Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

About a century or so ago, long before Matt or Foggy were born, magic leached into the streets of Hell’s Kitchen. It swirled around the windows of people’s homes, and found the living room of a young family, their toddler making a birthday wish as he blew out his candles. 

“I wish…”

“You shouldn’t tell anyone! Make it inside your head.” Their mother tapped her temple as she laughed with her son and partner. 

“I wish…” The kid screwed up his face, concentrating so very hard, as the magic watched on. I wish I could turn into my favourite animal. 

Now, the magic didn’t have the concept of what a favourite was. But it could associate people with animals, and it thought that that must be the same. And this young child, this new life, it reminded magic of the young deer it had seen in the fields, and the freedom that they possessed. 

So it granted that wish. And it thought it was a good wish, and that other children would like that wish too, so it gave it to them as well. As far as the magic could reach, in this city it protected, until all of Hell’s Kitchen’s children could turn into an animal. For most, this was something mundane, exciting nonetheless, but just your everyday animal. And then it discovered fantasy. And some children suddenly discovered they weren’t just a white horse, but a unicorn horn grew in as they got older. Or the small lizard stretched and dragon wings popped from their back. Sometimes it was an animal that reminded the magic of their character, their personality, sometimes it was simply nothing more than “this is fun!” 

It was only the children. 

Only the children of that era, ones born after that moment, didn’t seem to develop the same powers; the magic of Hell’s Kitchen seemed content with just playing with people’s luck for a while. 

But those children grew up. And they had children of their own, and the parents could still turn into their animals, and they watched and waited as their children grew up, to see if it was going to happen to them as well. 

Hell’s Kitchen had become an island. Not in the physical sense, but in the notion that nobody could leave, nobody could join, because this was a secret that needed to be kept so that the wrong people didn’t learn about it, so that the wrong people didn’t abuse it. 

The children’s children grew older, and when they hit puberty, the magic reappeared, and they discovered they too had this magic, this power. At least it wasn’t the untrained chaos of a toddler, at least as teenagers they could learn to manage it - especially those granted with that much more magical, much more unfamiliar. 

As the generations grew, it seemed to skip random people. Perhaps it was growing out of the population, perhaps it was nothing more than an evolutionary thing, that some people wouldn’t retain the gene, or the magic, to become something other. 

Foggy Nelson was born, and he had a normal life, and when he hit puberty, he suddenly found he could turn into a parrot, some awkward, ungainly thing when he was younger, and his parents remorse he is still not quiet as an animal. 

Matt Murdock was born, and had the life and the upbringing we know of, losing his sight, losing his father, living in an orphanage, and dealing with Stick. Who told him he had to get a good fighting animal. When he became a teenager, and the years passed by, and he still didn’t gain one, Stick left. Someone who was stuck in one form was little help to an army. He was supposed to be a wolf, or a bear, or something powerful to help the Chaste. 

Matt still knew he could be helpful though. He learnt the law, which by now was messy and confusing in Hell’s Kitchen, when half or more of the population could turn into an animal at will. Meeting Foggy, and then meeting him again in the form of his animal, when he came back to their shared dorm to a parrot pacing on the surface of the desk. “It helps me think.” 

There were subdued whispers around the college. It seemed as though Matt was the only one that year without an animal. The only one missing out when a flock of birds went for a shared flight, different species all flying in formation. Or when a pack of land animals went for a run, where barks and growls and all manner of noise could be heard around campus. Rumour had it there had been a shark spotted swimming in the fountain late at night. It brought pity, empty words, “I can’t imagine what that’s like.” “Poor kid. You think it's the trauma?” Too many people knew too much about him, but at the same time, never the full truth. Orphan. Blind. Lived in an orphanage. 

Late one evening, Foggy and Matt spoke about the Nelson family, about how Foggy’s dad had never found his animal, as some others do, but that that was fine. He was happy. Foggy laughed, retelling stories of watching his mum, a ferret, climb all over his dad, using him as a human tree. How he could remember being so small and that the warmth of a creature curled beside him was sometimes all that could send him to sleep. 

Matt spoke of a dragon, of red robes embroidered with the insignia of scales. In truth, his father was nothing more than a bearded dragon, an unusual reddish colour, but simply a reptile. Jack had never argued the belief, never made the effort to get it disproved - it was always good for attention and support in a fight, to be one of the rare people with an animal more on the mythological side than real. Battlin’ Jack Murdock, dragon of Fogwells! The photos were purposefully never clear enough, when a dragon perched on the shoulder of Fogwell, a greying rottweiler, a pack of dogs and big cats surrounding them. 

