explained. "And except for the last few weeks when we've been putting in the extra hours trying to help put Fisk away. The same few weeks that Daredevil has mysteriously vanished from the streets, despite the increased public interest in spotting him."

Foggy stilled, realizing where Karen was going with her train of thought. "What exactly are you saying Karen?"

"Are you really going to stand here and keep lying to me, Foggy?" Karen asked angrily. "Keep expecting me to put up with it. When I first met you and Matt, I appreciated the fact that you both seemed so honest and so committed to being decent human beings. But now I'm starting to see that I was wrong about you both. Don't you trust me?"

"Do you want the truth?" Foggy asked.

"Yes, I want the truth!" Karen replied back.

"No," Foggy said. "I don't trust you, Karen. That's the truth! You stand here and think you can demand answers from me? You barely know me! Or Matt! Hell, I barely know Matt! And we both barely know you! How dare you be pissed off at me because I'm not the decent human being you assumed I was! Since Elena died, since Ben, you've been coming in here smelling of booze every day and crying in the kitchen when you think Matt and I can't hear you. And making excuses to stay late and avoid going home again. So what makes you think that you're entitled to know anything more about us than you already do when we've taken you in, we've given you a job and a home and called you family, and you're still lying to us! The truth, Karen, is that we're all just a collection of fucked up strangers who somehow found each other, and that's all we get. That's all this is. Stop expecting it to be anything more than that. I had to learn that the hard way and now you do too."

By the end of his speech, he was shaking from a combination of anxiety and exertion, his eyes looking anywhere but at her, not wanting to see the fury and rejection written on her features. He heard her sniffle. He'd made her cry. He tensed in anticipation of the upset tirade he knew was coming his way from her, but it didn't happen. Instead, he was shocked when she launched herself forward and pulled him into a desperate hug, clinging to him and sobbing into his shoulder, his suit damp with snot and tears. He tentatively put an arm around her and hugged her back, letting her get it out.

"I'm sorry," he said sadly. "I'm sorry."

"I know," Karen said, "I know."

She pulled back from him and gently took his chin in her hands, tilting his face so that he was forced to look at her. Her eyes were red and shining with tears. Foggy found her to be more beautiful than he'd ever seen her, which disturbed him slightly.

"You're right," she said. "I don't know you. And you don't know me. But even if we don't know each other, we need each other, Foggy. I need you. Please." She started to cry again. "You're all I have."

"You're all I have too," Foggy confessed.

"So let's make it more," Karen said. "We deserve more, don't we?" And she leaned in and closed the distance between them, kissing him gently with lips that were salty with the taste of her tears.

He knew it was a mistake, but he deepened the kiss anyway. He'd wanted this from the moment he'd met her. Never like this, but how could he have ever expected this anyway?

"Take me home, Foggy," she begged.

And so he did.

Simon Monroe is a fucked-up ex-drug-addict guilt-ridden Irish Catholic zombie radical

:O interesting character

*_* CUTE!

Hello, hi - so this is crack.

-----------------------

Foggy had always been stockier than other girls, it was just biology, he guessed. And while he certainly wasn't fat, no amount of dieting and crunches could give him that effortlessly slim figure. So he gave up on that, and focused on just being healthy.

Thank God he had a fabulous personality - he never would have made it into Delta Nu on looks alone. Everyone here was just so.... perfect.

Which made it the perfect place to be when he finally gained the confidence to admit to himself and the world that he was really a man. His father wouldn't pay for any operations, but his sorority sisters were amazing in showering him with love and support and subtle make-up tips so that he could keep up a flawless complexion without it being overtly obvious that he was wearing makeup.

And if he occasionally wore dresses and makeup and went all out, what of it? He had to wear gender appropriate clothing at home anyway, and Foggy just guessed it meant he was more genderfluid than most. The masculine side was simply more dominant.

It didn't stop him from being a kick-ass, bona fide Delta Nu president that the others knew they could depend on, or from snatching the biggest catch at CULA.

