Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Every cop has that one call, the one that changes their life forever either by taking something or giving it. “It’s always the random lookin’ calls.” each senior cop had told you during your time at the academy.

“Of course, sir.” You’d nod, thinking they were always overzealous in their tales. Though it was better than hearing the darker ones out there, those cops never spoke about it.

Your journey to that call started a 3-hour subway ride from Hell’s Kitchen. Montauk, Long Island, where you grew up. The right mix of laid-back beaches and big cities. It’s where you imagined spending your tenure as a cop till retirement.

           “Captain Coronado wants to see you.” Jessie knocks on your desk three times. His eyes downcast before they perk up to yours. “‘Bout a transfer.”

“What?” Your hand screeches still from typing. It lays flat on the J key, only thing missing is the rest of the joke, but when Jessie’s mouth doesn’t dissolve into a grin, you know it’s not coming.

“A transfer,” The concept slides off your skin, unable to settle deeper yet. “Where? And—and why?”

Jessie purses his lips, releasing them with a pop. “Hell’s Kitchen.” The name sucks the air out the room, neither of you able to speak till Jessie rolls a shoulder back.

“There’s a rise in crime over there, some kind of Russian mafia. They need more officers. The NYPD sent orders last Friday. Coronado’s pulling people in and letting ‘em know. He sent me over to tell you.”

A hollowness rakes your stomach. Family, friends, people you’d be leaving behind for the Russian mob. Mafias were for movies, not Long Island, and therefore, not for you.

“Are you part of the transfer?” His gradual smile was all the answer you needed to fill that hollowness, even if temporary.

Officer McNair, he taps his pen before every lie and wears the same mossy cologne since your academy years. On the shorter side at a proud 5'6 but a charmer. Charmed you most definitely.

You huff a laugh, its air is all relief. “That’s a little better, at least.”

“Tell me about it. I was sitting there, all sad until he told me who else would be coming.”

“Who else is?”

“It’s a lot more than Coronado expected them to take. Mia, Duncan, Aaron.” Jessie lists them out on his hand. “And uhh, that forensics lady who helped you out with that stolen Bronco. What’s her name?”

“Meghan.”

Jessie snaps his fingers, leaning forward. “Right, her! Then Ari to make seven. And this Detective Blake is going to be the guy in charge.”

Your eyebrows furrow at the name. “Never heard of him. Is he from Hell’s Kitchen?”

“Yeah, he’s been there a while. Or, at least, that’s what Coronado told me, he didn’t know much about him either. It’s weird.”

Jessie chews on his lip, they’re redder from him doing it often. It’s more concerning if he wasn’t suspicious, the instinct drives the station mad but half the reason he was such a great cop. Or in over a superior’s head.

“It’s one detective, Jessie. I’m sure it’s fine.” He makes eye contact with you, not saying a word. “It’s fine.” You ensure.

He raises his palms wide. “Yeah, you're probably right. It’s just such a big change, you know?”

“I get it.” You trail your gaze toward Captain Coronado’s office. His door slightly ajar, waiting for you. “I should go hear about it.”

Jessie winces. “Good luck?”

That pit returns, no matter how many friends from your precinct were coming along, simply the idea of breaking the news to your parents felt like a betrayal to the hometown that has given you everything.

“…Yeah.” You eventually say and turn to make your way to the office. Many officers come and go in the same fashion you're about to, yet somehow you never imagined that would be you.

          Every time anyone gets called to Coronado’s office their attention will always be drawn to the three vinyls stuck onto the wall above his desk. Pearl Jam, Nickelback, and Jerry Cantrell, all signed. They were only there to show off or tell the stories of how he got them. It’s highly successful.

A dark pair of hands cross over Captain Coronado’s chest. “I assume Officer McNair told you most of the details before you came here, correct?”

Smiling, you take a seat. “Ah, what gave it away?”

“Humor me and call it a lucky guess, officer.” His deadpan smirk causes you a chuckle.

“I’d be honored to.”

“Good.” He says.

The air in the office promptly changes when he takes a preparing breath, all the lighthearted exchanges that could’ve happened are fused out by the following exhale:

“In any case, the rise in crime at Hell’s Kitchen has been cause for many problems in their police force. A group of Russians, I’m told. Their current deployment isn’t equipped enough to handle it, hence the transfer.”

Jessie’s troubled expression lingers in your mind. “They’re taking seven officers, I heard?” Your head tilts to appeal to Coronado’s chattier side, a side he thinks is well hidden. “That’s a lot.”

It is practically a charm. He touches his chin, grey-bearded hairs decorating his lower face. “It is, isn’t it? The polite number is five, though pleasantries are a dying art. They must be desperate for fresh eyes over there.”

“Fresh eyes?”

Captain Coronado gives a slow smile. “A city is only as good as its police, officer, whether people admit it or not. If Hell’s Kitchen is requesting this many officers, there’s something or someone they want you to see there.”

His words are heard by your heart then they reach your ears, but Coronado speaks before you can reply.

“The transfer is scheduled for three months. Detective Blake has so graciously taken it upon himself to oversee you all’s adjustment, which includes your living arrangements and your assignments. You’ll be given a hefty surplus for your participation. While you aren’t expected to bust any Russian mobs during your time there, you will be spending a lot of time on the field.”

All parts of your mind were scouring for a more mature reason why you couldn’t do it. Anything. Your voice comes out a touch too meek, “When do—“

“Start of next week.”

You take a sharp inhale, the clock on the room’s left side a taunt instead of a reminder. One week and you’re thrusted beside a city drenched in crime without a mafia. Montauk to Manhattan.

“Tell me, why did you become a cop?” Coronado’s elbows lean forward on the desk, his eyes pouring into yours like he’ll find the answer there.

Now he’s seeing too much, you press against the seat, its leather gliding across your trousers. He continues, voice lower. “I’m completely serious, officer. Tell me.”

That’s an order—while spoken silently, you knew he’d say it aloud just as commanding. “There was an old woman in the rain,” Your attention on Captain Coronado’s face unfocuses. A feeble attempt to pretend he isn’t present.

“Her wheelchair was stuck in mud, she was all alone... crying. I knew I had to do something. So I pulled over to go help her and she was just so grateful. It broke my heart, but made me realize... I want to save more people like her.”

The answer’s idealistic, childish at heart. For years you’ve avoided talking about it, because it’s a kid’s dream. Not a tenured cop’s.

“And you decided to become a cop?”

“The very next day.”

The captain is silent, shoulders unmoving. An evaluation. When he lowers his arms it reveals his displeased frown. Great.

“You’re not saving anyone being holed up in your hometown, officer.” He firmly presses a finger against his desk, “I won’t pretend to understand what’s going on behind the scenes in Hell’s Kitchen, but I do understand that its people are in danger, that they need saving, and that they deserve better than some wanna-be hero too scared to rock the boat. Do I make myself clear?”

Wanna-be hero.

You swallow down a lump, “Yes, sir.”

That placates him, thankfully, and he sits back in his chair. “I want you to be careful out there, officer. Do your time, keep your head down, and don’t ask questions.” Coronado sets a warning look when your mouth opens. “I believe this could be the push you need to do something good, but I also need you to do it right. Now, do you accept this position?”

It’s been seven years under Captain Coronado’s command. Habits and mannerisms that scare rookies long since amused you. Not this though, when he reminds everyone why he’s captain.

“I’d be honored to.”

“Good.”

He busies himself with paper organization afterward. The pages flap against each other, waving you off in his place.

And the second the door closes you swear everyone in the station heard what happened in there, each glance worsening the purple shame pooling across your shoulders.

Back to your desk, Mia, a fellow friend and transferee made good on her coffee trip, a black mug in both hands. Its paint has been chipped for years, not even Jessie’s heckling gets her to buy a new one.

“Not taking the news well, huh?” She asks.

Staring at your desktop with all the might of a newly adopted puppy, you laugh, “Not really, no.”

“Eh, me neither, I’ve heard some pretty shitty things about Hell’s Kitchen.”

“The place is called hell.”

“True.” She caps her sentence with a coffee sip. Once she finished, Mia wipes at a strand of her thick black hair off her lip. On her desk you notice chapstick sitting on top a stack of receipts, black cherry flavored. “But the Russian mafia makes this a hell of a lot more interesting.”

Unable to fight it, you sneak in a: “No pun intended.”

Mia fixes a dry look. “Sure.”

Any other day you would’ve messed with her yourself, yet today’s proven itself abnormal. Even Mia, she picks up your lacking chatter. “I am mad about having Duncan on the team, that shit-wad. He’ll fit right in that city.”

“We’ll be taking him back where he came from.”

“See, that one was funny.” She swats your shoulder. “What happened to the first joke?”

Someone could call it embarrassing, how you gleam under her teasing touch. Still, you smile. “That one wasn’t meant to be funny.”

“I’ll say.” She mutters, earning a laugh out of you both.

          Later, Jessie arrives from his part of the office, halfway sitting on the edge of your desk. “Hey, how’d it go?” He tilts his head toward you.

The reminder sours your once laughing expression. Mia catches it, commenting before taking another coffee sip. “Went badly.”

”Really?” Jessie frowns, “Why? What’d he say?”

Shaking your head, it would be a lie saying just Jessie’s concern made the guil less unbearable. “It’s not him… I just don’t want to leave Long Island.”

“I get that. I was actually talking to Aaron about the same thing while you were gone, he really doesn’t want to leave either, gots a sick grandmother back at home.” Jessie moves to sit fully on your desk as he spoke, “I think he’s calling other family members to see if they can take care of her while he’s gone right now.”

“Couldn’t he have just declined?” Mia asks.

“He needs the money.”

Mia hums, she sits forward in her chair and holds her coffee cup to her lips. Knowing she was done conversing, you sigh, “I should call my family too, let them know and stuff.”

“Don’t let me stop you.” Jessie slides himself off your desk, his landing makes a slight clop. New loafers, “I was gonna take lunch soon anyway.”

“What’re you getting?” Mia peers from the cup, her expression comparable to a nosy cat. Inwardly, you chuckle at the connection.

Lips pulled into a smirk Jessie scoffs.“‘Course you’re interested.” Mia shoots a glare only Jessie could brighten at. “I’m getting subs. You two want some?”

“Jackass.”

“Yeah, I’ll take one.”

“Right away!” He waves and makes light strides to the station’s doors.

“How do you deal with that guy?” Mia remarks.

Your eyes linger on Captain Coronado's office. The image shakes your heart around. At your prolonged silence Mia looks up, quickly you attempt a smile. “I like him well enough.” Desperate to hide, you excuse yourself to make that call to your parents.

The smell of coffee and printer ink grows stronger the further you go in the station. The officers also grow in age. You tuck yourself behind a metal file cabinet, careful not to lean on it too much since it’s an unsteady object.

Up till then your movements were anxious, as though your body couldn’t get away from you fast enough, but when you pull your phone out they slow. Your reflection is blemished by fingerprints on the screen, it waits for you to press a button, tap, do anything.

“God.” You mutter. The hand holding your phone begins tapping against the file cabinet, creating a series of metallic dings.

It would’ve been easy to comfort yourself with stress, pity. You wanted to, until a senior detective peeks at you behind the cabinet. “What’s all tha—Oh. Hello, officer.”

“Hi.” You wave like it was completely normal to be here. “Just making a call.” For emphasis, you hold up your phone, the tremors in your hand shake it more than yourself.

The detective looks you up and down, elects to not say anything, and turns back. “Ah. Sorry.”

“It’s fine.” You look away. His interruption causes a halt in your thoughts, it sobers your logical senses and you find it in you to call your mother. She answers after a few rings.

“Hello?”

Chapter Text

It’s been three weeks since you made that call. The move wasn’t the world-shattering experience you talked it up to be, but the city was absolutely horrible.

The air, there was something wrong with the air here. It reeked of ash, metal, sweat, and gas—the stench of human sin itself.

Above it was the smoke.

Smoke was the people’s oxygen, breathing it with nothing more than a cough or a puff of their own. They knew this place was miserable and wanted out maybe more than you did. It’s in their eyes, like they knew too much.

If there’s solace, it would be your apartment. A complex shared with the rest of the Long Island transfers, something that's not as bad as Meghan and Ari complained about on the days leading up. You all left each other alone.

“(Y/n)!” Jessie’s voice pierces through your walls, his knocks erratic.

It’s those knocks that stop you from shooing him away. About to make dinner, the last thing you wanted was to talk with anyone, even if they were Jessie.

But he’d never spoken that way outside of work, and he usually texts before bothering you at home.

“It’s important, really important. I need to tell—”

He cuts himself off when you unlock the door. Once open, your eyes lure to the stack of files under his arm. Each file is stamped with the police emblem.

“Jessie...” Something as easy as a name should never drain so much energy. Maybe he deserves more credit. “Please don’t tell me you stole police records.”

“I’m not keeping them.” Jessie’s quick to say. Despite himself, he tucks the files further into his arm. Positioned out of reach. “I found them in Detective Blake’s office.”

The name is spoken quieter than the rest:

‘I don’t know, it’s just the way he speaks.’

‘He reminds me of my uncle too much.’

‘Duncan is the only dude that likes him. Does no one else see the problem with that?’

His complaints for your new commanding officer were expanded beyond those. In your own encounters with Blake, nothing roused suspicion. Only confusion, at the worst. He never did anything rude and the workload is light.

Yet that’s the problem, isn’t it?

Saving you the trouble of choosing who to lecture, Jessie already pleads his case. “I know, I know. This is really bad, but I think I made a discovery on the Russian mob.”

”Jessie.”

“Please, trust me.” He steps closer, unknowingly using how unfairly big his brown eyes were to his advantage.

The fact of the matter is,Jessie’s integrity and way of thinking are all things you admire. The door fully opens to let him in, its hinges screech at the movement. The little demons you joked to live in there follow Jessie’s creaking footsteps inside.

“Thank you.” He exhales, “I promise I’m onto something here.”

“The more you say that the crazier you sound.” You close the door, which requires a firm kick to properly lock, a habit you’re happy to have caught early.

On his way to your couch, Jessie chuckles, a noise both endearing and a tell-tale sign of how much this discovery is bothering him. “Noted.”

“I’m serious, Jessie. What the hell are you thinking? Stealing police files from Blake?” By the last question, you’re sitting next to him. “I get that you’re suspicious of him but this is way too far.”

“Somebody had to do something, (Y/n). We were all sent here to be ‘extra manpower’ for their Russian mafia problem but Blake hasn’t said a single word about it. We’re standing around, closing down streets, writing up tickets, while this city gets terrorized.”

There’s a beat where you marvel at Jessie’s strength, and that causes your head to droop. Always annoying when he reminds you how good of a cop he is…

“What’d you find?”

All too eager, Jessie lays the flies on your coffee table in a 4x4 setup. “They’re all pictures of Russian crime scenes. Security footage, witness photos, stuff like that.”

It requires two minutes of muttering for Jessie to pick a stack to give you. “These ones are recent.” He explains, “Taken the week we transferred here. This one’s from Ari’s aggravated assault case Blake took over.”

Each photo differs in quality, the only commonality being the crime scene. A mall. In the ninth photo, a poor-timed shot of a taxi cab, you go to set it down but Jessie catches your wrist.

“That’s actually the most important one.” He tells you. At your questioning look Jessie opens up the rest of the flies, searching through them for a specific photo from each. “Look, most of them have a taxi at least once near the scene.” Jessie points to a yellow cab in the background of the images.

Drawing back from the array of pictures, you eye Jessie. “That’s your major discovery?”