“Maybe you’re a late bloomer. Or maybe it will never happen, and that’s fine.” Foggy somehow always knew what to say. His sympathy for what Matt felt, for how he believed he was something lesser because of the pity, he did what he did best. Foggy listened. 

“Best damn abogados.”

Graduation came and went, and swimming with the sharks in Landman and Zack was never what the pair were cut out for. But their own office, a bird tree snuck in one day for Foggy to have a place to think, and the introduction of Karen, it felt more normal. More like what they were supposed to be doing. Helping the people, even if that did come with the additions of pies instead of cheques, of IOUs and borrowed favours from those who needed the help the most but could not afford it. Karen came armed with teeth, and more than just the fight for what was right, more than the anger of someone who had been wronged by the law already. On those days where everything felt a little worse than usual, where the evidence the world was an unfair and cruel place came to attention, Matt could hear hissing from her office, the sharp meows of a cat speaking words he would never be able to understand, but the tone of a swear was recognisable in any tongue. She never mentioned the cat tree that suddenly appeared in her office, and the scratching post that received high use on the most stressful days (it beat her taking her anger out on her desk chair). 

Being Daredevil came with new unexpected fights. An enemy that would switch into something else mid fight, something with teeth or claws or strength to surpass Matt’s own. Or wings, and the flight and ability to fly away. The bite of a dog, and the thought of rabies, of working out if that is a creature that was once human, or if there was an actual dog in this fight. The juggle and difficulty of working out what or who was innocent, which creature had been trained and changed against its will to fight alongside these people, and which were simply another of the pack, another of the dirt that lived in the darkness of Hell’s Kitchen. 

The existence of people that could turn into animals was an unexpected boon in various different jobs and experiences. A nurse that was the best at soothing scared children, found one day in the form of a brown bear, curled around a young girl who had been crying in fear for hours. A rescue centre, a dog trainer, who switched between human and dalmatian as he trained those dogs who needed his help the most. 

Missing person teams, filled with working dog breeds, a language of barks and growls as they sniffed out those who were lost. Skills utilised in so many different ways, some unexpected, some met with a laugh, “Of course you’re that animal, in that job.” It was sometimes a way in which a person’s personality shone through the truest, but also sometimes so utterly truly random in the way magic would give someone an animal. 

There were, of course, always those who would use it against the law, against morality. Who would throw a vest over their friend when they turned into a dog, and gain free entry with a service animal. Or those able to turn into something small, hiding in the pocket of a coat to sneak through security without a ticket. Pickpockets, climbing the walls in the shape of small monkeys or squirrels, spies hiding in the undergrowth and looking through the eyes of a mouse. 

The real world came with enough difficulties, to where people would utilise what they could from their animal just to simply get by. A student, out of money for food, staying in their smaller form of a hamster in the knowledge that would mean they could survive on seeds until the weekend. Those who could turn into the more unusual having it become nothing more than a party trick, a giraffe turning up in the middle of a bar, a white horse long since used to pretending to be a unicorn, a mark that carried over into her human form from where the glue from a fake horn had ripped away fur. 

A single father, switching from human form to that of a frenzied rat, nipping at the ankles of his sons as they drag their feet along, the shuffling gait of four turtles. In human form, he groans “Come on boys, we gotta go, we’re going to be late, no I’m not carrying you.” Somewhere along the line, he wasn’t entirely sure where, or how, they’d managed to tie coloured headbands onto each other, and in moments like this, it was at least useful to be able to call them out by full name. 

There was talk of a vigilante over in Queens, that something had happened and meant he could use his animal’s powers in his human form, or perhaps he didn’t have an animal and he was just using something to fake it. The whispers of sightings of a giant spider perched in warehouses seemed to correlate with crime dens the vigilante was responsible for dismantling. That wasn’t any of Matt’s business though, a person’s animal was a key identifier for who they were, and as much as he had to admit he was curious, it was safer to not know. 