Warner Huntington III. Oh, but he was the most perfect man on campus. Gorgeous, smart, rich, knew where he was headed in life, and didn't blink an eye when Foogy was masculine despite the fact that he preferred Foggy's feminine side.

Foggy had never been so completely in love before. He'd found prince charming, and despite his extravagantly privileged lifestyle had never before felt so much like a princess. Warner brought out his feminine side, and Foggy found himself reveling in it, even if it meant he altered his wardrobe during the day in order to make up for it.

And oh, he would wear dresses the rest of his life if he must, for tonight was the night, he knew it in his bones, and he was going to say yes.

So Foggy brushed his hair till it shined, shaved his legs, and sat in the gaggle of his closest sisters as they curled his hair to perfection and pampered him. "We have to go shopping," Daisy informed him. "You have nothing appropriate for getting engaged."

"Are we even truly certain he's gonna ask?" Foggy questioned, filled with doubt. "I might have made homecoming queen but it's been a long time since I was purely female."

"His grandmother flew in!" Sammi protested, patting his shoulder. "He went to meet her for lunch - which means he's getting the rock."

"Its not like she can just fed-ex that to him," Jessica interjected.

"And come on bunny, what man wouldn't want you!" Sammi concluded. "Being more man than woman just means you two can connect in ways he can't with other women."

The girls all sighed, and Foggy got teary. "Thanks girls," he stated, "you're the best sisters ever. Not let's go buy a dress before you make me cry and ruin all your hard work."

Laughing, they did just that. The sales people looked annoyed at having six girls helping one find a dress, but as he was going to spend a lot on these dresses Foggy wasn't feeling very charitable towards them at the moment - he had rather more important things to focus on anyway, and seeing as he was more man than woman he needed all the help he could get to make this night perfect.

"No it needs to be special," Foggy protested the idea of his signature pink. "Maybe bridal - but not like I'm expecting anything. This is The Date, guys, I have to be a goddess."

His girls scattered to the racks, and the sales clerk walked over with some truly ugly red thing. "Why don't you try this one? We just got it in yesterday."

Foggy took it and the feel of the fabric made him want to gag. "Low-viscosity rayon?" He questioned in disbelief. The lady looked surprised (did she not even know what the dress was made of? Seriously?) and nodded. So Foggy continued with, "With a half-loop top stitching on the hem?"

"Absolutely," the lady replied with a fat fake smile, "it's one of a kind."

Foggy smiled before shoving it back at her. "Its impossible to use a half-loop top stitching on low-viscosity rayon, it tears the fabric. Not to mention rayon only hangs well on petite form, while it makes stocky girls like me seem bulky and bloated. Plus it's straight from last year's June issue of Vogue." The shop was silent as everyone watched him school the clueless shop keep. "If you're going to try and sell it to me at full price, learn to pick your targets better."

The worker walked away, unsure of how to deal with a self-assured blond. Foggy smirked triumphantly as his sisters came to back him up, whispering "burn" in their quietest stage whisper.

"Fog," Daisy said, holding forth a deep coral gown with black lace trim, "try on this - it's perfect."

And it was perfect, as was his entrance down the grand staircase as Warner watched, his face spellbound in the glory of Foggy's captivating beauty.

Oh yeah, he could use his natural charms when he had a mind to.

Warner kissed him, he received the proper send off from his closest sisters, and they went to dinner. Foggy giggled as he tasted the champagne of their toast, so entirely feminine at the moment he almost felt like returning to the use of feminine pronouns.

"Fog," Warner started.

"Yes?" Okay, Foggy night be jumping the gun a little, but he was getting engaged! Surely it was acceptable!

"One of the reasons I asked you here tonight was to discuss our future," Warner told him with that lovely smile.

"I am fully amenable to this discussion," Foggy replied with his most winning smile.

Warner widened his smile for a moment at the sight of it, like he always did. "These last few years have been a lot of fun, but Harvard is different - law school is a really serious business, and I need to be fully committed."

Foggy nodded, enraptured. His prince was placing so much on their future, he'd really thought hard about it, hadn't he?

"My family expects a lot from me - I expect a lot from me! You know I plan to run for office someday."