Rather than defend his point, he veers in your space. “Think about it!” The new proximity is hard to fix; Jessie's full of undirectable energy. “It’s the same cab company at each Russian scene. I looked them up before I came over.” He taps the taxi’s logo, Veles Taxi. “This company hasn’t existed since 2012 but these photos were taken two weeks ago.”

“That’s… a coincidence.”

“Maybe, but the same cab company? It has to mean something.” Nowhere to hide, you turn to scrutinize the taxis in each photo. “(Y/n), these weren’t in the station’s archives, they were buried in Blake’s desk, he‘s hiding—”

“Blake keeps his desk locked.” You cut in. The guilty look Jessie wore told you everything but you let him explain anyway. Maybe you give him too much credit.

“I waited for when he left work and I picked it. No security cameras were facing that way. I was careful.” He sucks in a breath, “It's still stupid I know, but I felt like I had to.”

One half groan, half sigh vibrates out of you, “Oh my God, Jessie!”

The two of you fall silent. Jessie bows his head until you chuckle at the absurdity. “Jessie,” To verbally snack him at the proper angle you sit straight. “You could get fired, sued, any number of things if someone or any of the other cameras saw you.”

“I don’t regret it.” His words are a four-phrase speech. “This is all connected. Blake, these cabs, the mob. I know it is.”

A hand scrubs the lower part of your face, it falls into your lap with a thump. “So, what are you gonna do?”

“I don’t know.” He slumps, “I just ran here.” If Jessie’s recklessness hadn't been so severe you could’ve been flattered by the trust, unfortunately the amount of ethical codes he broke swallows you whole with worry.

In that moment you decided to just push everything away. It’s too late in the night for theories, or legal theatrics. “Just save it for tomorrow. Go home, sleep on it, and we can talk in the morning. Okay?”

He hangs a hand on either side of his neck, not speaking for multiple minutes. “…Yeah, you’re right.” His voice quiets. “Think I’ll go out to eat or something.”

“Really?” Jessie nods and recollects his stolen files. Your eyes gawk at the behavior. “I was about to make dinner before you came, you could just stay over.”

“No, no. It’s fine, really.” He stands, files under his arm. “There’s this Thai place I’ve been meaning to try anyway, the one by that bar we tried.”

“You sure?” You follow Jessie to the door. “I don’t mind.”

“I know, but don’t worry about it. I sprung a lot on you tonight… And I got a lot to think about myself.” Jessie bounces his shoulder to show the files, “I’ll promise to bring some leftovers to work for your lunch, sound good?”

No amount of Thai could make leaving Jessie to his own devices ‘sound good.’ What did however, was the promise. It's not just a promise to bring food, but to come back.

“Sounds good.”

Jessie flashes you a smile. “Perfect! I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Be safe.” You warn while unlocking the door. “And put those files back soon, alright?”

“I will.”

He hugs you, his touches are quick but never rushed, like he’s always running late but makes time for you or whoever he’s talking to. You squeeze him before letting him leave, the door hinges protest his exit just as your gut did.

          Throughout the next morning you were expecting Jessie to pop in with Mia, not because of last night but due to the fact you three all walk to work.

By the time you're ready to go there had been no call from either. If you weren’t already paranoid that wouldn't be a problem. You stood at the main window to your apartment, it offers an unobstructed view of the streets and people below.

The sounds of car horns, construction, and the nearby subway rise to your apartment floor. Like some archangel, you examined the cityscape, as if you knew everything that happened within it.

Your grip on the strawberry-shaped mug stiffens. Each day multiple civilians come to the station to report a violent crime, leaving victims you could provide no closure for while the higher-ups are supposedly doing all they can.

Supposedly.

Captain Coronado and Jessie’s words echo in your mind. A punishment for inaction. You turn your back to the window, its light split by your frame as it splays on the floor.

A well-timed knock springs yourself out that train of loathing. You plant your mug on the counter. It’s hardly drunk coffee spills and one drop hits your hand. The burn cools when you meet Mia’s pointed gaze on the other side of the door.

“Mia,” your shoulders sink. “Where’s Jessie?”

“Thought he’d be here.”

“He was last night, haven’t seen him since he left.”

It’s rare Mia avoids someone‘s eyes, but she’s quick enough on the recovery to prevent a comment on it. Usually is. “Where did he go? Home?”

“To a Thai place he’s been meaning to try.” Chapstick hits the tip of your tongue while you chew your lip. The flavor is nauseating somehow. “Maybe he went to the station already?”

Mia wrinkles her eyebrows at that. Don't blame her. “Uh-huh.” She unfolds her arms to feel for the phone in her pocket. “He’d text at least if that was true.”

Even though you've checked your phone numerous times this morning, you do it again. Still, no messages. Your finger taps on the volume button. “We can check by his apartment before heading to the station.”

“Did that on the way here.” She cuts, “He’s not there.”

“Then… We check the station.”

Her delayed reply twists your stomach, you squeeze your phone to counteract the sensation. Mia inhales, “Yeah, let’s go.”

After putting on work boots you follow Mia down the complex. At the elevator you run into Ari, Jessie’s neighbor. He waves, his ‘good morning’ flashing his navy braces, which you recall being originally silver.

His new braces color isn’t the first question out your mouth. “Hey Ari, did you hear Jessie come back to his apartment last night?” You glance at Mia but she doesn’t return your gaze. “We can’t find him.”

Ari pauses on his phone. “No, but I was at my orthodontist appointment last night. He probably got home before I did.”

Tension extends to your hands, to soothe, you wring them out. “Alright, thanks.”

“Everything okay?”

“Yeah, it’s fine. He probably had to rush to the station or something.” You peek at Ari, “What about you? Where’s Aaron?”

“Oh, Aaron’s on the phone with his grandma. We’re meeting at the station.”

“Oh.”

The elevator doors open and Mia’s the first to walk out. Ari, having sensed the unease between you two, speaks up, “I’m sure he’ll be at the station.”

His assurance does nothing, but you still smile. A smile that you’re sure has too much teeth to be believable. “Me too.”

Joining Mia on the sidewalk, her heavy footsteps scare away the native pigeons you were watching. She's wordless the whole commute until she decides to call Jessie’s phone. The ring acts as a countdown to something neither of you were sure of yet.

“Your call has been forwarded to voicemail. The person you're trying to reach is unavailable. At the tone, please record your message.”

Mia lets Jessie's automated British accent voicemail play before powering off the phone, “He better be doing something important.” She mutters.

          Hell’s Kitchen police station felt cramped compared to Long Island’s. It was cliquey-er than a bad high school movie, only a lot darker. Some groups kept their heads down, didn’t talk much, then ones that covered their mouths when they talked.

What connected them all was their contempt for the Long Island transfers. A group of barely qualified officers coming to handle a mafia? No one expected anything from the seven of you.

The station’s no more welcoming today. Peers were getting ready for roll call, while superiors skim over any number of things. Papers, people, phones. Despite all the officers around, you knew Jessie wasn’t there with them.

“I’m talking to Blake.” Mia asserts.

A cold rush pulls you in front of her. “Are you sure?”

“Why not?”

You hesitate. Now that you know what Jessie had done, looking Blake in the eye isn't high on the to-do list.

“I dunno, Jessie doesn’t trust him… Maybe he’s just in the bathroom, or something else. ” You try to amend, “We can wait a little, see what happens.”

Mia raises a brow, not entertaining the comment further. “I’ll just check with Blake. Our whereabouts are his job anyway.”

She passes by you toward Blake’s office. You're much happier with her going alone. It allowed time to scour the station before roll call started. Find where the cameras were and check if those leftovers Jessie promised were in the breakroom.

In the end it wasn’t roll call you were fighting time for.

Before the noise reaches, you were rummaging through the breakroom’s bottom cabinets. The noise starts as a hum. There’s a group of your superiors talking, one of them loud enough to hear the word 'immediate dispatch'  on the station phone.

Next it grows to a rumble across the building. Unable to write it off as superficial chatter, you exit. First thing you see is Detective Blake’s dark-set eyebrows freeze at the door. “What’s—”

“We got a tip for a possible homicide.” He snaps his fingers to point behind him. The snap's like a bullet, your body reacts as if it were, recoiling. Blake notices the twitch, his eyes flick over you. “It’s close to the station.” He continues, “You go get ready. Sterna will be going with you. I’m staying back.”

Though the name ‘Jessie’ was on your tongue you say, “Yes, sir.” instead.

He leaves you in a spurt, instantly going on his personal cell. Your surroundings move faster after he’s gone. Other officers were abuzz with chatter and everyone’s moving in the opposite direction you were.

Dispatch Command. It is the only spacious area of the station outside of the holding cells. Uniforms were in lockers that reached the ceiling. Way too tall.

Officer Sterna was already there getting his gear when you arrived, next to another duo of cops in full uniform. He stops his movements once he notices you. “Officer (L/n).” He clips. A broken light buzzes perfectly above his head.

You also skip any civilities. Half of you hopes they’d appreciate the bluntness, “I heard there was a tip for a possible homicide. Detective Blake said we’re going together.”

Sterna fights a chuckle, “Yep. He told me you’d be back-up.”

“Will…” You eye the two attending officers, “They be coming too?”

All three share a look. Stuck in quiet, your hands slide behind you. Two moments later Sterna holsters his firearm to break the empty space. “They will.”

Knowing you won't receive any further information, you hook a bulletproof vest off the rack. You've worn one many times throughout your tenure, its weight more mental instead of physical. The weight of a responsibility to protect, save, and defend.

Your confidence changes with the vest, for better or worse. It’s the closest you get to feeling like an actual ‘hero.’ Although it just as often reminds you of your shortcomings.

“Hurry up.” One of Sterna’s accompaniments passes, his boots stomp by you while tie your own. The thump was exaggerated, trying to be bigger than he was. “We need to leave.”

“Yes, sir.”

Chapter Text

Being a cop means you kicked the habit of profiling areas just because they look sketchy. Crime can happen anywhere. The nicest of mansions to school playgrounds.

So entering the apartment complex, straightforward as it appeared, the most you expect is a body. That experience causes you to walk through the building with more self-confidence than you should’ve had.

The apartment number was 424. No one has spoken a word since they played the audio from the anonymous tip. The accent is Russian of all things, Sterna explained that’s why Blake was so ‘worried’ and why they should be cautious.

Sterna’s reasoning didn’t match with how he’s acting now. He kicks down the door. The excessive bang it creates startles you from the bones up. “Hey—!“

Blonde. That’s the first color you see before the officers swarm in front. “Drop it!” Sterna barks his gun pointing at the golden-haired woman.

“I didn’t…” The woman wheezes. Her eyes are locked on a man’s bloodied body lying before her. Her chest heaves from the shock. Up, down. “I didn’t do this.” Slowly, she held her hands up, they were blood-tipped and trembling.

“Get on the ground.” One of the other cops orders. His head a harsh jerk to the white carpet.

“I didn’t do this!” Her eyes finally lifted. The blue was icy; melted by the tears building in them.

”Now!”

The woman shrinks at his tone, soft whimpers shaking out of her. You shrug through your colleagues to meet the woman. “Ma’am.” Attempting a different method, your palm raises in a steady signal, the other holds your pistol. “Get down and I’ll get you out of here.”

Sobs are the only sound that the woman could deliver. Sterna scoffs. “Ma’am.” You repeat, firmer. This time it works. The woman hiccups, as she lowers you approach her level with handcuffs.

Near the scene, your eyes are drawn to the body, to the blood. Maybe all your rookie traits haven’t been squashed—you took eyes off the suspect.

The woman clutches your arms, not in a way that makes you brandish a gun but takes you aback.

“I didn't do this, you have to believe me.” She whispers, her hands holding onto you like she’s slipping into hell. “Please, please believe me.”

You gulp, releasing a shaky breath. Were you scared? The wild manner she looks at you with, it’s a mortal terror that can never be replicated or faked.

It begs the question of what really happened here, to her, but you’re abruptly yanked back by Sterna shouting at her for touching an officer.

Momentum lands you on the rear. From the floor it's a blur of limbs tossed about. You’re forced to watch the woman get manhandled to her feet. Sterna coils his body and the woman is swung in the direction of the door, facing you.

“Oh god, I didn’t do this! Please! I—” She’s cut off by her own sobbing, “I didn’t..”

Sterna drags her, his buddies next to him, their expressions blank. Before they exit, Sterna looks down to you. “Handle the body.”

“What..?”

When that passes your lips something tightens, making your soul top-heavy. The dread that has been stalking you the past day hijacks your mind.

Nothing has ever been so wrong all at once, down to the way Sterna’s badge reflected the daylight to how the carpet dug into your palms.

“Handle the body.” He spells out.

It’s difficult to focus with the woman’s cries, but you pull yourself up. “Wait—Wait, what are you going to do?”

All three officers stare, “Our job.” One says, “Now go do yours.” The woman locks eyes with you one more time before he slams the door. You want to shout, smack some sense into them, but your hands are frozen at your sides.

Trapped. That’s what this is. The woman’s cries grow further away, likely cuffed, and the moment you turn the man’s lifeless body five feet away, its scathing iron stench coats your throat.

In case the corpse sprouted to life and attacks, you approach it gingerly. The knife used to kill him is placed by his shoulder, where the woman was. You wonder if she felt similar to how you are now. Alone with a dead man’s eyes boring into yours and a bloody knife by your hands.

“Christ..” This is justice? The people you swore to protect dead at your feet. The due process in a woman being dragged away without even an utterance of her rights.

          You don’t see Sterna again until the station. They left you at the scene after taking away the woman, leading to an embarrassing conversation with forensics.

Amid the ride, forensic officers ask questions about the homicide, ones you struggled to answer. Midway on the drive, they came to find you knew just as much as they did and gave up.

In the station you looked for anything familiar. Even the scent of stale coffee could be comfort right now, yet the only thing to welcome you is Sterna.

“The suspect, Karen Page, is in interrogation, room 201. Detective Blake is there questioning her.” He points to the right. “We need you to stand guard outside the door.”

An angry bile forms in the back of your throat, one you struggle to keep out your tone. “What are you going to be doing?”

Sterna chuckles. The scent of fruity watermelon spikes your nose. In Sterna’s mouth there’s a gum wad in his mouth, scarcely chewed. “Our job.” He repeats, walking off.

Your gaze follows his way out the station. Teeth clenched. You don’t bother to ease your jaw, instead, grind the molars the entire way to interrogation.

Outside the door you simmer in every emotion from the last 24-hours. Couldn’t do that in peace either.

Detective Blake swings the door open and it almost hits your perch by its hinges. Muttering a curse, you pivot in front of him. He blinks at your entrance, undoubtedly expecting Sterna.

“Still suited? Good.” He holds onto the doorknob. “Watch her in there, I got to deal with something out front.”

“Like what?” There’s an underlying bite in that, a good one to shed on Blake of all people.

“Apparently, Miss Page here has visitors.” Blake doesn’t notice your tone. His scrunched eyebrows irritated with his own issues.

He lets go of the doorknob then continues down the hall, there’s a small kick of air following in his exit. You catch the door before it shuts but don’t open it. Flashes of the crime scene replaying to serve as a sick reminder, or warning.

Stealing yourself, you enter. Karen sat cuffed to the table in a grey NYPD shirt, her puffy eyes look up and all the frustration in your chest softens at her face. “Hello, Miss Page.”

She nods in response, her eyes now shy from yours. The door falls shut, you watch her reaction to the buzzing the lock makes. It blares. She doesn’t move.

You’d speak more but haven't a clue where to start, or if the idea alone is illegal. For all you knew she really could’ve killed that man.