For curiosity would always be met with questions back, and there were not that many in Hell’s Kitchen without an animal. Nobody ever really commented on the fact Daredevil didn’t turn into his animal. He was trying to keep his identity secret, animals were often a lot harder to hide than as a human. Some people joked that maybe it was something embarrassing. Some thought it could be something small, a mouse or something, that was how he got his information, sneaking into places where he couldn’t be spotted. Noone ever seemed to float the idea that it was because he didn’t have one. Foggy knew, of course, once they’d gotten over the fact that Matt was Daredevil, the promise that that much was true, that yes he was blind, yes he was Daredevil, no he wasn’t hiding the fact he could transform from him, it was the truth. 

“You need to be careful Matty. Please.” Foggy held so many secrets in his heart, for the honour of knowing Matt and keeping him safe. 

Hell’s Kitchen got worse, or perhaps it got better, but there were soon others on the scene in the late hours, more shadows on the rooftops, more people watching and listening for crime. It was something that both reassured and worried Foggy. For on the one wing, there were more people to help Matt, to help Daredevil. But on the other it was a sure sign things were worse, and these other vigilantes were more geared up for this fight. They came armed with powers, and healing, and animals to use and utilise, and there Matt was with super senses and what Foggy would always refer to as his pyjamas. 

It was a ragtag crew, when they all transformed. The others, with their identities never having been a secret, never having to worry about someone connecting an animal to a person, or to two people to then realise they were in fact one and the same. 

A golden tamarin jumped from rafter to rafters, small hands navigating the busy streets with ease, nothing but the rare glimpse of golden fur as Danny stalked enemies for information. 

An armadillo scuttles along the ground, invulnerable even in his human form, but this way was easier to sneak into dark alleyways. It made quiet and safe places to watch out for trouble, for Luke to protect his people and his city. 

On the rooftops, a lynx prowled, soft paws as she rested her head atop them, keen eyes tracking her prey, an ear twitching as she listened into conversations. A switch back into human form, and the click of a camera to gather evidence, both for Jess’ work, and for the investigation into the crime of the city.  

And then there came the fourth member of the defenders, and a man without an animal, or one who at least claimed he didn’t have one. He was as agile as Danny though, clambering up fire escapes, listening to conversations much further than Jess could, and slipping into the shadows alongside Luke. He was a show-offy distraction in some fights, flips and punches taking any attention from the animals sneaking through windows, a supposed solo fighter as others dealt with the nitty gritty of reconnaissance. 

Stick returned, and it was all of Matt’s horrors at once to have to listen to him, to hear the growl of the feral wolf he hid inside of him, the memories of Matt having never been good enough. “Still stuck as one, Matty?” 

“At least I’m not some mangy wolf.” 

He had at least brought information with him. Of what the Hand wanted with them, with Danny in specific, that his power could be used for destruction. Deaths followed, fights and danger and the growls and shrieks of animals. A wolf dropped to the floor, and even in death, it didn’t turn back to the person it was before, but they recognised the scraggly fur of that which was once Stick, killed by the fangs of a black mamba, Elektra resurrected by the Hand. That the group had done which they had threatened, that Danny had been used to destroy the stone beneath Midland Circle. 

Above them, the movement of allies tracked to explosives planted, ready to collapse the building atop them, to defeat the Hand, and stop Elektra. Elektra, who even now Matt was trying to save, begging her to give in, that it didn’t have to be like this. The last thing Matt heard as the bombs went off was the shouts of his allies, his friends. 

And then there was silence, and Matt was dead. 

They searched. So many people searched, for hours, for days, rescuers in the smallest forms trying to get down through the rubble. Danny in his tamarin form only getting so far, and then others, mice, birds, volunteers wanting to check if there was anything, anyone, left living in there. 

There were no signs of life. A parrot wailed, animal form sometimes the only thing to express grief, and the sound brought pain to anyone around, others joining in without ever truly knowing why. The talk of a copycat, for Foggy to only later realise that it was Danny, when the tamarin snuck in through the window of Matt’s abandoned apartment. They jolted at each other, before sharing nothing more than a shake of a head, Foggy knowing that to speak of it would bring only tears. 

An empty coffin was buried. A funeral for someone who must surely be dead, for nobody could survive that. Who could live through that? Their enemy had been defeated, but at the greatest cost. 

If he had had an animal, maybe he would have survived. Could have turned into something faster, or smaller, or something with wings that could escape. Or maybe if he hadn’t been his foolish Matt self, he wouldn’t have tried to save Elektra. So many things could have been different, but at the end of it all, Matt was dead. 