"And I hope you know I totally support you in that," Foggy interjected.

"Of course I do," Warner replied, making Foggy smile. "And if I'm gonna be a senator by the time I'm thirty I gotta stop dicking around."

"I totally agree," Foggy added, just in case it wasn't clear that they were on the same page.

"Which is why I think it's time for us," Warner stated softly, leaning in a bit. "Francis, pooh-bear,"

Oh god oh god oh god, here it was! Foggy wasn't sure he could hold on much longer!

"I think we should -"

"I do!"

"- break up."

...... Wait.

"What?" Foggy asked, unwilling to trust his ears. This couldn't be happening!

"I've thought a lot about it and I think this is the best move for us," Warner stated with a shrug, as if he hadn't trampled all over Foggy's heart.

"You're dumping me?" Foggy exclaimed. "I thought you were going to propose!"

Warner gave a tiny nervous smile, as if he were terrified at the notion. "Francis, woah, no offense but if I'm gonna be a senator I need to marry a Jackie, not a Marilyn."

"So what," Foggy countered, "you're breaking up with me because I'm too blond?"

"No that's not entirely true."

"So it's because I'm a man?" Foggy accused. They were garnering attention but he couldn't care less. Let this be a scandal Warner could never return from! Warner was trying to placate him, but Foggy talked over him. "So when you said it didn't matter, and that you would always love me, you were just dicking around?!!!"

Oh god, he couldn't help it anymore - Foggy started to cry.

"Look," Warner attempted to explain, "I have five generations of senators in my family, my brother is in the top three at Yale law, and be just got engaged to a Vanderbilt for Christ's sake! You have no idea the pressure I'm under!" As he saw his explanation hadn't stopped Foggy's tears (of course not, asshole) Warner changed tactics. "Look Francis, Pooh-Bear,"

Foggy stopped, gave Warner his most unimpressed expression, and then left. Fuck it, he was out of here. His hair was a mess, his makeup ruined - he wanted his bed and some pants.

Yet he couldn't have escaped that easily, could he? Oh no. Warner was soon driving next to him, keeping pace and wanting him to get in the car. "I just don't understand," Foggy found himself saying. "Are you trying to say your family won't like me? Everybody likes me!"

"East coast people are different," Warner stated, as if that explained everything.

Foggy finally stopped, turning to stare at his love. "But I'm seriously in love with you," he pleaded, "isn't that enough?"

Warner didn't even grace that with an answer. "Just get in the car."

Foggy stared at him, unbelieving, before declaring "no" and turning to continue his walk.

"You'll ruin your shoes."

Foggy paused. That was true, but Warner kept forgetting one thing about Foggy: despite being genderfluid and being girly around Warner, he wasn't actually a female, and besides that had super calloused feet.

Foggy took off his shoes, and kept walking.

THIS IS DELIGHTFUL OMG

OMG, I love this.

A/N: AHHH, I'M SO SORRY, life got busy this month. Hopefully I'll be back on schedule with this. Hope it was worth the wait; in which there is DRAMA

Karen doesn’t come into work the next morning.

Matt doesn’t think much of it at first; she’s not usually late, but it’s not as though any of them exactly keep regular hours, and they don’t have any clients scheduled until later in the afternoon. It is slightly disconcerting, though, to be there alone. Foggy is in court, and he feels adrift without the familiar creaking of her chair, the smell of coffee lingering in the air.

He tries to lose himself in his work, and must do a pretty good job of it, because he’s completely lost track of the time when Foggy comes bounding up the stairs, pauses at the office door, and says, “Is Karen sick or something?”

“What?” Matt asks, sliding his headphones off, trying to pry his brain out of the tedious reams of tax law that he’s been digging through.

“She seemed fine last night. Did you talk to her?”

“No,” Matt says, turning slowly in his chair, something cold sinking into the pit of his stomach. “No, I didn’t.”

A long pause. Foggy’s heart starts to beat faster, but his voice is light as he digs through his pocket. “Well, I’ll just--”

His fingers quick on the touchscreen, the tinny echo of ringing. Once, twice, three times. Four times, and Foggy says in a low voice, “She isn’t picking up.”