Throughout the three weeks in Hell’s Kitchen you’ve only taken in the smoky air and looks of its townspeople. Karen’s different from that. She isn’t someone broken by the city, she’s someone getting broke by the city.

That’s when words find you. “Miss,” she raises her head quicker than you anticipate. “Has anyone read you your rights yet?”

After a beat, she answers. ”No.” Her delivery is a nasally quiet. Karen notices it and wipes her nose, sniffing. “Nobody.”

A stillness ensues. Soon, you take that deep breath you skipped out on earlier:

“You have the right to remain silent, anything you say will be used against you in a court of law.”

“You have the right to talk to a lawyer and have him or her present with you while you are being questioned.”

“If you cannot afford to hire a lawyer, one will be appointed to you by the state.”

Inhale.

“Do you understand the rights I have read to you?”

Karen gives another barely-there nod, “I do.”

Somehow her agreement straightens your posture. “With these rights in mind… Can I get you anything? Water? Coffee?”

The word ‘water’ is right on her tongue but the buzz of the door opening seizes her up. You flinch with her, a hand jumping out to halt two men from coming closer. “What are you doing here?”

Both men freeze. One with shaggy blonde hair and the other has red-lens glasses on. While they were nicely dressed in their grey suits, you stare at the man with the red glasses longer. He’s blind, the white cane he held is the brightest thing in the room.

“Hey!” The blonde man greets, his hand raises in a wave but it only reveals his unease. “Your boss… had something to do? He told us to meet ‘the officer in room 201,’ and I’m guessing that’s you.”

“Uh, yeah, that’s me.” Your own hand rests on top of your radio. Under it, the cold metal of your badge bites into your forearm. “Did he say what he had to do?”

“No, he just ran off.” He answers. There’s a measure of silence until the blonde man claps his hands. “In the meantime, officer. Can we take the cuffs of the 110-pound woman, please?”

“Sorry,” You struggle to pick which man to look at. They both have a certain quality. Unlike Karen, they’re comfortable with the area. Aren’t wary of you either, the police officer, those nerves you sense were for Karen. “Who are you?”

“We’re her lawyers.” The man in red glasses speaks, the timbre of his voice almost had you take a step back. It’s a dangerously pleasant sound. “I’m Matt. He’s Foggy.”

Now that you had names for the pair of strange men, your attention shifts toward Karen. Although she looked just as confused as you did, you still ask, “Miss Page, do you know these men?”

“No,” Her hands curl into weak fists. “No, I don’t.”

“What my partner means to say is we’re her aspiring lawyers.” The blond man, Foggy, chuckles, stepping in front of Matt.

“How did you learn about her case?” Your eyebrows narrow. “She just got here.” That last part came out unprofessionally but managed to make Foggy sweat a grin. His partner Matt’s expression was schooled stoic, the harder one to crack.

“That’s… classified.”

This time Matt reacts, despite his eyes being covered you could tell. A tiny line forms between his brows. He’s not a fan of Foggy’s methods, whatever they were.

“Right.” Dry and flat, your head shakes. “I’m sorry, but I can’t leave you two alone with her.”

“Ma’am, we—” Matt tries to plead but gets cut off by the crackle of your radio.

“Code 10-13, Officer Jessie McNair found shot by Three Roads Bar on 49th Street, multiple gunshot wounds. Code 10-13, officer is unable to be resuscitated, definite 10-29.”

You’ve lived in New York your entire life, you know what it means to be cold, and this was a new league of cold that bordered on straight oblivion.

Blake found out, he must have.

The idea crashes into the room. You try to touch your face, your chest, hands—just to feel that you weren’t floating away. But you couldn’t move.

The two men might’ve said something, what they could possibly say at the moment was beyond you. The only thing on your mind was hope and fear.

A little light in your chest hoped Jessie would pull through, the odds be damned. Logic itself be damned. It won’t help.

“I know that bar,” Karen’s voice zings your soul back to itself. “I know that bar.” She repeats more breathlessly.

“How?” You nearly demand from the woman, the taped lid on your emotions leak tears you wish would go away. “How?” Amending your tone, it is softer but too hoarse for a trained officer.

“It-It was the bar me and Daniel went to before, uhm.” Her reluctance follows the looks she gives Matt and Foggy. “…He died.”

The ability to move again lets you rub your face. Groaning. Ashamed by your lack of composure, bile stings the back of your throat. “God, it’s right by the Thai place he told me was going to try last night.”

If you just insisted on letting him stay the night.

If you listened to him more, maybe he would’ve wanted to stay.

And he’d be alive.

“You know him?” Though Matt phrases it like a question, it wasn’t said that way.

“He was my best friend..” Your body slumps against the wall behind you. “He came over last night to–” It hits. What Jessie found, damn well could’ve been the thing that killed him. “Hang out before dinner.”

Matt doesn’t respond for a noticeable second. For a blind man, he has an intense gaze, even without seeing it you could feel it. “They could be connected.” Matt proposes, “Happened at the same time.”

“That’s…!” Foggy hesitates to say ‘great’ for your sake. His clothes shift inward around his posture. “That’s something we can use.”

The cold interrogation room air bites at the wetness on your cheeks. Crying in front of strangers yet you’re desperate to remain professional. “No, no, no. You’re not Miss Page’s lawyers. I don’t even know if you two really are lawyers. How long have—“ you couldn’t finish the sentence without wracking a watery inhale, ”—you been practicing law?”

The two visibly don’t want to say anything to you in this condition. Still, Matt feels around his wrist. “What time is it?”

“It’s 12:22.” Foggy answers after a quick glance at his watch. There’s a crack in its glass.

With all the assurance in the world, or maybe just his own audacity, Matt squares his shoulders in your direction. “About seven hours.”

“Matt!” Foggy threw his hands into his hair. The blonde strands strain against his fingers. “That is not helping.”

“She wants us to tell the truth.”

“Well, if you go from when we pass the bar that number is a lot better than seven hours!”

Matt sighs, giving his cane a squeeze. Must be habit. ”Our practice is relatively young, Miss Page and Officer…”

“(L/n).” An irrational feeling protests giving Matt your name, but when your voice is a hoarse mess, there’s only so much arguing you could make yourself do.

“Officer (L/n).” Matt nods. The way he says your name, slow and deliberate. Like a password. It’s disorienting. He takes a careful step near you. “We don't have any clients, you need answers—”

How Matt articulates that, a nudge the station is already hiding something.

A nerve spasms in your neck. “I don’t need answers, they’re investigating as we speak.” You try to regain control by pointing an unsteady finger at Matt and Foggy. “What I need is for you two to leave.”

“No!” Karen cries, her hand tugs on the cuffs. “If what happened to tha- that Officer is the same thing that happened to me, the police won’t even touch this.”

“What did happen to you?” Foggy tilts his head. An interest that wasn’t there prior in his demeanor.

All the attention being turned back on Karen, she cowers from everyone’s gaze. Matt is the first to mention it. “You won’t say it to us.”

Both eyes narrowed, Karen pushes away her blond hair with her free hand. “Who sent you?”

“No one sent us.”

That hand lands back on the table with a slim thud. “So, what?” She scoffs, “You’re just a couple of good samaritans? Today’s just my lucky day now?”

Matt adjusts his glasses. “Like I said, our practice is new. We need clients.” Though you can’t tell where Matt’s gaze stands, his head dips in your direction. “Maybe we can all help each other.”

Chapter Text

After Matt’s proclamation Karen agrees to letting the men be her lawyers, pro bono, and in lieu of breaking attorney-client privilege, you’re able to stay. It was odd. This is the part of the justice system you never get to see on your side of the gate.

“I work at Union Allied Construction. I'm a secretary. Daniel worked downstairs in Legal. I didn't know him very well. But he was always nice, you know? But it's hard to meet people in the city, so I asked him if he would have a drink with me.”

“You asked him?” Matt questions. He and Foggy had moved to sit in front of her. You remain by the door, focus dazing in and out. The radio gave little updates about Jessie, the last you heard was dispatch arriving.

Even now you hold onto hope naively, stubbornly, because if you don’t hold on ther’s no ground to fall into.

Karen’s voice is the one thing that keeps you checked in, she is vulnerable in the way that makes you listen, not uncomfortable.

“He was a nice guy. We met at the Three Roads bar, on 49th Street. We had a few drinks, and the next thing that I remember is waking up on the floor of my apartment covered in blood. His blood–No, I'm not stupid. I know how that sounds. But I am telling you we met at the bar. We had a few drinks. And I don't know what happened after that’”

Her tone turns begging, an exact match to how she spoke when you found her. “It wasn't me. Please, please, you have to believe me. I didn't kill him.”

“I believe you, Miss Page.” Matt says.

She gapes, stammering out an airy, “Thank you.”

A wordless space no one knew how to fill keeps all four of you in place. You and Karen are still misty eyed and Foggy flicks the edge of his papers with predictable rhythm.

Matt, he’s the only one not moving. Envy glints in your chest, his poise is airtight while the rest of you are dripping in emotions.

“Well, in the meantime, Miss Page,” Foggy coughs. He reshuffles papers to pull three pages he gives to Karen.“We have some papers for you to sign.”

“Actually,” Matt cuts in, “I have some questions for you, Officer (L/n).”

There were too many parts of your consciousness split up for you to comprehend what Matt wants. In a few blinks you get there and muster any authority left in you. “Sir, I won’t be answering any questions about Jessie.”

“Pleading the fifth, smart.” Foggy nods a pen toward you. Remorseful, he lowers the pen. The soreness of his joke morphs in his expression. “That wasn’t funny. I’m sorry, officer.”

Matt gives his cane another tap. “I also apologize for my colleague. We understand that you wouldn’t want to talk about it so soon. We’ll keep in touch.”

Right.

Half-hearted sympathy didn’t interest you. Matt and Foggy are only worried for themselves, anyway. Your head lowers to compose a breath, “Okay.”

That is all you planned on saying till Matt kept staring, both Karen and Foggy weren’t without their own side looks either. Though the only look you wanted to decipher was Matt’s, he was harder to read yet seemed to always be thinking about something worth hearing.

“If Miss Page is done,” you continue gradually, “I should be taking her back to her holding cell.”

“Right!” Foggy clicks the pen open. “Here you go.” He gives it to Karen and points at certain parts of the documents. “Sign here and here, please.”

Karen signs, not reading much of what the papers say. She’s putting a lot of blind trust in these men that practically fell into her lap, it’s irony isn’t lost on you.

After Karen finishes, you help her out the table and cuff both her hands. The action feels like a poison, a familiar one you recognize from the station. Corrupt.

“Sorry,” you apologize for your own sake. “Procedure.”

She nods in response, letting you lead her to the door. “We’ll be back tomorrow, Miss Page.” Foggy says while it unlocks.

“…Yeah.”

The door buzzes. It lets the stuffiness of the 15th precinct clash against the colder interrogation room.

“And we are sorry for your loss, Officer (L/n).”

Again, the timbre of Matt’s voice sends a prick of electricity to your brain. He sounded sincere, that’s what irritates you. A tight hum rattles out. Karen is your priority, just take her to the cell.

          Once Karen gets acclimated there wasn’t much on your mind other than a hollow disbelief. “So, uhm,” Looking over at Karen’s tone. She sits on the bed in her cell. Their quality alludes you, but the way it doesn't sink at her weight gives hints. “What happens now?”

You mull over the question longer than you have in the past. “Legally or…?”

“That too, but,” She pushes her hair, only for it to fall back on the left side of her face. “I meant here.”

“Oh, well, you’ll be mostly left alone until the DA comes to talk to you. Not sure when that’ll be.”

“And what about you?”

Her question leaks out so timid, it’s sketched by the propositioned hope that comes when someone wants to hear a certain answer. “I’m not sure.” You admit, “I’m gonna find some people from home.”

Karen’s eyes sneak to yours. “Home?”

A weird puff escapes your lips, you couldn't tell if it was a humorless chuckle or a basic cough. “I’m from Long Island, here on a transfer for a bit with others from my station,” Forcing your posture back to policing standards, you wet your lips. “Like Jessie.”

“Oh,” are the only words she has for you until she speaks a long moment later. “I’m new here too.”

Your eyebrows raise. “Where from?”

“Vermont.”

Not as far as you expected. “Ah… Sorry this is your welcome to the city, then.”

“I’m sorry too,” she holds her elbows in a weak hug for herself. “About your friend.”

The weight of your radio nags to touch it. To remember Jessie’s smile. No updates. “Yeah.”

          Mia has to know you were looking for her, even if she didn’t have her radio, there were enough whispers going around the station for you to guess she had heard about it from somebody.

‘Where are you?’ You text her at your desk. None of your other deskmates were there, leaving a scarily open moment for feelings to ooze deeper in your bones.

‘Outside’

In no time at all you walk out to the station’s entrance. The chronic smell of the city intermixed with gasoline, it makes your breath hold to fruitlessly save your lungs from aging three years.

Sat on one of the nearby benches is Mia. “Hey,” you whisper after sitting beside her. Although it isn’t crazy to say she didn’t even hear.

“Where did you say Jessie was going? A Thai place?” Mia replies. You try to deduce where her gaze lingers. There isn’t much to go off of, her dark eyes lowered at nothing.

“Yeah.”

Mia glances at her phone lying flat in her palm, barely holding it. “What did he tell you?” Your heartbeat attempts to race away from the upcoming lie. It’s that reaction that makes you realize the new secret you’re harboring from the police.

Unprepared, your hands clench in your lap. “He was feeling homesick, wanted to hang out for a while.” It wasn’t a total lie; just wasn’t what he told you. The justification is ugly. Raw. “I’m so sorry. This isn’t fair. I let him leave when he was clearly upset, and now—” You have to stop to gasp, and in that second Mia suddenly tugs you into a hug.

She didn’t speak, only a tremble in her shoulders to give her away. You crumble into the contact, remembering what safe and familiar felt wrapped around you. It’s greedy how you hold Mia, like she could repent your guilt in one touch.

          By the time Detective Blake and the officer that joined him arrive, the entire station is restless, even if they didn’t like the Long Island transfers, an officer death sobers any cop. Half pity, half ‘what if that’s me one day?’

The precinct’s captain calls for a meeting everyone’s all too interested in attending. It read more as a PSA than a service address, Mia pointed out when you two found seats in the meeting room. There’s an aching absence in the chair on your right, a lack of a familiar arm pressing against your own.

Ignoring the burn in your ribs, you focus on the smell of the meeting room. It always reminded you of new shoes that were never worn, clean but stale. You couldn’t decipher if it was pleasant or not.

At the room’s podium Detective Blake stood, his captain beside him. Blake smooths out his red tie. “I know you all have heard a lot of things this morning,” he rests his hands on either side of the podium. “And I want to formally speak on the matter.” A baited pause keeps the force’s attention. “There is never a way to delicately say this style of news but, Office Jessie McNair was found shot dead in an alley this morning near Three Heads Bar.”

No one reacts, including yourself. The most you did is lower your head an inch.

“His personal possessions were stolen so we have concluded his death was a mugging gone wrong. His family has already been contacted and we are working through funeral proceedings with them as I speak.” Blake inhales, you don’t hear him exhale. “We lost a good man today. Officer McNair served with integrity, with heart. He transferred to our station not even a month ago and he already made an impression here, and on me.”

Bullshit, your mind blurts. Jessie avoided talking to him at all costs, he hated listening to his orders. Died for the files in his desk—the files. Your mind reels. Jessie’s smart, he must’ve dropped them off at his apartment before leaving. The real question was were they still there?

You study Blake throughout his speech, the way his mouth moved, tone, the clean suit. Air sucked deep into your gut, tensely waiting for a pair of devil horns to pop out of him.