Chapter Text

From deep beneath the collapsed remains of Midland Circle, something stirred. Something scared, and lost, and in pain. So many things were wrong, and it swung its head, its heads around to work out where it was. It all hurt. It was all broken. 

But it was going to fight. 

There was the body of a giant snake nearby, and it brought horrors, and it stunk as though it was dying. It was dead. It leeched poison fumes into the air, and the creature stayed away from it. Something like that deserved to stay buried. 

It - no, he thought that was a creature he should know. That it - she - had had a name. What it was was gone, though. It was unknown. Unimportant right now. He had to survive.

So very far away was the scent of fresh air. Of daylight. Of safety. Claws that were unfamiliar to him scratched into the rock and rubble as he climbed, as he squeezed through small spaces. Everything was twice as much, and it was too much in some spaces to understand what he was hearing, the noise echoing into too many ears. Two systems trying to merge into one, and he couldn’t even remember his name right now, but he knew he needed out. 

He stretched, and wedged one skull into a gap, claws curled into a grasp as he pulled himself up and through too small spaces, where any pause just left him filled with anger and shame, that he had to get up, he had to get out, there was something important up there. 

It was such a slow crawl. At points he felt as though he was never going to get out, finding himself squeezed into a space too small, panic and anger and grief for a life he couldn’t even remember. He snarled, at himself, at the world, at whatever or whoever had left him buried in this pit, to where he had to claw his way through rocks to get out into the world. 

As he broke into the world above, the cool scent of nighttime greeted him. He howled, the sound turning into a snarl as he realised he still did not know who he was, or where he was going. Limping down the street, he let muscle memory guide him, blood dripping and leaking across the ground behind him. 

People ran when they saw him. Both heads pointed to the ground in pain, a faint whimpering whine as he jumped up onto a fire escape, heading to a window that felt oh so familiar, hiding a heartbeat he knew better than his own.

Foggy. It was Foggy’s apartment. His friend. The most important person in his life. 

And he was Matt. And he hadn’t had an animal before, and even now, he wasn’t sure what it was. It doesn't feel like something from this world. It is strange, and unknown, and he has paws and claws and a tail, and ears atop his heads, and he would say dog but no dog he knows has two heads, and he knows Cerberus has three so it’s not even that. 

He paws at Foggy’s window, whimpering, right head leaning against the cold glass, left keeping an ear out to the road nearby. He is so scared. He is so alone and injured and breaking into pieces, and he cannot work out how to turn back into his human form, but perhaps he is too broken to do that. He has never learnt the basics of animal first aid, but even someone who did would surely be overwhelmed by what is wrong with him. 

He knows he has broken ribs. He knows that his left leg is fractured. That his left collarbone is also broken, and at some point that shoulder was dislocated. He is covered in bruises and cuts and scrapes. Matt whines again, bumping at the window, he can hear Foggy wake up. A heart thudding with confusion, and then a blip of hope before grief takes hold again. 

Matt howls, low and quiet, and as Foggy approaches the window, the tail Matt keeps forgetting he has, starts to wag in anticipation. 

“Oh, hi there!” 

Matt can recognise the exact second Foggy pulls the other curtain back, and can see him in full view. Foggy freezes, whatever words he had left to say vanishing immediately. 

“No. No I haven’t deserved whoever or whatever you are.” The curtains close, and Matt can hear the clicking of the lock on the window as Foggy barricades himself inside. 

“No. Demon, monster. Evil. A creature like that. What fresh hell has been brought into the world for that to be at my window?”

Matt can hear Foggy continue to mutter under his breath as he reinforces the entrances to his apartment, talking of demons, of evil. That for someone to end up with an animal as dark as that, they were surely a reflection of their true self. That it must surely, hopefully, definitely, be a nightmare. That that couldn’t be something or someone he knew. 

The words cut Matt like a knife. He leaves, he limps away, and finds some back alley to curl up in and hope and pray that if he is to die here and alone it will at least be quick. 

He cannot help himself. When days pass, and it is at least obvious he is not dying, he sneaks back to Foggy’s. He has not yet learnt how to change back, he knows it should be easy, but he died a human and he has woken up with whatever this is, and the world is so much smaller and yet so much bigger now. It is obvious when Foggy sees him. When the hissed words from out a window are filled with fear, where his friend prays and begs to whatever spirit is sending this monster to haunt him. When Foggy wishes to never see this monster again, that if it is a person, they are surely evil, and if it is simply a beast, then that too is something wrong and unknowable. 