“I know,” Matt says, shoving his chair back and standing.

“We should--I mean, that’s crazy, right, we don’t need to go to her apartment, she’s probably…” Foggy trails off, takes a shaky breath. “Never mind. I’ll call a cab.”

“Do that.”

***

Karen’s new apartment is a fifth-floor walk-up just outside the borders of Hell’s Kitchen. Matt crosses the sidewalk in long strides as Foggy shoves a handful of bills at the driver, opens the front door, and stops so suddenly that Foggy walks straight into his back.

“What is it?” he asks.

Matt shakes his head. “I’m not sure.”

That’s a lie. He can smell--

--rotting garbage from the dumpsters out back, stale coffee in the super’s office, rock salt tracked in across the floor, the lingering remnants of cigarette smoke and blood blood blood--

It could be a lot of things, he tells himself as he sets off for the stairs, taking them two at a time, cane swinging unretracted, forgotten from his wrist, Foggy puffing slightly behind him as he struggles to keep up. It could be from a papercut, lingering to dry on a stair rail, but it’s not, because they’re almost to Karen’s door--fifth floor, two down on the right, fresh paint and the lingering remnant of her shampoo, and the smell of blood is strong enough to choke. He puts his shoulder to the door without slowing down and it slams open, unlocked, into a room that stinks of blood and fear-sweat.

“Jesus,” Foggy whispers behind him.

“Is she--” Matt shakes his head, doesn’t finish. She’s not here, and there’s not enough blood for her to have been killed here. That’s something. He tries to focus, tries to force the jumble of disordered shapes around him into some semblance of a room.

“They trashed the place,” Foggy says, sounding steadier, like the sound of Matt’s voice was enough to make him pack away his own fear. “Like, totally trashed. I’m talking couch in three pieces trashed. She’s not here.”

“The blood,” Matt says, and he can hear it in his own voice now, the fragile control. “There’s--I smell blood.”

“I don’t see any,” Foggy says, but there’s no doubt in his voice.

“There’s not a lot of it. Is there any--a note, or anything? Any sign?”

Foggy picks his way into the apartment, and Matt gives up on trying to focus on the room, just follows the streak of heat in his footsteps. Something crunches under his feet; broken glass. Bread on the counter, smeared with butter that’s starting to go rancid in the warm apartment. The winter smell of wool and a hint of bar-smoke from the coat that’s somewhere to his left. She made it home last night. Home, and here long enough to take her coat off and fix a snack. And then--

“Her phone is on the floor,” Foggy reports. “Open. Looks like she tried to call for help.”

“Any messages?”

“It’s screen-locked. Hang on.” There’s a series of beeps as he fiddles with the phone. Matt spins slowly in place, trying to force his jumbled senses into some semblance of order. There’s the fading smell of cheap cologne and cheaper cigars. Motor-oil fingerprints on the couch, which is in fact in three pieces, vomiting sharp-scented foam stuffing across the floor. The coffee table is on it’s side, cold tea splashed across it. This is where the main struggle was. Karen was here when they came in--kicked the door in, probably, because she’s way too paranoid to leave it unlocked no matter how tired or drunk she was. And she wasn’t that drunk, was she, she didn’t want to drink with them, and he should have known it, should have pushed harder, should have offered to walk her home--

“--call the police?” Foggy is asking.

“What?”

“Do you think we should call the police?” Foggy repeats, and it says something about their lives, Matt thinks, that he’s asking that instead of just making the call automatically.

Matt shakes his head, keeps turning, cataloging the smear of blood across the wall, the hint of drywall dust where Karen’s fingernails dug in. She fought, and fought hard, and if they were going to kill her they would have done it here. He has to believe that. “No,” he says finally. “She didn’t want the police involved.”

Foggy lets out a slow breath; his hair rustles as he nods, steps closer to Matt. He doesn’t reach out, but he’s just there, a solid, comforting presence. “Do you think it was something to do with Fisk?”

Yes. “I don’t know,” Matt says, “but I’m going to find out.”