“Given the circumstances, the station will be offering grief counseling to our Long Island transfers and anyone who may need it.” He takes a step from the podium, “Let's make sure Officer McNair’s memory guides our actions going forward. Stay vigilant. Stay Strong.”

And he walks off.

All your questions drop at your feet like spilled marbles, rolling across the floor with tiny clanks. You sprung out your seat and dash after Blake, trying to not slip on any of the marbles everywhere.

“Blake, sir!” You grip onto the doorframe to catch the speed you turn the corner with.

He halts, the captain facing you before he does. “There won’t be any questions at this time, Officer. You can go back to work or take a break. We’ll have more information tomorrow.”

And you let him walk off.

Soon, you had to move for everybody else to leave the meeting room. Mia isn’t among that group, or many other of the transfers. The only one that leaves is Aaron, a whip of his long curly hair blowing past you.

Entering the room, you're met with the transfers standing in a broken group of conversation. Mia notices you first but waits for someone else to speak. It’s Meghan. “Hey… You okay?” The fluorescent lights catch her glasses. She’s the only officer in forensics that would talk to you on a consistent basis, the rest avoid you.

“Yeah, I’m fine.”

“What did Blake tell you?” She asks. Tilting her head, it’s the gentlest of prods, as if you’d fly away if she spoke louder.

“He said he’d have more information about Jessie tomorrow.” You cover your hands in your uniform’s pockets. Instead of warm they felt clammy there.

“Like what?” Duncan, the only person in a chair, raises an eyebrow.

“Like when the funeral is, jackass.” Mia shot.

Mentioning the funeral set everyone into a hush. Like a blown out candle, the room becomes cold. It’s Ari who came to relight it, his back on a wall. “This is completely unbelievable. Really, guys, a street mugging?”

“A lethal street mugging.” Duncan scratches his neck. “It was probably that Russian mob.”

Ari folds his arms close up to his chest, almost tucking himself in. “They drag us over here because of that mob, and now one of us ends up dead.”

“We don’t know what really happened.” Meghan’s voice is firm. From your time working with her, she 100% relishes in certainty. “It’s wrong to speculate over his death.” Her eyes linger on you, like she was waiting for you to break down.

“He’s not speculating, it’s a fact.” Duncan throws his pale hand out. “They needed more officers because of the Russians and now Jessie’s killed in some alley.”

“Duncan!” Meghan hisses, “Jessie could’ve been attacked by anyone. It was by a bar, plenty of drunk people around.”

“That’s speculating.”

The pair dives into a squabble of rehashing the same points. One of your feet pivots to the door, and that squabble quiets. “Hey, wasn’t that homicide case you responded to near that bar?” Duncan steps toward you.

Those steps don’t stop, closing in, if it weren’t for how many people were around, you’d say he’s doing this on purpose. “How do you know?”

His blue eyes size you up. Whatever he finds during his study makes him sit properly. “Sterna told me about it.”

“‘Course,” you mutter under your breath. “Then wouldn’t you know?”

“You think I listened? He’s an idiot.” Duncan grimaces the insult like an overly sour candy. “That’s just the only part that sounded familiar.”

While the only time you spoke to Duncan was to exchange numbers, you’ve heard much about him. Specifically from Mia, and this hostility doesn't match the stories. “Then yeah, it was by the same bar.”

“Huh.” He blinks too slow to be natural. It's all so blatantly coy for a man this observant. “They could be connected, happened at the same time, didn’t they?”

Unsettled, you chew your lip. Duncan wanted to hear a certain answer when all you have left is personal truth. “They did, but I don’t think they’re related.”

“Why not? Fan of the Russian mob idea instead?”

“It’s—“ You sigh, the sound turns into a slight groan at the end. “Meghan’s right, anyone could’ve killed him. It’s wrong to speculate.”

“Thank you,” Meghan grumbles a glare at Duncan. He rolls his eyes and she’s forced to brush off his behavior. “We’re losing sight of what’s important here.”

“Jessie.” Mia plops down. One leg over the other, arms folded to protect whatever’s in her heart.

“Yep..”

Duncan coughs, “He was a good man.”

“Good man.” Ari echoes, soft.

God dammit, tears well up in your vision. The blur is a shroud, a trap that gives you a false sense of privacy. A sniffle escapes you and immediately Meghan walks over. “(Y/n)…”

More pity. Your head shakes multiple times, taking a step back when Meghan gets too close. “No.” There’s a twitch in your hands, they want out your pockets. Want to bang on a wall, grab your face or clothes and you weren’t letting them.

“It’ll be okay,” Meghan whispers, “Jessie wouldn’t want you to tear yourself apart.”

What Jessie would want? Acid bubbles inside your throat, its burn laughable.

Jessie would want to save people, this city from the Russians. Because he's that kind of person. A hero. That’s why you’re so drawn to him, because just maybe, if you were around him long enough, you would be strong too.

‘I sprung a lot on you tonight… And I got a lot to think about myself—I’ll bring some leftovers to work for your lunch if you want.’

It all screams one thing: You need those files.

“I’m going home,” your voice is nasally but freshened by a new determination. “I’ll be back later.”

Before anyone could question, you speed-walk to the door. Once outside, you break out into a run, scaring a group of sparrows in your haste.

Chapter Text

It took a minute of fumbling, dropping keys to find the spare Jessie had given you, primarily because of the constant paranoia throughout the run here.

Nevertheless, Jessie’s door doesn’t speak open like yours. Then the paranoia stops and you’re still. No amount of waiting could prepare seeing his apartment. You weren’t even sure if it fully hit that he’s gone. Of course you knew, but there’s a small little light in your chest waiting for him.

His shoes are carelessly thrown in the shoe shelf he had. Messy as you remember. So nobody has come into his apartment, it’s simply holding its breath, waiting for him to come back. Good.

The door shuts, its click being the last sound you hear, save for the muffled grumbles of the city. “Jessie,” You murmur. His desk is the natural choice to investigate. Ultimately, you knew he wouldn’t be so obvious.

They weren’t stuffed in kitchen drawers, cabinets, cereal boxes, under furniture, or the fridge itself either. The last options were his bathroom or bedroom.

Picking his room, you’re hit with a barrage of scents. Jessie's laundry detergent and linen. Your eyes burn. That little light roars to life, you had to stomp it out. It’s hope chirps away your focus. Later, you offer it. The light obliges and fades away.

With what you consider meticulous effort, you comb through his room but come up empty. The bathroom wasn’t any kinder. You grasp each side of your neck, nails digging into the skin. The search becomes frantic. Clothes were shaken, vent gates were pulled, you rechecked spots. It’s a mess until you start flipping open his books.

You Are a Badass by Jen Sincero. A gag gift his sister gave him when he first became a cop, and in between its pages were the pictures. “Oh thank god.” You tell the book.

Closing up the novel you allow yourself to take in Jessie’s apartment, expecting the little light to return. It didn’t. You’re left to simmer in the empty feeling, reluctant to leave. If you did, it felt like you could never return.

Then the front door clicks open. In an instant, you clutch the book to your chest to either protect it or prevent your heart from slamming out its ribcage.

“Someone’s here.”

“Or, he left the door unlocked.”

Russian. They have Russian accents. Cautious and slow their footsteps creak on the floorboard, waiting to spot someone. You. Fearful they’ll hear it, your breathing stops.

From the window, sunlight paints a shadow detailing Jessie’s fire-escape on the floor. Rearward, you walk toward the window, not breaking sight with the wide-open door.

Once your backside hits the windowsill you pull it open and fling yourself over the window. The contact causes a dull metal ring on the fire-escape. No going back now.

The air bites colder on your face as you clamor down the stairs. It’s impossible the Russian men haven’t heard the noise by now. “Hey!” One booms. You lurch onto the rail, deciding you were close enough to hop off the fire escape.

Impact sends a trill through your legs, but adrenaline helps you sprint through the alleyway, heartbeat roaring under the shadows that cloaked the strait. BANG! Bullet—a bullet. Your body chills like it was dead already, but you’re not, keep running.

Unable to curb the temptation, you look behind. The Russian men were thundering their way along the stairs. Two flashes of brown are the most you make from them.

Not lingering to process their faces longer, you break into the daylight, warm and deceptively safe on the public street. It’s lunchtime, all the New Yorkers walking around provide seamless camouflage, some who heard the gunshot gape at you, a cop running from a gun. Shameful. You ignore them until you lock yourself in a cafe bathroom.

The smell of aloe vera soap disagrees with your stomach and you slump inside a stall, letting a wheeze lull your head against its wall. Hands quivering. To make them stop you grip the book, the innocent self-help novel suddenly the most dangerous thing in your possession.

          After an extended stay in the stall, your weary body drags itself to find another seat at a cafe booth, away from windows. A nearby barista asks if she could get you something, she didn’t look at you as she spoke but you order a coffee and bagel sandwich anyway.

During your wait, you finally scroll through the worried text messages and calls you missed. They came from Meghan primarily, though Mia sent more of the texts.

An ‘I’m fine’ text sat on your fingertips before the recent events to worm their way to the surface. Your vision blurs—you hadn’t gotten away from the Russians. They know enough by just seeing you in a police uniform.

What did the Russians want from Jessie’s apartment? Better yet, how did they know he lived there? You line up with questions that end in a text from Duncan.

‘Blake’s asking about you.’

The AC air blows through you. ‘Why?’

‘He wants to know where you went.’

Every suspicion, doubt, thrown away remark Jessie told you all comes to head. Blake, the Russians, then Karen.

These theories are based on nothing but conditional evidence, coincidences even. Still it’s dishonoring Jessie’s memory to ignore this, not that you could anymore, you’re at least ankle deep in it. That cemented the second you took the files.

‘I told him you went to go get a statement from a civilian for me, that you wanted to keep busy and I offered. So you might want to go do that after you're done with whatever you're up to.’

‘I just went to a cafe

I could’ve told him that myself when I get back’

‘I’m sure you did. But Blake isn’t going to believe that. You need a provable alibi.’

Your fingers twitch. ‘Alibi? I didn’t do anything wrong’

‘It’s not about what you did or didn’t do. It’s about making sure you don’t unintentionally get on Blake’s radar.’

‘Why do you care?’

While Duncan types the barista comes by with a coffee and bagel sandwich. She doesn’t reply to your thanks. Sipping the coffee, its smooth texture stuns you, expecting a cheap-made cup. You read the cafe’s name on a napkin. Sparrow’s Nest.

Duncan replies mid bite of your bagel:

‘Mostly because I didn’t want to go to the lady’s apartment building again, you’ll see why. I’ll give you the address right now.’

‘Mostly isn’t the full answer’

The address sends first. Reading through it you're hooked on the name Elena Cardenas. You heard it around the station more than once.

‘Don’t worry about it, I’m doing you a favor. Just accept the help.’

‘I could just not do it’

‘Yeah, and you’d be in even deeper shit then if you just came back without a word.’ Duncan sends. First time you’ve seen him break up his messages. ‘You still owe me, pawning off my work makes me look bad. Drop off her statement at my desk, I’ll see you later.’

You drop your phone on the table with a sharp huff. Duncan’s words felt like orders. What does he think he’s doing?

Soft bossa nova plays on the cafe speakers the rest of your lunch break and against the odds, you eventually enjoy the music.

          Seeing Elena Cardenas’s apartment complex reminds you why you've heard her name so often. In the even shitter part of Hell’s Kitchen her building is run down and uncared-for by everyone except the tenants, specifically Elena.

She has filed numerous complaints about the living conditions, claiming her landlord hasn’t been abiding by laws she wasn’t actually sure of herself. No one was able to do anything since there was a lack of evidence, despite that Elena kept crawling back. You recall an investigation being conducted a few months ago, though you aren’t sure what came of it.

Jessie’s book is tucked under your arm when you knock. Awkward, but you had nowhere else to put it.

Elena opens the door and the smell of warm spices and wax candles wafts into the hallway. “Officer!” She opens the door wider. Her accent is thick, hispanic, just can’t identify what kind. “Please, come in.’’

“Good afternoon, Ms. Cardenas.” Stepping inside you’re struck by how cozy her home is compared to its building. Flowy curtains, cotton rugs, and a big red pot on top of a stove. You spin to face her, pointing at the pot. “Making lunch?”

“No, no, I make this for our potluck mañana.” Elena walks to the stove, lowering its heat. “They asked me to bring pozole.”

“They?”

“My neighbors.”

“Oh, is there a special occasion?”

“No occasion. We make food every viernes.” Elena unties her apron and hangs it on the oven’s handle. The apron is a cream white. She isn’t the only one who uses it, given the small paint stains on it, weren’t any painting tools around to be the culprit either.

“That’s really sweet.” You're surprised by how much you meant it.

“Sí,” Elena heads over to you with a smile. She motions for you to sit on the couch, but you hesitate. Another problem: You didn’t have a pen and paper to collect her statement.

Tightening your grip on Jessie’s book, you offer Elena a smile. “Excuse me, Ms. Cardenas, but do you have a pen and paper I can use? I… left mine back in the squad car.”

Elena’s mouth makes a small ‘o’ and she adjusts her glasses, scanning her home. She stops to face you. “Lápiz y papel?” With her hands she mimics writing in a notebook.

“Uh, sí.” You blurt. A berative wince follows your expression when she turns away.

“I do, esta…” She walks off to sift through a drawer. “Aqui!” Elena holds up a pen and a worn black notebook.

“Thank you so much,” You accept the items and take a seat. “I’m sorry, I know this is a little unprofessional.”

“It’s nothing.” Elena assures, having a seat in front of yours.

In the notebook, you find a recipe for tapado, more pages reveal other recipes but written in different people’s handwriting. “Ms. Cardenas, are you sure I can write in this? It looks important.” You flash a page toward her.

She leans and behind her oval frames, Elena squints at the page. “No, no, you are fine, officer. We share.”

By ‘we’ you assume her neighbors. Fascinating how tight-knit they are. Not even your own apartment complex, where you all work together, were that close.

“Thank you.” This time you try conveying your sincerity. It works? Elena doesn’t reply, her eyes regard you in a more personal manner before she does.

“De nada.”

The warm yet evaluating tone ducks your head back to the notebook, hastily trying to find a blank page to work with. When you do, your throat clears, with luck, some nerves cough out.

“So, Ms. Cardenas, what’s been going on?”

Elena explains how her landlord, Armand Tully, has been treating everyone in subtle pushes, corporate cruelty, and purposefully making the building uninhabitable.

From broken windows to turning off essential power lines. There’s a lot of damages to unpack.

As you write down everything, Elena even adds how her landlord released rats into the building once. You question that, but she has no reason to lie. The rest of the complaints are serious housing violations anyway.

There’s no reason she should’ve been hounding Hell’s Kitchen police for so long. Doubt from the cafe circles round. You pour it in the pressure you wrote with. “One question, Ms. Cardenas,” Your writing slows. “There was an investigation on your landlord, a few months back I think, do you know what happened?”

“No,” she shook her head, hands going to fold in her lap. “I hear nothing.”

“Oh.”

The silence should’ve been easy to break, there was just the homey bubble from the stove pot. Its slight sizzle burns off the edges of this interaction. Elena’s gaze strikes you, full of hope, and worst of all trust. She just met you, why is she looking at you like some prophet?

An airy exhale trickles out of you. The last thing you’d have in this life would be answers. However, you’re weak against another person’s hope. “I’ll ask around at the station.”

“Gracias, officer, gracias.”

The hope and trust in her eyes bleed into her voice. Defeated, your hands fall into your lap. “I’ll do what I can.” The only thing you could give, offer, provide her.