At no point does Matt ever hear him think it may be him. Foggy, his Foggy, believed Matt to be ever so truly dead. Has buried him, he can only expect. It is not obvious how much time has passed, but it feels like a while. The season and temperature have shifted, the world different than it was when Matt was lost, when he was killed. 

It is Danny he spots first. When he feels healed enough to head to the rooftops, to patrol, pacing a route Matt is oh so familiar with, and he can hear him muttering under his breath, apologies and prayers and a wish that he is doing it well enough. That Matt would be happy with the job he is doing. The world has continued on going and growing in Matt’s absence. 

For a short while, he thinks that means he is not needed anymore. That the world does not need him as much as he thinks he needs it, and perhaps that is selfish. He waits, and he listens, and keeps watch over Foggy, and one day feels relaxed and safe enough and is able to return to his true human form, and it suddenly feels empty, like he is missing some key part of his body. He is still wearing the tattered remains of the Daredevil suit, and so he sulks along the rooftops until he reaches his apartment, slinking in through the window. 

It is untouched, and yet spotlessly clean. Everything is in its proper place, exactly as Matt likes it. It smells of Foggy. Of the other Defenders, perhaps they had been using it to set a base, a plan of action. He knows that they will notice someone has been in here, but regardless, he needs clothing, and it is less stealing if it is his own items. At home, everything feels a little more normal. A little less fucked up. A little more like he can pause, and think, and maybe scream a little internally about what has happened. That finally, eventually, he has been gifted, but it is something not of his world, which normally means that it is something mythical or magical, and above all, highly identifiable. He must remain scared and compliant, and continue his act of letting others believe he has no animal. It is what will be safest. 

But for now, he can rest. He can sprawl out on his own bed, and rest until the morning, and when the sun rises again, he will find things are easier. 

He thinks. He hopes. 

He needs to tell Foggy. That much he knows for certain, knows that that must be the first job he does, that Foggy does not deserve to be lied to, that that was the agreement they made. To tell each other the truth. Even if it is difficult. Even if you have to teach yourself how to do it. Truth. And friendship. And trust. 

He would go to Foggy’s in the morning. 

Foggy beat him to it. 

He hears his apartment door click open early in the morning, and hears the person he knows is Foggy take two steps into the room before freezing to the spot. “Who’s here?!” He grabs something, Matt’s not entirely sure what, he thinks perhaps just an umbrella, wielding it like a sword, and continues to walk into the apartment. 

“Danny? Is that you?”

Matt’s heart thuds in his chest, and he isn’t really sure why he feels so scared. (He does. He knows it is because of the hatred Foggy has spoken with on seeing his other form). Regardless, it is Foggy. He loves Foggy. And he slowly walks out of his bedroom, head bowed, and although it is not physical, he feels like a dog with its tail tucked in shame. 

“Matt? Oh fuck, what, Matt. Matty.” Emotions are unrecognisable, and Foggy is grasping onto Matt, and they are both clutching onto each other like they are drowning, and questions and tears overlap until they find themselves sinking to the ground. Foggy’s makeshift weapon lies abandoned beside them, confusion and grief and relief staining the air with the scent of salt. 

“What happened?” Foggy pulls away, and Matt can feel him looking at him, the studying of what bruises and scrapes are still visible. Still healing. “We thought - all this time we thought you were dead. Where were you?”

“I think. I think I died. I was buried under the rubble. Elektra died. There was. She- there was a- her body was there, still as a snake.” Matt takes a deep breath, and fidgets. “I found my animal.”

“What?”

“I think. It saved me.”

“What is it?”

Matt transforms in response, and the change hurts, making him realise what parts of him are still broken. Still healing. Still not quite right. There’s a shout from Foggy that sounds more like a squawk of a parrot, and Matt bows his heads in response, sinking to lay on the ground with a whine. 

“Matt. That.” Foggy has stepped back and away from him, and Matt lifts one head in an attempt to look in his direction, readjusting back to the overwhelming influx of information. “That’s not a normal dog.” 

“It’s not even a cerberus. Only two heads. But still. Matt. Oh fuck. What happened to you?” Foggy’s heart is racing in fear, and Matt notices him looking towards the umbrella still laying on the ground, even as he backs up towards the kitchen or towards the exit of the apartment. 

“Do you want to turn back? Can you? It’s new to you, I know it can be difficult. But I need to see you, not that monstrosity.” 