!!! An update!

And oh my gosh, poor Karen. Someone attacked her in her apartment again. Wonder why they grabbed her?

AHHHH I'm so EXCITED there's a new installment! Thank you author!anon. Although DANG. CLIFFHANGER

it's a lovely fill anon<3

Working my way there, have this sneak peak:

Claire got her first pair of safety scissors once she turned ten. It was two weeks after her birthday. Her excitement over the party and hitting double digits had faded and she was used to holding up two splade hands when asked her age. Her mom had presented her with a box. It wasn’t wrapped in the bright and cartoonish paper presents came in, and it didn’t have a bow or ribbon. Claire didn’t rattle it in her hands to try and guess what was inside.

“What’s this?” She’d asked.

“It’s for when you’re a woman.”

Inside was the scissors, nice tweezers (nothing like the pair in the first aid kit for removing splinters), and eye lash curlers.

“I never want you to have to ask for these things.” Her mother had said. “You’re going to be a woman. It doesn’t matter how old you’ll be, when you grow into yourself, but you’ll be a woman. The whole world’s going to see you as one. So you’ll need these tools.”

There wasn’t a lot her mom could do to teach Claire how to be ready. Her mom was submissive and Claire was dominate. And that changed everything. (Except eye lash curlers and tweezers, it seems.)

Sorry, see above. I filled it. Me. I did it.

Oh gosh, how scary! Karen, no!!! :-(

But yay, an update! :-D

here for all the awkwardness

combined with a few other prompts here: http://archiveofourown.org/works/4805549

“We can’t just keep him, Tony,” Steve says, reaching for his coffee. “He’s a vigilante, not a puppy.” Nominally, they’re there to talk about the kids, still in legal limbo; but now they’ve moved on to the unwritten second item on the agenda: what to do with Daredevil.

Bruce is only half listening, zoning out like he’s watching TV. He lets himself slip into the rhythm of silent counting as he breathes, and the indulgence of cracking his knuckles one by one in time with each breath.

“Aw, Mom,” says Tony, “I’ll feed and walk him myself, I promise! Nat, help me out here--you’ve seen the footage. He’s some kind of ninja! We could use a ninja!”

“He’s a ninja?” Sam’s got the weary voice of a guy too used to being the grown-up in the room. “Great. Who trained him? Who does he answer to? We have no idea what this dude can do.” He turns to Bruce. “You said he has enhanced senses? He’s a security risk, Steve. We should be turning him over to Fury.”

“Bullshit,” Natasha snaps, and everyone stops and stares. Natasha never loses her cool in meetings, never, and it’s enough to drag even Bruce into the here and now. He glances to her, and then to Clint, who’s sitting silently, arms crossed. Clint catches Bruce’s eye and furrows his forehead, but doesn’t speak.

Steve takes a deep breath. “You’ve had more contact with him than any of us. What’s your assessment?”

Natasha presses the palms of her hands on the table, and when she speaks, her voice is even again. “Between my conversations with Murdock and ancillary sources, I’ve found no evidence that Daredevil represents a security risk. He operates solo, street level, in a very limited local radius: the other day marks the first time he’s even been spotted outside of Hell’s Kitchen. Decent relationship with local law enforcement. Upstanding attorney in his civilian identity--Columbia Law, summa cum laude, small private partnership with a guy he’s known since undergrad. No ties to any extralegal organizations, on or off the books. Oh, and--you’ll like this one, Cap--practicing Catholic.”

“What about the powers?” asks Sam. He turns to Bruce. “Have you been able to measure--”

Bruce shakes his head. He’s made some rough educated guesses, and the sum is disconcerting. Hell, for all he knows, Daredevil is listening in on the meeting right now. He’s unquestionably a security risk, Bruce knows he’s a security risk. Even so--

“I’ll be happy to waive physician-patient confidentiality just as soon as you bring me either a signed release or a court order.” Bruce isn’t being entirely honest--it’s not like Nat and Cap don’t get status updates regardless--but someone has to draw a goddamn line.

“For Christ’s sake, Bruce--” Sam starts.