“First can you read through this? Make sure it’s accurate, then sign at the line I drew on the bottom. The signature is just you saying everything’s true and that you stand by it.”

She accepts the notebook and her eyes scan along the paper. You watch the pattern she follows, bringing the notebook closer then farther after relaxing her brow.

Minutes slow for what feels like the first time since you woke up, it’s not the breath of fresh air you imagined. The pen taps against your thigh, you don’t notice until Elena speaks up, everything pulsing to normal. “I no read English very good,” She admits, “But I trust. You are a good listener.”

“Thank you, but—”

“I sign here?”

“Yes, bu—” Smile on her face, Elena hands you the notebook. That pen goes slack in your hand. “…Thank you for your trust, Ms. Cardenas.” You tear off the page. “I’ll have this sent in right away.”

Standing, Elena offers assurances about her belief in your ability as she leads you to the door. Not in a place to take praise, each syllable adds weight to the book in your arm.

          Contrary to what you told Elena, the first thing you did at the station is hide Jessie’s book in your desk, burying it under stray pieces of paper and files.

“There you are!”

Even though you recognize the lilt, your bones jump out your skin. Fighting every urge, you calmly shut your desk’s drawer. “Hey, Meghan.” Your head lifts and Mia’s alongside her. “And Mia.”

While your tone is light as can be, Mia’s arms were folded, her expression matching the crossed posture. “Where have you been? We’ve been calling.”

Duncan’s warning knocks into your brain. Smug, but right. You cringe. “I’m sorry, I went to a cafe near the apartment. I needed some space.”

Mia’s arms don’t fully unfold, still she visibly backs off. Bet she felt the same way, only she is a lot more collected than you deemed yourself.

“No, we understand.” Meghan fills, “We were worried. You just ran out.”

“Sorry.”

She shakes her head. “Don’t worry about it. I actually got you something while you were away,” There’s a grocery bag at her side, the shape is a tray of something. Pastry or meal.

Truthfully, you’re more stunned by the fact you’re getting such a random gift. To try to get a hint at where this came from, you eye Mia's expression, not much to work with. “Thank you?”

An odd laugh escapes Meghan, too high-pitched. “Please don’t thank me, really.” She brings a tray full of assorted desserts fit for a high-scale tea party. “I just wanted to do something nice for you.”

“Wow, uhm, I appreciate it, Meghan.” You take the tray from her and hold it in your lap, unsure what to make of the gift. Although, the earnestness in Meghan’s eyes made you stand up. “Look I got to drop off something really quick, I’ll see you guys later.” Your exit is quick to leave no space for questions or sympathetic apologies.

In spite of that, the desserts slow your pace—adding a pitstop to the break room to store it in the fridge. Politely, you wrote a note saying not to touch it.

If there was one good thing about the 15th precinct it would be that everyone minded their business in the break room. At Long Island, it wasn’t crazy to find missing lunches or tampered with tupperware. Nobody was scared of anyone there.

On the counter you flatten out Elena’s statement before passing by Duncan’s desk. Thankfully, he's there, hand grazing through his auburn hair. “Hey,” He raises a brow when he notices you. “Got the statement I assume?”

“I did,” You hand him the paper. Duncan gives you a look at the type of paper you brought. “I didn’t have anything else on me.”

“Right. I’m not judging.”

Duncan reads over the statement, not a single reaction to the housing violations at all. “I have some questions,” You say, “About Ms. Cardenas’s case.”

He doesn’t look up from the paper. “It’s not a case, it’s a complaint but go ahead.”

You flex your hands. “Who assigned this to you?” Duncan’s gaze darts off to the side for a brief moment and the tension in you relaxes.

“Carl Hoffman.” He stares at you now, nothing in his eyes. “What about it?”

Detective Hoffman is the perfect name for you to hear, he works closely with Blake. The pair were a station all of their own. Whatever Blake knows, Hoffman most likely knew.

“Nothing. Just… why couldn’t he do it himself?” The question is redundant. Both you and Duncan could deduce why Hoffman wouldn’t take on the case, but how Duncan would phrase it will be new.

“Because he’s a detective. He told me he had more important things to handle instead of Ms. Cardenas’s list of complaints all the time.”

“So he’s looked into her situation before?”

“He has.”

“And that doesn’t bother you? I mean, there’s obvious laws being broken here. Elena has witnesses, she’s a witness, and nothing is happening for her.”

Duncan sets Elena’s statement on his desk to scrutinize you, like he’s double checking his work. “What are—”

“Officer (L/n).”

The vibrations of Blake’s voice are felt from the end of your spine all the way up your back. “Detective.” You turn, forcing yourself to square your shoulders at him to make up for your panicked tone.

His hands are at his hips and one comes up to motion you closer. “A word, please.”

Detective Blake leads you to a casted away corner of the station, behind, Duncan watches. You two make eye contact and Duncan turns away to his desk.

“I realize that you are going through a lot right now, Officer.” Blake begins, “but running out the station without a word is completely unacceptable. I am in charge of you all throughout this transfer. I can’t have officers coming and going as they please, especially after what happened to McNair. If you need to step out, you tell me. Do you understand that?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I expected better from you. What you did was unprofessional of any officer. You should be ashamed.”

Swallowing the dry feeling in your mouth, it frees up space to utter, “Yes, sir.”

“To discipline your actions, you’ll be working at the station late tonight.“ He folds his arms, “This won’t happen again, alright?”

“No, sir.”

Quiet this time.

“Go back to work.”

You nod, and that head stays down the rest of the way to your desk. The wings you’ve been flying with the past hour clipped, bringing you down to who you really are.

Chapter Text

By night’s end, you drank all three coffees Meghan gave. Aside from her, the rest of the transfers went home, leaving you sitting at the adults table for the first time.

The station’s calmer than expected at this hour. No whispering, private meetings, stealing. Just people doing their work. If something was odd, it would be the absence of Blake or Hoffman anywhere.

“Do you need number four yet?”

It’s Meghan’s voice but your mind needed a good three blinks to make the connection. “Uhm, no, I’m fine…” Meghan wore her dark green coat and her purse is under it, the beige strap slipping out. You force a chuckle, “Finally going home?”

She adjusts her coat. “Yep, forensics is starting to wrap up for the night.” Prolonging a pause, Meghan puffs up her chest. “And I got my work done early.”

“Hey, good job.” Her pride makes your smile easier to maintain. “Enjoy your night for me. I might be stuck here for a while.”

“Blake still hasn’t set you free, huh?”

“I haven’t even seen him.”

“Oh,” Meghan frowns. “Are you sure you don’t want me to make you another coffee? It’s no trouble.”

Just the concept of more caffeine in your stomach twists it green, and you don’t hesitate listening to the protest. “I’m sure, it’ll probably do more harm than good if I drink any more.”

“Alright, I’ll see you tomorrow then.”

“Yeah. Be safe.”

Meghan freezes mid-turn but coughs to cover it. “I will. You be safe too, okay?” She avoids your eyes, the behavior sits you up, though you don’t comment on it.

“…Okay.”

A second where Meghan only stares passes before she smiles and resumes her exit. Once she’s gone you rub your forehead with both hands, staring at nearly complete Karen’s report on your desk.

For the nth time tonight, you shoo away thoughts wondering how Karen was doing, especially the ones that suggested you visit. “Just a little more.” You tell yourself, even so, your mind couldn’t work until it checked Jessie’s book in your drawer.

          It took you longer than it should’ve to finish the report. It’s 1:48 am. You stood up, scanning the station, everyone’s gone but it wasn’t silent. A series of rumbles reverberate from the station’s west wing. The holding cells. You hurry toward the sound and start running when you hear forceful grunts down the hall. Someone's in pain.

Skidding on your heels, you discover Officer Clyde Farnum pulling Karen’s bed sheets taut around her throat. Ice infuses in your bones. The terror it brings powers you forward into the cell, a taser already in hand.

“Hey!” You lash the device out, about to make contact before Clyde Farnum just stops.

Tears and hopeless wails racking out of him, he lets go of Karen, his expression tortured to the point anyone will think he’s the one being choked.

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, God! I—” His cries were anchored up to the ceiling, to the god he was begging to. Clyde collapses against the wall, hands splayed on his thighs, quivering. “Please..”

Karen’s gasps keep you focused, she’s on all fours with one hand on her throat. You bend down to help her up but she battles your touch instantly, her hands push you with a fervor that nicks your arm.

“Shh, Karen, it’s me.” You catch her hands, squeezing. “Remember me? I want to help you.”

Her head barely tilts, the corners of her eyes are blood-red and on her neck the beginnings of a nasty bruise bloom around it. Karen’s breaths steady, a good sign. “Let's get you out of here.”

As you guide Karen out, you speak more coaxes to keep her attention, not once does your vision stray from Clyde. He doesn’t look away either, his eyes went through you, a tear or two fell from them yet other than that they were dead. You lock the cell's gate; its barred shadows across his frame.

“I’m sorry.” His lips hardly move.

None of this didn't make sense, your first day in Hell’s Kitchen Clyde told you what areas to never walk alone in because he ‘has a daughter in a new place too.’

Eyes on Clyde, you bring a hand onto Karen’s back. Her body is tucked trembling against your shoulder. “Karen,” you murmur. She tightens her grip on your uniform, you rub her back, feeling the tremors that echo down it. “Karen, nod if you can breathe okay? I need to know if something in your throat is damaged.”

She nods. You pass a breath. While your heart is still beating throughout your entire body the tension in your shoulders eases, Karen sinks deeper into them. Her baby hairs brush your neck. “Good, that’s good.” Finally, you break eyes from Clyde to see Karen’s head against you. “Can you walk?”

The attempt is hesitant, she shakes in each movement. you aid Karen to her full height. “There you go,” you stay near once you let go. “Follow me, I’ll handle this.”

          Throughout the rest of the night and the following afternoon, you’re at Karen’s side. Speaking to other officers, physicians in her stead, and trying to provide her a sense of comfort. Or protection.

“Your lawyers showed up a little while ago.” You reenter Karen’s room in the examiner’s office. She sat on the bed, curled into herself like a husk. “Officer Mahoney told me.”

“What’s going to happen?” Her pitch is wained but it’s been improving. The physician ruled Karen would recover due time.

“They’re going to get you out, I’m pretty sure.” The water bottle in your hand slips while you talk, almost drop it by not noticing. “And probably sue the station.”

Karen lifts her head. “Oh.”

You try out a smile. “Don’t stress over it, we’ll hear from them soon.”

“Yeah,” her stare falls to the bottle of water. “Is… Is that for me?”

Dasani water. Not a crowd favorite, but what the vending machine had. “Uh, yeah. I got this for you, thought you’d appreciate some water.” Unscrewing the bottle, it’sThe cap slips out your hand, it rolls on under the bed when it lands. Your hand stalls mid-air. “Sorry—I’m a little tired.”

“It’s fine,” Karen accepts the water. “And thank you, a lot.”

“Of course,” You fish the cap from the bed. There‘s a reluctance in your rise back up. “It’s my job.”

“I know…” Karen stops herself from saying more, her attention forced down to the water bottle she drinks out of. For two breaths you consider prompting her, then Detective Blake storms into the office. You and Karen jump at the sound, even the sight of him.

The usual confident demeanor is strained on Blake, from wherever he was last night. His suit is rumpled and he needed a moment to unclench his jaw. “Officer.” He nods. “I’m here for Miss Page.”

“Am I being released?” The question flies out her mouth. A beat. She grows smaller in the silence, a stare given to you and Blake. “Uhm, I meant—” Karen clutches her water bottle closer.

“Yes, you are being released, Miss Page.” Blake cuts. He prepares a cordial tone but doesn't look at Karen as he speaks, instead his eyes catch on you. “Your lawyers insist you are brought to their office. An officer or other relative can come get you.”

“I don’t have any relatives that live around here.”

“Then—”

All it took was a look from Karen’s bright blue eyes to find your voice. You knew exactly where her mind is, she trusts you. It causes a flutter in your lower back. Wings and will.

“I’ll take her.”

That clench in Blake’s jaw returns. “Of course.”

“I’ll take the squad car and bring it back to the apartment. I mean, I’m off the clock now, right? I worked late.”

Blake flicks his gaze down to his pocket, an outline of his phone in it. He sighs, eyes shut. “Yeah, you did, Officer. Go ahead.” Immediately, you turn to Karen but Blake takes two halting strides. “I will still be taking Miss Page. She has forms and other belongings to collect.” He drawls this final bit: “She’ll meet you outside.”

“Oh.. right.” Stepping back, the water bottle gripped in Karen’s hand reminds you still had the cap. You retrace those prior steps to give it. “I’ll see you soon, Miss Page.” For her sake, you put as much assurance and sincerity in your tone as you could.

Karen nods. Her lips part before she replies, it makes her sound raspy. “See you.”

          Out in the station’s front, your bag swings on your fingers while walking. Jessie’s book is buried at the bottom of it. The air is smoky, however, you’re too exhausted to care. Overhead, a quartet of robins tweet by. Their reddish bellies match the sunset painted sky.

“Oh- Hey! Officer (L/n)!”

The swinging gradually stops, further down the sidewalk Matt and Foggy walk closer. Foggy’s strides were much quicker. “I’m super glad we found you.” He continues.

“Mr…” The greeting awkwardly floats in the air—you didn’t know their last names.

“Gah, save the mister-talk.” He waves off the formality. “Just call me Foggy. We’re past that now. Right, Matt?”

Matt steps up, cane held in both hands near his chest. “Yeah, I would say so. Detective Blake told us you were the one to save Miss Page.” He opens his mouth to add more but shuts it when Foggy jumps in.

“Yeah, we really wanted to thank you for that.”

“Ah, well… It’s nothing you should thank me for. Any half-decent cop would’ve done what I did.” The words taste like a lie, specifically here. “I'm actually taking her to your office right now. She’s just collecting some things inside.”

“Great!”

You eye the duo. Their wind-tousled hair and original spot on the sidewalk tilts your head. “Did you two walk here?”

Foggy rubs the nape of his neck. “Yeahh, our office isn’t too far. Just a few hops and a lot of skips.”

“Oh.” You mumble, “Do you want to come with us? We’re going to the same place anyway.”

His face falls, mouth agape. “Are you offering us a ride in your police car?”

Trying to hide from your own banging heartbeat, you shrug, raise a shoulder to high, and make the heartbeat problem worse. “I mean, one of you will have to sit in th—”

“Nope, nope. Whatever condition it is, I don't care. This is the coolest thing a cop has ever done for me.” He spins to Matt, whose head is slanted in your direction. “We’re taking this offer, Matt.”

Matt straightens his neck, the tense expression he held softens to a quirk in his lips. “Yes, sir.”

A laugh bubbles out of Foggy, he adjusts the leather strap on his satchel like a backpack. Ready for this ‘adventure.’ “This is so awesome! You’re the best, officer.”

“I’m actually off work, no need to call me ‘officer’ still.”

“Even better.” He shakes your hand. “You’re the best, (Y/n).”

It’s just your name. Yet the energy flows out Foggy as a breeze, warming a part of your chest you didn’t know could get cold.

“Thanks. Follow me.” You usher them to squad car 308. The blue NYPD sticker across its doors is new and bright, all the cars were redone in preparation for the transfers. Make the place look nice. “One of you are going to have to sit in the back with Miss Page so…”

“Oh I definitely want to sit in the back.” Foggy says, already walking to the door.

“Really?”

“Really?”

“Jinx.” Foggy calls in you and Matt’s place.

Matt doesn’t react, no furrow in his brow, clench of his cane, or anything readable. “I never had someone willingly go in the back,” your gaze returns to Foggy. “Most people usually want to sit in the front.”