Matt tries. It feels. Stuck. Some part of him doesn’t want to go back. Doesn’t want to lose the extra, as difficult as it is to adapt to the extra senses, he feels empowered by them. It is addicting. But he wants - needs - to be able to speak to Foggy. To convince him he is not bad. That he is not the evil monster Foggy is suddenly seeing him as. Because he has heard the myths and the superstitions and the beliefs, that some creatures are evil, and that some creatures represent what is inside of a person. That unicorns and pegasi are the most good. That creatures of hell, like a cerberus, like a demon, are so very evil. And clearly whatever Foggy sees of Matt, is evil. Is bad. Should not be allowed. All so deeply entrenched in myths and legends, that the world was not expecting a place like Hell’s Kitchen where people would be able to transform into animals like this. 

He howls, frustrated with his inability to turn back, that the thing that has saved him is turning to torture him. To make him lose the one and the ones he has loved. 

“Matty you can’t- I can’t do this.”

Foggy leaves. 

Foggy leaves. And Matt is left laying on the ground, whining at the cruelty of the world, frustrated at himself, angry at himself, at Foggy, for believing this. 

He isn’t evil.

He isn’t bad. 

Right?

He hasn’t died under Midland Circle.

But there is a grave with his name on it. 

The coffin is empty. 

Unless it isn’t, and they had buried his soul whilst his body rotted underneath a building in a space nobody could reach. 

He isn’t bad. 

Foggy thought he was. Foggy believes he is evil, that he isn’t the man who has gone down there. Or that perhaps he has been evil the whole time, and this has just created something physical to blame. 

He stays away. He stays at home. Nobody visits him. He hears voices outside, those of the people he had thought were his allies, Jess and Luke and Danny, and they have been continuing to protect his city whilst he was gone, and now he feels like he is on house arrest. 

They don’t have the power to keep him locked inside, and he continues his own patrols, even if they don’t trust him. He learns. He teaches himself how to turn back and forth much easier, finding advice directed at teenagers discovering their animal for the first time, and trying to be more fluid. To use it to fight. To be able to flip back and forth and use teeth and claws as weapons. 

Anything to keep his mind off of Foggy, off of the world that spots this creature and calls it evil and the devil and that believes that Daredevil died down there and this is simply something else wearing his skin. 

Matt goes days, weeks, months without speaking to any of them. Until one night, he finds himself sharing a rooftop with the man known as the Punisher, and they sit at opposite corners watching and listening for their own prey. 

“I don’t believe them, you know,” Frank speaks up, his voice clear even as he continues to look down the sights of his rifle. “That the man who was you died. I think he’s still here. You can’t kill people like us that easily.”

“I think it’s just easier for them to think of me as dead.” Maybe one day he’d find himself killed by someone who saw the dog as evil and was able to carry through on their fears. 

“Because of what you can become?”

Matt sighs, the noise laborious, and he stands up to move to sit closer to Frank. 

“Yeah. Because people are only ever truly what their animal shows them to be.” His voice is sarcastic and bitter.

“There was that cover-up, a few decades ago. A unicorn stabbed someone with their horn. Reports say it was a weapon, and not the person known to be a unicorn, because they’re a -” Frank makes quotation marks with his hands, “Unicorn, and therefore incapable of bad things.”

Matt tilts his head in response, letting Frank carry on talking. 

“The so-called truth of what your animal is showing the real you is bullshit. We make stuff match what we want to, we like to see patterns, we like to put people into little boxes. But we don’t fucking belong in boxes Red.” There’s a growl of something else under Frank’s voice, and he huffs, pulling away from his gun. 

“It’s bad enough with us deciding random animals are good or bad, let alone applying that to the humans they turn into.” 

Matt knows Frank is a dog, of some description, but he’s never really tracked what sort. But there is something else under his tone. Something that suggests he’d been tarnished by something similar. 

“Did that happen to you? Or does it?”

Frank laughs. “Yeah. I’m a pitbull.”

“Oh shit.”

“It’s the vicious cycle of, am I a murderer because I’m a pitbull, or am I a pitbull because I’m a murderer. Forget that for most of their history they were used as nanny dogs, that you would more likely see them for protecting children, before they were dragged into fighting rings and we turned them into killers.” 

Matt shakes his head. “It’s not fair.” 

“The world we live in isn’t fair, Red. If Nelson has dubbed you some sort of devil dog, the world is going to see you as evil and cruel.”