It’s second nature by now to keep his face serene and voice mild, breath slow and steady. “I really don’t think I’m the guy you want if you’re looking to imprison and study a human subject without his informed consent.” He takes some slim satisfaction from how quickly Tony averts his eyes.

To Bruce’s surprise, it’s Cap who speaks up. “No, you’re right. I’ll--talk to him.” Sam starts to protest, but Cap shakes his head. “I don’t care if he can hear the news in Guatemala. He knew what he was risking, coming here, and he did it anyway. We can talk later about whether he gets our trust, but I challenge anyone in this room to argue that he hasn’t at least earned our respect.”

Murdock looks up when Bruce opens the med center door, and nods slightly. “Thanks for that, back there.”

So he was listening in. “How much did you hear?”

Murdock twists his mouth for a moment. “Enough. Can I ask you a question?”

He’s been asking the same two all week. “If your breathing’s still good, the tube can come out this afternoon,” says Bruce. “And we’ll see about getting you out of here by the end of the week.”

Instead, Murdock asks, “Are you here voluntarily?”

Bruce isn’t quite sure what he’s getting at, so he plays it cool: “Well, now that you’ve stopped taking swings at me--”

Murdock smiles. “Yes, well. But no. I meant--here. The Avengers.”

It’s a good question, one Bruce spends a lot of time trying not to think about too closely. “What makes you think I’m not?”

Murdock adjusts his glasses. “What you said, down there. Well, and the way your heart rate jumped when I asked. Sorry.”

Bruce isn’t sure how to frame it--he’s never, never part of Avengers PR, and everyone here already knows his deal. It hadn’t occurred to him that Murdock hasn’t figured out yet who he is. “It’s--the best of limited options.”

“Limited options,” Murdock repeats. “Look, you know who I am. What I do. The rest of what I do, I mean. If you ever need help, or if those limited options aren’t enough, I can probably help.”

He sounds like he means it, too, and Bruce has to stifle a harsh laugh. “I can’t imagine that would stand if you had any idea what you were actually offering. But thanks for the thought.”

Murdock sighs. “I won’t press. But if you ever change your mind--” he rummages around in the duffel. “You know how to reach me, okay? I’m not kidding.”

The card he passes Bruce is stiffer than usual, and it’s a moment before Bruce realizes that the printing is overwritten with braille. He slips it into a pocket--probably to lose later, if he’s going to be honest, but he’s touched by the gesture.

“What about the kids?” Murdock asks. “If you don’t trust the Avengers to--”

“I trust them,” Bruce tells him. “I don’t always agree with them, but I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t trust them.”

“Okay. Good. That’s good. But do they have enough pull to make sure the kids don’t get--I don’t know. I know I must sound insanely paranoid, but--”

“No, they’re good questions.” Bruce jumps at Cap’s voice from the doorway. “Sorry, Bruce. Didn’t mean to startle.”

“It’s fine,” Bruce tells him. “Steve Rogers, Matthew Murdock.”

Steve starts to offer a hand, then realizes Murdock’s not really in a position to reciprocate, and withdraws it. “You’ll have to take a rain check on the handshake,” Murdock tells him. “Sorry.”

Steve nods. “No problem. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Murdock.”

Murdock is actually blushing. “Matt. Please. And thanks; it’s mutual.” He bites his lip, and the smile dissolves. “The kids, though--I heard most of the meeting, and Natasha’s given me a few updates, but you have to know there’s a risk that someone will decide it’s a waste not to continue their training. Even here.”

Steve settles down on a chair by the bed. “And you want to know if we have the means to prevent that.”

Murdock nods. “If Black Widow is right about where they come from, they’re going to be the kind of commodity that even a nominally ethical government will have trouble bypassing. And the Avengers may operate autonomously, but--”

“We still answer to Uncle Sam,” Steve finishes. “Which is a liability, but also an advantage, in this case.”

“Cap’s our ace in the hole,” Bruce explains. “Piss him off, and you’re risking a lot of very uncomfortable public attention, very quickly.”