Foggy grins. “Do I look like most people?” His remark sounds less like a sentence and more so a phrase, something he’s said before.

“Is that rhetorical?”

You practically jerk when Matt snickers beside you. “Let him have it.” He says, a true smile on his lips.

“Right.” It took a good few blinks to set yourself straight. “Knock yourself out, Foggy.”

“Aye-aye.”

While Foggy gets himself buckled in, you and Matt remain standing. “Do you need…?” Uncertain if the question’s rude, you trail off. Matt didn’t appear to be listening anyway. “Matt?”

He anchors his body your way. “Sorry, thought I heard someone just now.” Matt taps his cane on the ground, he’s smiling again but it’s all courtesy. “Front seat, you said?”

“Yeah.”

Nodding, Matt finds the passenger door, you’re about to join till you do a quick scan around the station parking lot.

By the front Karen is standing there in new clothes, arms bunched up holding a small purse. Your attention flicks toward Matt in the car, Foggy is tapping on the window partition to antagonize him.

“Miss Page!” You wave an arm to signal her over. She perks up and hurries to the car, looking over her shoulder. Twice.

“Hey,” Karen fusses with different things on her body. Hair, bag, and pulls down her shirt. The black tee a tight fit. “Sorry I missed you there.”

“No, it’s alright. Don’t worry.” You finish your once-over on Karen. “Are you okay?”

She hums, “Yes, I’m fine. Just… so much going on, you know?”

“Of course, yeah, I get it.” The silence you create lasts far too long. Both in duration and the courage to end it.

“So I, uh, offered your lawyers to come ride with us on the way to their office. I hope that’s alright with you.”

“Oh.” Karen looks over to the car. Her eyes roam along the window until they halt, making contact with either Matt or Foggy. “Yeah, that’s fine. I’ll go sit in the back.”

You follow her and slide into the driver, bag at your feet. Signaling to the backseats, you ask if they’re ready. Foggy returns a thumbs-up, Karen nods.

After putting their office’s address into the GPS, the car starts. As you exit the parking lot Matt clears his throat. “I’m actually glad we have this time together. I have some questions for you about Officer Farnum.”

The automated female speaker tells you to go left at the approaching stop sign. You drop a hand from the wheel. “I can try, but I probably know less than you think I do.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’m a transfer from Long Island. I’ve only been here for three weeks.”

Matt doesn’t speak until you go through the stop. “So I’m guessing you haven’t had many encounters with Officer Farnum then.”

“No, not exactly. My first day here, Farnum came up to me and talked about Hell’s Kitchen. He told me places to avoid, spots to eat, and even recommended products to make my apartment feel safer. He said because he has a daughter somewhere new too. It was really sweet.”

“Was that your only interaction with him? Aside from last night.”

“Pretty much.” Subconsciously, your fingers start to drum on the wheel. “It doesn’t make sense, I know. None of this lines up with how he acted when I found him with Karen, he just gave up and started crying. He didn’t want to kill her, I know it. Farnum would never kill anyone, unless…”

“Unless someone forced him to.” Matt finishes.

The drumming stills. First your eyes simply glance, then divert from the road to stare. The setting sun sneaks through the buildings and hits his red-lenses, its orange light making them seem on fire. You’re not used to lawyers thinking like that—with that fire. Matt inches his head toward yours, as if he knew.

In a flash, you’re suddenly all about driving to make up for that shameless distraction. “Yeah.” You wipe at nothing on your mouth.

“Who do you think gave the order?”

“I have no clue. He doesn’t seem like a man to have those kinds of enemies. Maybe he was at the wrong place at the wrong time, or maybe the Russians got to him.”

His reply is intense, abrupt. Hard to tell if it's suspicion or urgency. “What do you know about the Russians?”

“Nothing nobody can find out for themselves.” Chewing your lip, a large area of your mind screens the taxis on the street. None the one you need. “It was just an idea. I mean, there’s been a rise in their activity lately.” Matt hums, it's knowing, you acknowledge. “The bigger question is why target Miss Page? For control? Money?”

“Revenge?”

“Fear?”

“Fear,” you see Matt rear forward, rubbing a hand along his jaw. “They’re scared.”

Traffic yields to a break, the surplus of cars permits a look at Matt without legal guilt. “They?”

He sits up. “The ADA was required to charge Miss Page four hours ago, but they didn’t. Instead, they waited. And conveniently Miss Page was almost killed overnight.”

“They didn’t want to charge her.” You lean an elbow on the armrest, eyes narrowed on Matt’s side of the dash. “This goes to trial, everything comes out.”

“Exactly!” Matt careens to you. The hurried motion married with the loudest you’ve heard him garners a flinch.

He pauses, and you’re stunned he noticed. “Sorry, I got carried away.” Just slightly, Matt lowers volume. “Didn't mean to scare you.”

Matt’s close enough you could see the brown eyes behind his glasses. They were unfocused yet held your focus. “No, you’re fine.” Your head shakes, an action the beat of your pulse hasn't caught up to. Resuming the drive, traffic is more manageable after you make a left to reroute the GPS. “I’m just jumpy. You can continue.”

“Right.” He coughs, pulling back. It's easier to breathe without him in your space. “I was thinking there was something else in her apartment that night. Evidence, of some kind… But what?”

You sigh, “Not sure.”

“Mhm.” Matt audibly relents. Nobody pushes further. The entire way there you replay the past 24 hours over and over, it's a miracle you don’t crash.

Each go around Jessie’s ghost screams, and after that discussion with Matt, you’re more inclined to listen.

Again, you risk a glance. The sun is hidden beyond buildings, its absence leaves Matt all sharp and unapproachable edges. “You ask good questions.”

His expression doesn’t change, you assume he didn't hear. Then he scares you once more, with an equally as quiet, “Yeah, well, it helps when the other person has good answers.”

          The firm is sparse. No plaques. No paper trails. While the lighting is warm, it has no substance. You slump against the doorframe, watching Karen sit like she’s waiting for someone to wake her up.

“Matt?” He hums, bringing you a chair. “I know you said your practice is new but… How new?”

“We actually bought the office yesterday morning.” Matt gently swings the chair onto the floor. “Please, have a seat.”

Realistically, you would’ve preferred standing. The office smells like paint and new carpet glue—too clean. And the office has hardwood floors. Matt appears perfectly acclimated, and the nonchalance winds you up further, but take the seat anyway. “Thank you.”

A steaming mug in each hand, Foggy enters through the door you leant on. “Couldn’t find any milk.” He hands you both one. “Hope it’s okay.”

“We have tea now?” Matt remarks.

“I stole it from the financial office next door.”

Tea. You regard the brown liquid, its vapors fan your face. Those three coffees simmer in your stomach. Regardless, you brought it closer to sniff its floral aroma. “What kind is it?”

“Uhh, some kind of Oolong tea. I think.” Foggy waves toward the door, “But they had buckets of that stuff. Figured they wouldn't miss one box.”

“Clever.”

Matt passes Foggy to take a seat in front of Karen, his cane propped on his shoulder. “How are you holding up?”

Karen looks from her mug. “Better,” she swivels her head to you, Foggy, then back to Matt. “Thanks for getting me out.”

“Don’t thank us yet.” Foggy steps closer to your chair. “Just because they released you doesn’t mean they won’t eventually bring charges.”

“Which means it’s crucial you don’t speak to anyone other than the three of us about what happened.” Matt gestures his hand in a circle.

“I don’t have anyone to talk to, anyway.” She sips the tea to hide her face. You copy the motion. One slow sip. The warmth doesn’t settle your stomach.

“Do you have anywhere you can stay tonight?”

“My apartment’s not far.” Karen’s voice grows smaller. It matches how she shrinks into herself.

Right away Foggy shakes his head. “You can’t go back there.”

She looks at you, her blue eyes pure defeat. Throughout the brief time you’ve known Karen, she always had that prick of life, of fight. A survivor in every sense. But not now, the city got her. You set the mug in your lap. “He’s right, Miss…?”

“Please. Call me, Karen.” She utters, the request is breathy.

“Karen,” Shoulders back, chin up. She needs a cop right now. “It would be incredibly dangerous for you to go back home. What I can recommend is you stay with one of us until this settles down.”

“Keeping her with you would be the best idea.” Foggy pulls his hands out their pockets and wipes them on his trousers. “You are the cop here. It’s 911 right outside your door.”

“No,” Karen vehemently shakes her head. One drop of tea spills from her cup, either because of her moving head or the erratic fingers holding it. “No. I couldn’t- I can’t make you do this.”

You tense like you’re waiting for something to break. “You aren’t making me do anything, I want to do this. Protecting people is my job.”

“No, not from them—“

“Who’s ‘them?’” Your eyebrows knit together. In front of you, Matt shifts in his seat, easy to bet he’s wondering the same thing.

Everyone stiffens for a lengthy beat. “Karen,” Matt tries, “Our immediate priority is to keep you safe. And in order to do that, we’re gonna need to have a frank discussion.”

Karen’s reply waits for her to take a deep breath before coming out. Although, she does manage to look Matt in the eyes, even if for a second. Maybe his shades made it easier. “Okay.”

“Do you know who’s trying to kill you?” Matt is instant with the question, to the point his typical eloquence breaks. There's a calm impatience about it. Urgency or suspicion, you still couldn't tell.

“No.”

“Do you know why they’re trying to kill you?”

That one throws her. It’s in her face when she lifts it, you wore a similar expression in the car. An odd blend of mostly impressed and guarded—those emotions seem flipped for Karen. You half-anticipated her to lie.

Instead, she whispers: “Yes.”

Sitting straight in his chair Matt signals to Foggy. “On it.” He nods and walks down a hall on the other side of the office.

“We’d like to interview you further, a recorded one. Get this all on tape for the future.” Matt stands up. “Is that alright?”

“Uhm, yeah–yes. Just let me…” Karen searches for a spot to put down her tea.

“I’ll take it.” You ease the mug from her grip. She murmurs a ‘thank you.’

“You can join too,” Matt mentions. Squashing the doubt that kept you in your seat. “If Karen doesn’t mind.”

“I don’t mind.”

Now you’re aware it’s just an offer but your body didn’t agree. It needed to be in that room, to figure out what was going on. “I’d be happy to.”

The job isn’t finished.

Chapter Text

BEEP!

Karen rubs her hands once the recorder turns on, weakly clearing her throat. “I, uh, work—worked in the financial department at Union Allied. They’re overseeing the bulk of the government contracts for the West Side reconstruction.”

In your peripheral, Foggy taps a pen against his green notebook. “I’ve seen their signs all over Hell’s Kitchen.”

“I hear the station talk a lot about Union Allied too,” your arms fold closer to your chest than they should be. “Jessie shut down a lot of streets for their construction.”

It was half the reason he was so restless.

“Yeah,” Karen stares at her fidgeting hands. “Danny, he… He filed tons of paperwork for the police. Contracts, warrants, that kind of stuff.” She stops to wipe her nose. “He was swamped with the business we’ve been getting.”

“Half of New York got destroyed, I imagine all construction companies are trying to get money off the rebuild.” Matt muses. He scarcely shifts in his seat adjacent to yours, the one closest to the door.

“Union Allied absolutely got money off it.” There’s a bitter humor in that, subtle under Karen’s fragile voice but not hidden. “I was the secretary for the chief accountant. And one of my jobs was to coordinate the pension claims for the company. About a week ago, I was emailed a file called, ‘Pension Master.’ It must have been meant for my boss, but I made the mistake of opening it.”

You hum involuntarily. It’s a case as old as time, you didn’t need to hear the next part to realize what that pension fund really meant. Embezzling filled most of the gaps you couldn't name. Matt lifted his head. “I'm guessing it wasn't the pension fund.” He says.

Karen purses her lips, shaking her head. Her volume hushes to a conspiratorial murmur. “It wasn't the size of the pension fund.” The room shrinks and the air burdens the badge on your chest. It’s telling you the job is done, that you should’ve left a long time ago. You and Foggy lean in.

“I couldn't believe the numbers. But it was still being designated as company pension. And it was constantly adjusted. Money coming in and money going out.”

The tapping of Foggy’s pen silences. “Going where?”

“I dunno. It was coded routing numbers, but we are talking a lot of money.” Karen gives a grave look to each of you, making sure her severity is fully understood.

Matt points his head back down. “What did you do with the file?”

“Well, I told my boss, Mr. McClintock, about it, and he laughed it off. He said that it was a theoretical model that they were screwing around with. I knew something was wrong. I just—I thought maybe it was just him, you know? Embezzling or whatever.”

“So, how did Daniel Fisher figure into this?”

A mournful smile bites Karen’s lips, the pain required to pull it off leaks into her eyes. Every color on her face is saturated. The redness on her nose, lips, and cheeks. It demands you unfold your arms. They’re poised on the sides of your chair, ready to react.

“Danny worked in the legal department. And I didn't know him very well. But he was nice, so I asked him to meet me after work. I don't know how they knew. They must have people watching me. They must have people everywhere.”

That shift you sensed now out for anyone perceptive enough to find. She’s crying, a quiet crumble. “All I did was ask him for a drink. And I start to tell him about what I found and things got blurry. Like–like I was drugged. And the next thing I know, I wake up back in my apartment, covered in blood.” Karen looks at you. “They killed him… because of me. And he had a family. A little boy.”

Her voice cracks there and she rubs her arms, scuffing them red. Karen's gaze flickers to the door. Then her chair scrapes. She’s on her feet, beelining to the door. “I need to get out of here I'm sorry.”

To block her advance, you and Foggy stand:

“We can’t advise that.”

“Karen, please.”

”No,” She begs, “You don’t understand—”

You step in front of Foggy, hands on her shoulders. “I completely understand.” A blurry sensation overtakes your mouth. You aren’t aware of what you’re saying or even doing, only what you were feeling.

“I know you’re scared. I know everything feels like it’s falling apart. But I need you to stay Karen, because if you walk out that door, there’s no one watching your back.”

Within the silence your speech causes, your pulse evens and you're intimately mindful of the faces you were getting. Your cheeks warm to a hot flush, but there is nowhere to hide.

Karen’s lip trembles. “I can't—” She's cut off by how hoarse she sounds. You squeeze her shoulders. If it were for your comfort or Karen’s, the line is poorly drawn. “I cannot let someone else die because of me.”

“And I can't let someone walk away knowing they need my help, not again.”

By a thread, she stays. You let go of her shoulders. Behind, Foggy passes a long sigh. “Think that's a good spot to end for the night.” He announces, “Where'd you say you live again?”

          The light switch stuck the way it always did—had to hit it twice before the kitchen gave in. The lights twitch, they’re slightly yellow in hue. You drop your bag beside the counter’s end cap. It’s thunk mirrors your own fatigue.

“Thank you.”

Karen’s voice is a mere flutter, the first thing she said since leaving Nelson & Murdock. “Of course.” You didn’t know why you were whispering. It was your apartment, but Karen made the air too fragile. arms crossed over her stomach like she didn’t know where to stand without disappearing.

“I’ll set up the couch for you,” You walk to your couch and remove the ornamental pillows you owned in place for a proper one. “I’ve been told it’s actually pretty comfy.”

Karen doesn’t move yet you feel her eyes track you. “Really?”

“Really. I’ve had friends over a few times.” You hand out a dark green blanket to Karen, an unspoken invitation. She inches closer. When she accepts the blanket her nostrils flare and she blinks at the fabric.

“Sorry, your blanket… It smells really nice.”

Shaking your head, you smile. “No, you’re fine. I did laundry on Wednesday. Had to get out the barbecue stains my friend Mia spilled on it.” A time everyone thought they’d go home to Long Island. Half true.