“I’m still me.”

“I know that. You know that. But until Hell’s Kitchen can lose all their prejudices on what an animal is, not much is going to change. What even are you?”

“A dog. A big one, but with two heads.” 

“Can I see?”

Matt turns, immediately making himself look smaller and less of a threat, not knowing what Frank’s instincts would tell him, if he is poised to attack first and ask questions second. 

“Oh. Oh yeah I see. You’re a scruffy pup, you know that Red?” 

Two heads track Frank’s movements, ears turned to every step and gesture. “I’m not going to hurt you. I promise.” His heart beats truth. “I see why he branded you a devil dog. That’s not from this world, but it could be. Wolf, or hyena, or wild dog. Can I touch you?”

Matt nods, holding himself perfectly still, not a threat, not a threat. Safe. Kind. Good. He was good. Someone would believe he was good. Frank’s hand was slow and gentle, and the gentle touch on Matt’s head turns into a scratch, into finding a sweet spot behind his ear where he just melts into the ground. 

“Always get them there. See, you’re not evil. You’re not bad. You’re just a puppy.” The tone of Frank’s voice is one Matt is not familiar with, slipping further into baby talk, as though he is forgetting who is behind the animal on the rooftop. “I tell you what though, Red.” His voice switches back. “You need a fucking bath buddy, have you not put the dog in water or anything since you got him? Gotta brush this fur out and maybe you won’t look quite as much like a mangy mess.” 

Matt grumbles in response. 

“I’m taking that as a no. Do you have a bath at your place? I don’t even know why I’m offering this. Something about dogs and packs.” 

What follows is what can only be described as chaos, of soap bubbles filling a room, and Matt trying his best to not slip in the bath as claws try to hold onto the slippery surface. 

“Fucking hell Red, whose idea was this?” 

Matt can only grumble talk, the restraint of a dog’s mouths stopping him from swearing back, but the grumble is recognisable enough for what he wants to say. 

“Mind your big fat head out the way, no the other one.” Frank scrubs around at his fur, making a hum of understanding. “You simply don’t have eyes. Makes sense, I thought they were just hidden under all that fur before.”  

When they emerge from the bathroom, both exhausted, Matt isn’t even sure if he has it in him to turn back, and he is damp anyway. It is probably easier to make sure he is dry whilst in dog form than to change. He flops in front of the heater, rolling on the rug a little to get some of the water out of his fur. 

“Those animal instincts sure are strong when you’re new to it all, aren’t they?” Matt makes a questioning whine, pausing with all four legs in the air and really thinking about what he is doing. 

Oh. Yeah. He’s completely lost himself in whatever this is.

He comes back to his own thoughts to the thump of another animal laying down beside him, the wire whip of a stubby tail thudding into his side. 

Frank. Matt rolls over, sniffing at the smaller dog beside him, barely restraining himself from flicking a tongue out to lick him. This feels right. This feels normal and correct and safe. 

He isn’t a bad person. He isn’t a bad dog. 

He can prove it to the world. 

Patrols turn into the dog with two heads being spotted on rooftops, looking much cleaner now, much tidier. Cared for. Some could even say loved. Not an immediate omen of death. 

And then one evening, there is a lucky photographer, and the blind two-headed dog associated with the devil is seen barking at an enemy, a small child in the alleyway behind it. Protecting. Defending. Doing what a guard dog does, and looking after those who needed protecting. 

The photo goes viral. 

It is an ashamed and shy Foggy that turns up at Matt’s apartment one evening, some days later. For a while, Matt isn’t sure whether to open the door to him, that he has been shunned from his life and he isn’t sure if he is ready to let him back in. 

But it is Foggy, and he has missed him all this time. 

He accepts the apology. He’s had a long time to think about it, about how he has been hurt, but he can tell Foggy is telling the truth when he says he is sorry. That the promise to do better is the truth. 

Matt has some sort of inkling a certain pitbull might have also had words, if not with Foggy but with the rest of the Defenders, when they come to the window one evening with proverbial tails between legs. 

It takes time. Of course it does. But somewhere on a shelf in a law office, there’s a photo of a dog from hell, a calico cat curled up between its paws, and a red macaw perched on one of its heads. Elsewhere, on a rooftop, a mismatched group of vigilantes take a nap in a pile of limbs, a death dog, a lynx, a tamarin, an armadillo, and a pitbull. 

He’s found his pack.