“You’re blackmailing the federal government with Captain America.” Murdock is honest-to-god grinning now. “Oh, that’s fantastic.”

Cap looks almost offended. “Not blackmailing. Just--pointing out that I have a significant interest in the safety and well-being of these children. Loudly.”

“If there’s anything I can do--” Murdock starts, but Cap cuts him off.

“You’ve done more than enough, and you’re in no condition to--”

Murdock shakes his head. “I’m not talking about Daredevil. There’ll be hearings--for refugee status, permanent residence. They’ll need a guardian ad litem. Someone who can navigate the foster system and, um. Understands the specific considerations of this case.”

Cap nods, slowly. “I’ll talk to my team.”

yay, it lives! :D

i like that the avengers aren't all in agreement on everything, and that you can tell despite the disagreements that they're all basically trying to do the right thing, just with different ideas of what's most important. i also like that matt is volunteering to help in his day job since that now seems like it will be of more use to the kids than his night job.

Yay! I love this fic. :-D

I couldn't help wondering what would happen to Matt if the Avengers did turn him over to Fury. Would Fury keep him prisoner, try to make him a SHIELD agent, or just sigh and let him go? Sorry, couldn't help wondering aloud.

I'm happy this fic is being continued. I really liked how Bruce was trying to keep some semblance of doctor-patient confidentiality, even though he did give updates to some people, and I especially liked how he knew all about being imprisoned and studied without his consent, and how he used that fact to make the others back down.

So, Matt doesn't know that Bruce is the Hulk? This could get interesting! I loved how Matt offered his help, and again when he was offering his legal services for the kids. Now I can't help wonder what will become of them, if you can't even trust the US government not to take advantage of their training. Though I wonder, would it be so bad if they were recruited by SHIELD later in their lives -- after they've had a chance to grow up halfway normally, at least? If they can grow up normally, that is.

(auth!anon)

What Fury would do probably depends on how public the situation was and whether it was before or after the Hydra reveal. (I don't watch AoS, so I don't really have a sense of the current status of SHIELD in the MCU. Sorry!)

In the movies at least, Bruce pretty clearly has a sense of just how cautious other people are around him, and is more than willing to play that for effect (or fun) when he needs to.

No, Matt doesn't know that Bruce is the Hulk. He knows there's something up with Bruce, and he'd probably work it out eventually from contextual clues; but for now, no. AFAIK, that relationship isn't public knowledge in the MCU, and I don't imagine it's the kind of thing Bruce tends to bring up in casual conversation with someone he doesn't know very well. The only other Avenger Matt has had contact with at this point is Natasha, who would consider it need-to-know information (and otherwise Bruce's to disclose or not).

Re: recruitment by SHIELD: There's a lot of longitudinal data on recovery and long-term prognosis for former child-soldiers. Absorption into what's functionally a military organization? Not generally considered a plus.

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Page 181 of 186

Prompt Post #5

Re: FILL: Of Wasps and Alligators

Re: [fill] And I miss all of the joy you kill (but I love you still)

Re: Matt/Claire, dirty talk

Re: Matt and Vision friendship

FILL: The Price of a Soul (10/?)

FILL: The Price of a Soul (11/?)

Re: In the Flesh crossover

Re: [ART FILL] Malice in Wonderland

Fill: Legally Foggy [1/?]

Re: Fill: Legally Foggy [1/?]

Re: Fill: Legally Foggy [1/?]

FILL: leave the world outside 7/?

Re: FILL: leave the world outside 7/?

Re: FILL: leave the world outside 7/?

Re: [Fill] Needed

Re: Claire/Matt or Claire & Matt, D/s AU

FILL: Claire/Matt or Claire & Matt, D/s AU

Re: FILL: leave the world outside 7/?

Re: Daredevil to the rescue! ...Or not. (crack)

Fill: let it out

FILL: In the Absence of St. Germaine (6/?)

Re: FILL: In the Absence of St. Germaine (6/?)

Re: FILL: In the Absence of St. Germaine (6/?)

Re: FILL: In the Absence of St. Germaine (6/?)

Re: FILL: In the Absence of St. Germaine (6/?)