She hums and slowly sinks onto the couch, curling the blanket to her chest. “Is she a cop too?” Her eyes steal glances at you, none long enough to hold contact.

“Yeah, she’s a cop, we all were.” Her eyes meet yours then, surprisingly gentle. Feeling a bit too seen, you cough. “She actually lives a few doors down. All the Long Island transfers do.”

The heaviness in your eyes haul you to a seat, facing the door you saw Jessie for the last time at. On repeat your mind recalls the hug Jessie gave you before he left. Trust, linen, and gasoline. You drink in every detail, even the ones you were making up.

“If,” she stammers, “if the same people that killed Danny killed your friend I‘m—”

“Are you hungry?” Two hands drag along your face to your neck. The memory stops, giving space for thoughts you rather avoid. ”I mean–I can make us something,” Your vision blurs from staring at your front door for so long. “If you want.”

One sniffle, five beats. Hugging the blanket tighter, Karen finally speaks. “Can I help?” It’s a gutless plea, said with less voice than air.

Glad she understood your own plea, you stand, blinking yourself to the present moment. “Sure, uhm, there's pasta and rice but I only have one pot so we'll have to pick.”

“One pot?”

“I had to buy all my own cookware. And I may have gone a bit underboard in my spending.“

“You should see mine,” Karen half-smiles at the floor. City lights from outside strike through your window, the yellow illuminating her pink lips in a blend of fuzzy shades. “I was so scared to buy anything for some reason.”

“I just didn't want to go broke here.”

That earns a watery laugh, she sets the blanket aside to follow you in the kitchen. “That’s fair.”

“I'm glad you think so, because I really do have only one of everything.” You fish for your ash pot and place it on the counter. “Aside from plates and decorative mugs.”

Her eyes switch from the pot to you, eyebrows raised. “Decorative mugs? Do you…”

“Have a mug collection?” You scrunch your face. “Yes, yes I do.” Karen bites down humor. Holding up your palms, you use the left hand to flick open a cabinet. “I enjoy a cute mug.”

Almost carefully, Karen approaches the cabinet, eyes roving the shelves. You hear her light exhale. “These are really cute.” She reaches for a mug shaped into a rubber duck. “Aw.”

“Do you like ducks?” You question, “Or just the rubber variety?"

“I like ducks.” Karen traces the duck’s wing with her thumb. “Back home, we had a family of ducks at my school. I loved the baby ones,” she chuckles, holding the duck level with her face. The pearly black eyes of the duck gape at her. “I tried to take one home once.”

For the first time all day, you want to laugh. “Well, I’ll let you drink out that one after we make dinner. Can’t say I’ll let you take it home, though.”

“I’d like that.” She sets the duck on your counter and faces you. Her smile barely lifts her lips, but it settles in her eyes.

“Great.”

          Aftershocks of cooking oil and pasta waft through the apartment long after dinner. The original plan was rice, but when Karen found Alfredo sauce in your fridge, her eyes gleamed.

Food coma or plain exhaustion, Karen is curled in that dark green blanket, sound asleep. Her comfort level is questionable; she’s sitting up bent at an awkward angle.

Scared to wake her, you stayed on the couch before stealing your nerves to sit at the end of the counter.

Jessie’s book is cast aside to leave room for the file pictures in a 4x4 format. Directly in front, your laptop burns its blue light into your eyes even at the lowest brightness. By now, you could only hope you haven't rubbed off all your lashes.

For the next hour and a half you’re there. Scouring the photos until your mind can’t stand the color yellow anymore, next time you see a taxi, you wouldn't dare imagine your reaction.

A pitiful groan spills from you, there had to be something in here, the Russian mob broke into his apartment for these.

Every bodily cell screams at you to put this away, just for the night it begs. Stop punishing yourself, take off your uniform, rest. The devils are persuasive, whispering promises as they guide your head further, and further on the granite.

          You awake to a noise, too disoriented to comprehend what noise, but you’re sure it wasn't solely the pouring rain. Then, outlined by the citylights you see a black mass hanging onto the top edge of your window, his face covered in a dark cowl, leaving a mouth and stubbled jaw visible. More shadow than he is man.

Blood drains to your legs and you race to the window, now incredibly grateful you kept your uniform on, slinging out your gun, you point it at the man. “Stay there.” You rasp despite an entire wall between you two.

Somehow the man hears you, one of his hands lets go of the window to hold it up. Cautious, and with your gun steadied, you open the window an inch. In pours the earthy smell of petrichor into the apartment, its freshness resharpening your senses.

On the windowsill, the man swings a foot on it to take pressure off his arm. You flinch at the maneuver. Immediately the man juts his hand to stop you, his voice tired and tonal. “Don’t shoot, I’m not here to hurt you.”

“Then why are you here?”

“She’s gone.”

Your gun lowers. “What?”

He nudges his head toward the living room, the couch—the couch where Karen was supposed to be. Hidden under the clicks of rain and your distraction, the man glides onto the floor, you only realize he’s inside when the window shuts. His new proximity gears your pulse. “What did you do to her!?”

“Nothing,” The man draws back. “I want to find her.”

“How did you know she was here? Actually, how do you know who she is?” When he doesn’t answer, you step forward, finger on the trigger. “Who, are you?” The question delivers with a danger you didn’t know you could convey. The man feels it too, his lips part then firmly shut later.

“Answer me.”

“Put the gun down.”

“No.”

The standoff stays that way, neither of you waive your stances, and although the man’s eyes are concealed you swear he’s looking straight at you. It’s unnerving. “I know someone in the police,” The man points to the window. “They told me she was here.” You’re about to ask who but he shakes his head, like he heard it already. “I can’t say who, you just need to trust me. I want to find her. Did she tell you where she lives?”

Details of Karen’s homicide case replay themselves, Sterna’s in most of them, albeit unwillingly. Your shoulders sink beneath the bloody memories. “Yeah, she did.”

“Let me help,” he dares a step closer. “She could be in danger.”

Frankly, the man was beginning to convince you for reasons someone wearing a badge should never consider. “Why shouldn’t I call the police?”

“You know why.”

Blunt and true, you phase from his words as if they hit you. Their power knocked down any fight you had left. Holstering your gun, the man blows out a breath.

“Follow me.” You grab your boots. “She lives on the other side of town.” Once they’re tied you head to the door, murmuring. “We can take the squad car, be there quick.”

The man doesn’t respond, yet he’s sharp on your heels the whole journey to the parking lot.

          Under the rain, the man prevents you from entering Karen’s building with a grazed touch on your arm, aware you’d jump at that much. Or little. “There’s someone in her apartment.” He whispers. “They’re waiting for her to come in.”

“How—” The man shushes you, gesturing you to trail behind him. On the way up the stairs, he explains his plan. He’ll handle the intruder. You get Karen safe. There’s one more condition he saves when you're both at Karen’s door, his covered eyes pointed near your firearm.

“No killing.”

Not once have you shot to kill. Only harm, disarm, or distract. You’re thankful for that. Still the man said it like he believes you would. Granted, he didn’t know you, but it hurt. “I wouldn’t do that.” His head tips up toward your voice.

Uncomfortably, you have nowhere to really look at except his lips.

A shriek snaps your heads to the door and the subsequent thump almost has you swinging it open before the man tugs you back. “Don’t,” he murmurs by your ear. “Wait for my signal.”

It takes a lot to stay put, went as far to try freeing the arm he stopped you with. Unreactive, he simply holds it tighter, his grip resolute. When he does let go, it’s to push you forward. “Now!”

The two of you dash through the door, inside another man stood in front of Karen‘s slumped frame, holding a knife. Neither the masked man beside you nor the intruder reacts to the shock—he swings the knife at you both, the masked man sidesteps left and drives his shoulder into the intruder, crashing him into a table.

“Karen,” you hold her shoulders to avert her attention from the fighting beyond. “Karen, listen to me, we need to get you out right now. Come on.”

“No. The file!” Despite shaking her head Karen allows you to pull her along. “He—!”

With too much force you drive her to the doorway. “Forget it, Karen!” Contrary to your actions those words are a plea. You’re halfway across the threshold when your own feet stop, and you don’t even resist the impulse.

Turning to Karen’s apartment, the masked man is hurling the intruder at the wall. His impact breaks a glass lamp, the shards of it catch the light coming in from the window next to it. The man pants, “Go!” He catches the intruder’s bladed charge and shifts the momentum upward to kick himself off the windowsill, spinning the intruder around. “Get out!”

Some part of you protests not helping him, but luckily it’s easy to squash. “C’mon, let’s go.” Gripping Karen’s icy hand, you lead her down the stairs.

Midway to the bottom, there's a shattering crash then a chain of booms that seem to descend the building. Karen stutters a question if the noise is her window, you don’t answer, instead squeeze her hand. “That man in your apartment, was he the one you think drugged you at the bar? Do you recognize him?”

She lets out a desperate breath. “Yes.” There were too many nods for you to count. “Yes, I recognize him. He was at the bar that night, I know it.”

It would’ve been better if she said no, you hoped that she would. “Okay,” the word is a whistle with how airy it is. You fish for the police car keys. “Take these. I parked the car right outside your building, you won’t miss it. Its number is 403, got it?” She nods. “Great. Drive back to my apartment, don’t stop for anything. Call me when you get there, be safe.”

One last squeeze of her hand you sprint out the building, the rain has gotten harder since you were last in it. The storm makes it difficult to hear your own gasps. However, the sound of grunts led you where you wanted to go. The alleyway.

There one of the men is on top of the other, choking him out with his hands. It’s hard to ascertain who’s the ‘bad guy’ due to both being dressed in black and the raindrops blurring your vision, although on the ground you see a knife’s blade flash under a construction light.

Not a second later, you’re running, footsteps smacking against the wet concrete. You don’t know what you’re doing, hell, you didn’t feel your body at all, it was charged by an emotion you couldn’t control. It's scary until the knife is in your hands, the intruder freezing to look your way, then it’s a little electrifying. Like you were waiting for this moment. You plunge forward, scrape the knife down his shoulder, and yank it back to your side. Something stings, adrenaline brushes it off.

The intruder hooks his torso to reach the gash, your strike must’ve been deeper than you thought. His reflex leaves him vulnerable and the masked man wastes only a wheeze before capitalizing on it, tackling him to the floor. “The chains—left!” He barks, “Get them!”

Hung over a metal staircase alongside the building a line chain clinks against the rail in the wind. You snag them, joining beside the masked who holds down the intruder to allow you space to tie him up.

Once he’s restrained the man stands to his full height, his chest a staggered rise and fall that matches yours.

“Karen said something about him having a file.” Kneeling to check the intruder’s pockets, you meet his eyes, shocked by how young he looks. “Is it the pension file?” He fights the chains. “Probably a yes.”

In his right pocket you find a flash drive.

“Touch tha—”

“Definitely a yes.” On your feet, the flash drive is dotted with raindrops, wiping it with your sleeve you almost miss the masked man prepare a punch to knock the intruder out. “Wait!” Your hands fly in front of his fist. “Stop, I have questions for him.”

Rain clatters around you both, a consistent shower to oppose your heartbeat. At this angle, you’re able to see blood thinned from rainwater trickle down the man’s nose after he anchors his face to you. He eases his posture, stepping away, that’s all, yet it relieves you the same a nod would’ve.

Stiffly, you turn to the intruder. “Officer Jessie McNair. He was at a Thai place near the bar you poisoned Karen in. Shot dead in the alley.” The tension starts in your chest. “Do you know him?” But when he doesn’t answer it doesn't just spread, it seeps. “Do you, know him.”

“Answer the question.” The man demands behind you. His low voice backing you up is a surprise—not that you have the room to feel it.

“That little white boy, eh?” He finally answers in an accent you’ve never heard of. Mexican and Russian. Either it’s fake or he’s more ethnic than he appears. “Yeah, I know him. He was giving trouble to our men.”

“Our?” You jolt. “Who’s our? The Russians?” His smile is slow, the amusement in it bunches your shoulders. “Is it the Russians?”

“I work for Union Allied, what they do outside of me is none of my business.” He tries to shrug in his restraints. “I kill who they pay for.”

Your breathing turns ragged, the pulse beneath it unbearable. “Did you kill Jessie?”

“I did.”

A fire blazes in your gut, undeterred by the downpour, it scorches the walls of your throat as the words crawl their way free. “Why!?” The masked man holds you back and you’re fighting him instantly.

“Don’t, he’s lying to you.” You hear him, but don’t listen. Didn’t want to.

“He was kind. He has a sister, she’s getting married soon.” Hot tears burn over your cheeks. “Do you know how excited he was for that wedding? To see his little sister get married, you asshole!”

“Listen! I said he’s—”

“I don’t care!” Lurching your body forward, you manage to shuffle two inches closer. The man switches from holding onto you to physically locking you in his arms, they wrap around your middle to keep your arms down. His chest is frustratingly solid. “I don’t get to see him again because of you! Because of who you work for.”

Laughs, the intruder laughs, “What do you know about who I work for, officer?” He says and you couldn’t take it anymore, you claw the man’s grip. Kicking and twisting your body.

“Stop.” He grits out.

“Let me go!”

Eyes still on the intruder you watch his white teeth morphing into a cackling grin. The motivation to get to him spirals. “I’ll tear you apart!”

“Damnit (Y/n) he’s not worth it!”

You stop—not just because he said your name, but because what he implied. Something you specifically promised not to do. In his grip, you go limp screaming tears that drown in the rain, not sure which drops are yours.

Although you aren't sure how long the man held you up for, he sets you down at one point. Cries dried up, you stay on the ground. Hollow and shaking. Like you didn’t know how to move without the grief.

“Hey.” The masked man approaches. A hand held out, must be asking for the flash drive. Your fist surrounds the chip, firmer, yet his hand doesn't move. You blink, unsure what to make of him, still, you accept his hand. He pulls you up. “Where's Karen?”

On your phone, there’s a message from Karen. Safe. “I… I gave her the keys and told her to head to my apartment. She's there right now.” Your thumb presses in the ridges of the flash drive. “But the pension file. Is this what you were after the whole time?”

He’s quiet to give his words more intensity, wanting you to believe him. A trick you've known yourself to do. “I guessed it would be there, but Karen’s safety was my priority.”

“Who are you?” The man stands, it's not surprising. “Right,” you huff, “‘You know someone from the station.’ Is there something I can call you at least, stranger?”

“Stranger’s fine.” He moves on far too quickly, turning to the intruder, whom you notice is knocked unconscious. “Let's go, we're taking him and the file to the station.”

“To see your friend there?” You watch him heave the intruder’s body over his shoulder. At this point the rain has calmed significantly, its absent noise cleaning your head.

“No.” Done adjusting the intruder’s weight he walks out of the alley. You fall into step beside him, thankful for the wordless space until ‘Stranger’ speaks, “You're bleeding?”

Made aware of that sting in your hip, you look to discover your trousers sporting a tear, within it flowered a red pool of blood. Small yet angry. “Oh, uhm, when I hit that guy with the knife I pulled it toward me… I guess I nicked myself.” The man’s silence is targeted, if his full face were visible he’d definitely have an eyebrow raised. “And yes, that’s the first thing they teach you about knife handling in the academy. Stop judging me.”

“How’d you know?” It’s the quickest he’s ever replied to you, like he couldn’t refuse the quip. When you glance over, he sucks in his cheek, schooling his expression but he’s just a hair too late.

The forced stoicness is funnier than if he actually laughed. Huh. “Okay, okay,” a smile tugs on your lips. “My instincts need some work, we realized that earlier.” What’s meant as a deprecation joke turns into a tangible shame, reminding you of your actions. You pause.

“—I am sorry about how I acted back there, it was wrong.”

True to form the man waits before replying, walking to the end of the street, he stops in front of a puddle. “You reacted better than I would’ve.” Reassurance, even in its vaguest variety, somehow meant everything in that small moment. It was simple, sharp on all the right edges, and he respected each word.

You copy his step around the puddle, silent the remaining walk to the station. As you eye the intruder, a part of you is calm, the part that’s been roaring for justice.

           By the police station the masked man drops a now-conscious intruder on its steps. He groans at the collision, shoots you a glare whilst you pin the flash drive to his chest, it’s wrapped in newspaper you collected on the street.

“The people you work for, the Russians, anyone who’s related to this.” You twist the pin into his chest, kneeling at his level so he’ll see your eyes. “I’ll find them, I won’t stop. So when you try contacting them in there, tell them there isn’t going to be a breath I take where I’m not searching to destroy what they created. Understand?”

“Bitch—”

Venomous and scathing, the man mutters, “Not,” his shadow cloaks over your body as he closes in. “Another word.”

Those threats silence him well enough, you rise and trudge down the sidewalk. Taking a deep breath. “Not going to turn him in yourself?” The man comments behind you, something akin to curiosity in his tone.

“They’ll ask too many questions.” You warm your hands together. “Plus they’re already kind of suspicious of me, anyway.” He hums, like that answer settles him. Time for you to be curious, watching him walk on your right. “What about you? Not interested in taking the glory either?”

“Something like that.” Again, he’s swift to deflect the topic. “You were talking about the Russians a lot. Know anything?”

The grin spreads sooner than you feel it. “Something like that.” Interested in his expression, you stop between two apartments to face him. His reaction is bigger than you expected—he chuckles, like a cheshire cat, his black clothes fit the darkness around you two, leaving only the bright flash of his teeth.

“Clever.” He says, “But I would like to know.”

“You’re a stranger, remember? I can’t tell you that.”

Another flash, though shorter it’s bright all the same. “So, you don’t trust me, is what you’re saying’”

“Don’t sound offended." You fold your arms. There are many things you’d do before enjoying this conversation, a list that’s getting shorter. What that could mean is nerve-wracking but you talk. “A night of teamwork isn’t going to get you anywhere.”

He mimics your posture. “I don’t do teamwork.” And before you could intercept he adds, “Usually.”

“Right. So I’m guessing I won’t be seeing you again after this then, stranger?”

It’s a joke, you thought it was apparent. He didn’t. The man thinks about it objectively, for minutes, you get spooked at his eventual reply. “Tell me your number.”

“What?”

“Your number.” As you gape at the man, his lips twitch, just once. “Don’t think I can memorize it?”

Torn on how to react, you relay the numbers. He nods. Briefly, there is a pause. A sobering one. What did you just do? “Does this kind of make us partners now, or…” You’re unsure if the question is hopeful, dreading, or both at the same time. That’s the worst part.

“No.” The man unfolds his arms, disappearing into the alley. Opposing the earlier levity, he’s completely serious. “I’ll call when I need someone on the inside.”

At the alley's mouth you hear rusty metal creak from the man getting on its fire escape. “So basically 911?”

“Basically.” He grunts, the thud of his footsteps growing more and more distant.

“Hey–” You take a step deeper into the alley, only one since it's pointless to push. “What about that person you know in the station?”

To no shock, he doesn’t answer.

Fueled by a sigh, you resume your path home. Across the other block, an urge to look back tingles up your spine, and you're glad you follow it. On top of a building there’s an outline of a man who skirts away the second you see him.

Chapter Text

All the lights were on in your apartment, except you didn’t see Karen anywhere. It would’ve been enough to send you into a heart attack if Karen didn’t pop in from the bathroom. She’s in dry clothes, yours, and freezes at your condition.

In a hushed gasp, she walks down the hallway to you. “God, (Y/n). You’re soaked.”

“Yeah? Well, I’m just glad you didn’t crash my car.” Your grin is slow, if not then a bit dazed, you sense every inch of it growing on your mouth. “Seriously, I would’ve been done for.”

Baffled by the remark Karen presses her lips in a line, releasing them into humorless laughter as she shakes her head. “What happened in there?” She blurts the question, more rushed than you expect. “That guy… the one in the mask. Who is he?”

The things you would do to answer that one. “Uhm,” You motion to your wet uniform. “Can I?”

“Oh. Right!” She takes multiple frantic steps away from you, hands waving in front of her. “Of course. You’d want to get dry, wouldn’t you? Sorry.”

“It’s fine.”

It didn’t sit right to leave when Karen looks this way, constantly messing with her hair like she had more to say, so you wait. “And sorry for stealing your clothes and leaving all the lights on I—” She rubs her arms, breath shaking. “I just couldn’t handle being in the dark.”

The admission hangs between you, raw and honest that makes your chest tight. “Karen,” despite doing it before, you hesitate to touch her. The confidence finds you when her blue eyes meet yours. Steadying her shoulder. “It’s okay. Go sit on the couch, I’ll be right there. No running off this time.”

That sparks a weak chuckle out of Karen. “Yeah, that… I just had a nightmare about the file.” Gently, her arms fall. “And I dunno, had to do something. I know I probably scared the heck out of you.”

“I'm just glad you're okay.” Though not graced with a reply, you do get the sight of her smile. One that matches when she found Alfredo sauce earlier. Subtle and real. “Some good came out of what you did anyway.”

“Really?”

There’s a hopefulness in her voice that breaks your heart. “Really.” You finally step away, foot turned to the hallway. “I’ll tell you all about it when I get changed.”

           “And he knew my name, Karen,” Bundled in a sweatshirt and shorts long enough to cover your newly bandaged hip, you hug a decorative pillow to your chest. “He knew my name.”

Back to the dark green blanket, Karen has it wrapped around her shoulders on the cushion next to yours. Each shift bumps you two’s knees together. “He could’ve just read it on your uniform.”

“But that’s the thing!” The reply is too loud for the moment you both forged, gripping the pillow, you stuff your lower face in it. Muffle its volume. “His mask covered his eyes, I don’t know how he saw or noticed anything that he did.”

“Superpowers, maybe?” Karen suggests.

Neither of you bought that answer, especially not after the details you've given out. “He didn't really feel superpowered, he fought like any other trained fighter. He got hit, bled. Just freakily perceptive.” Images of the man fighting plant in your brain. Hands close to his face, always trying to stay on his feet, and acrobatic.

“You said he knew someone from the station, right?” When you nod Karen leaves herself a moment to process everything you told her, which didn’t include your meltdown in the alley. Karen shouldn't see you that way, or perhaps more selfishly, you don’t want to either. “Do you know who it could be?”

Lifting your chin, it rests on top of the pillow. “I don’t even know if he was talking about my station. I mean, I assumed he was, but he could’ve been talking about the 60th precinct for all I know.” It’s a bit grumbly, how you spoke, and paired with your position, it’s unbecoming of an officer. 

“Do you think we should call someone?” A delay, she wipes her mouth against the blanket. “Like Matt and Foggy?”

Exhaustion didn’t agree with the logic in that question, however wise it might be. “No, they’re probably asleep right now.” You drag a hand down your neck. “Much like we should be.”

“Tired?”

“Deathly.”

She snickers, you give the sound space to be properly felt before standing. “Wait,” Karen’s eyes are contemplative, then flick up to yours. Gentler. “I’ve been thinking of doing something nice for them–and you, for all the support, you know? Maybe a meal, I haven’t decided yet but… I wanted to know what’s a good time for you, since you're a cop and everything.”

“Oh, I—” The sweetness in her gesture overwhelms your mind. Multiple blinks in, you cough to find common sense. “Uhm, noon’ll work. I can combine my breaks, have an extra long one so I’m not rushing back.”

At the mention of lunch breaks, Karen tilts her head. “You have two breaks?”

“I like splitting my breaks up. It's a mental thing.” You admit, “But that’s beside the point, does noon work?”

“Absolutely, noon works great. It’ll be a lunch.” For a beat you watch Karen’s eyes roam over you, she's taking in your fatigue. It's hard to hide. “Get some rest.”

Again, you hesitate to leave. The apartment still smelled like stormwater and pasta. You didn’t want her to feel alone in it. “Want me to leave the lights on?”

“Yes, please.” She tugs the blanket further around her body, like the answer would attack.

“No problem.”

         The second you awake your eyes demand they be shut. Difficult to say how much sleep you got, time had been fuzzy since the man showed up at your window, worse so now. Within a groan, you drag those bleary eyes to your clock. 5:12 a.m.

Work starts in twenty minutes. You swing out of your bed, a dizzy sensation in your skull nearly plunges you back in it. Pushing through, you snatch a uniform from the closet. On the 6th button of the shirt, there’s a banging at your bedroom door, too brash to be Karen’s even if she was panicking.

“(Y/n)! Wake up!” Mia, of course it’s her, she's been waiting. Impatience isn’t the only thing in her tone, there’s force.

Preemptive fear lassos your growling stomach. “I’m awake!” You finish the last buttons on your way to the door. “Coming!”

When you open it, Mia flexes her jaw, and in her folded arms a finger taps on her bicep. “Where have you been? Again? I called all day. Texted all night—you weren’t even here at one in the morning!” The barrage requires Mia to take a breath. Tightly, she grits out. “I have so many questions for you right now.” Her eyes point down the hall, where you assume Karen is.

Every part of you wants to be lucid enough for this conversation, to save you from more berating. Your knuckles press on your forehead, a band-aid attempt to relieve the pressure. “I know, Mia, I know. Just give me ten minutes, please.”

She doesn’t respond, only returns to the living room. Sighing, you cross the hallway to the bathroom. The image of Karen and Mia in the same room quickens your pace.

Presentable for the storm in your apartment, you walk to the living room. Mia is seated, glowering at the coffee table while Karen stands at the stove. The warm smell of cooked eggs is unignorable now.

“Hey,” you announce, voice softer than you meant.

Both women snap their heads toward you, waiting for the other to speak. Neither of them does.

Karen’s the one to break. “Hey, uh, good morning.” She gestures to Mia, although her hands stay close. “Your friend came in just now. I knew I should’ve woke you…”

“No, no, Karen it’s fine, really. My phone usually wakes me up, I don’t—” You check your phone, the lifeless screen edging on a headache. “It’s dead.” Another groan escapes you, this time you face Mia. “I’m so sorry, Mia. I’ll try to explain everything on the way to the station.”

Not everything. How you were going to play this lie is beyond what you could comprehend. All you get is a: ’You better.’

In Mia’s stead, Karen speaks up, albeit awkwardly. “I made you some breakfast. Just an egg sandwich.”

“Oh Karen, you’re so sweet.” You breathe the gratitude, but on the counter, Jessie's photos and your laptop sit where you left them. Stacked clean. Karen must’ve tidied them, still, your gut drops. “I’ll… eat it on the way.”

“Yeah, I thought you would say that.” She shows you a sandwich in a small bag, steam clouding the clear plastic.

Borderline reverent, you accept the bag, “Thank you.” Before putting away the meal, you gather the photos and laptop against your chest. “When I’m gone, call Matt and Foggy, okay? I’m sure they’ll have a lot to talk to you about.”

“I will. See you later.”

“See you.” The couch creaks. Mia. A mental clock starts ticking above you, time to go—One more thing. You take your keys to give the one for your apartment to Karen. “Here, so you can lock the door. Give it to me at lunch.”

There isn’t time to process her wide eyes, you rush a final goodbye, telling Mia you two were taking the police car to work today.

          “She wanted to check if her apartment was safe, and I couldn’t let her leave alone, not after Jessie.”

The sentiment falters your steps to the station entrance, though all true, it’s a lie to say you weren’t only bringing up Jessie to get her off your case.

“But I am sorry I didn’t check my phone.” You hold in a sigh that balloons into your head. “Or charge it.”

Another long silence, she hasn’t said a word since your apartment. By now you’re mentally begging her to even scoff at you, anything that hints she bought the story.

“Just don’t let this happen a third time.” Tone lower, Mia’s voice has never been so relieving and worrying at once. Your head drops to the station’s steps, an eye trained on the space the intruder’s body laid on last night.

Wonder what’s going on behind those doors, a small voice asks, you aren’t sure if the voice is angry or curious.

“I didn’t mean to be distant. I’ve just been really in my head since… he died.”

“I know, I lost him too.”

Hook, line, and sinker you try to brave through the front door. Instead, you’re given a face full of Aaron’s shoulder, he curbs his speed but still knocks into you. “Ah–My bad, (Y/n)!” He holds out his hands to catch you.

“It’s fine.” Dizzy, you steady yourself with his shoulder. It’s clothed in a bright red zip-up that matches his white and red Jordans, they’re elevens, as he often reminds. “Is something wrong?”

Blood flushes his cheeks. “Uh, kinda? Not really? I just got back from talking to Blake” —Your heart skips— “and all those higher-up guys.” Aaron takes a long inhale. Holds the breath then releases it in: “I’m going back to Long Island.”

This is how you know that Hell’s Kitchen smoke has gotten to your head. When the first question out of your mouth isn’t how, but, “Why?”

“Jessie, ya’know? After he died, man I… I had to think ’bout my family.” Aaron’s eyes gradually become distracted. Below his belt, his hands tremble. “Told ‘em I wanted to go home. But I’m sorry guys, I really gotta go.”

“Okay,” you mumble, “Text us, alright? Enjoy going home.”

He only flashes you a toothy smile, next thing you know, he’s speeding out the door. Something about the way he moved, careless where he steps in the shoes he adores so much. People don’t run home like they’re chased.

“Weird.” Mia mutters.

Tearing your eyes from the door, you and Mia enter the station. “What part?”

“I didn’t know we could just leave.” She undoes her black scarf. “Thought we were stuck here.”

The two of you show your IDs to the scanner. A beep for each. Once Mia makes it through, you’re there waiting. “Me too. Are you gonna try it?”

“Maybe,” Mia says that first part with a shrug. “You?” The following, her eyes are dead into your own. There’s a twitch in her brow, begging to be raised. “Thought you'd be all over it.”

Few weeks ago you might’ve killed for this opportunity, even if Captain Coronado would be mad. “I’m not sure we actually can leave. I mean, Aaron’s kind of a special case.”

“Because his grandma?”

Memories of Meghan’s equally odd exit last night are too recent and similar for your mind to ignore. “Not what I’m thinking.” On a spinning heel, you walk deeper in the station. “But he’s not acting like himself, Ari might know something about it.”

Luckily he’s standing at his desk’s edge, bent over his phone typing. For solid seconds he doesn’t notice you or Mia approach. You cough, “Ari?” He startles after seeing you and holds his phone screen against his chest.

“(Y/n)!” Relaxing, he lowers his phone to his side. “I thought you’d be busy or something with what happened yesterday.”

Yesterday. That’s such an interesting way of putting it—it was only yesterday. “You know about that?”

He scrunches his face. “Yeah? It was the first thing the captain brought up during roll call.” To punctuate, Ari nods his head to the meeting room. “Called you a hero and all that jazz.”

When you look toward the room all the gazes you didn’t realize were on you reveal themselves. “Oh.” Each eye you count, the speed of your heart increases.

Very pleased with your expression, Mia chuckles. “Didn’t notice?”

“You didn’t tell me that part!” You whisper-yell. A hero? Standards can’t drop this low in one night. “Ugh, this is beside the point. Ari, I wanted to ask you about Aaron. We heard he was heading to Long Island.”

“That’s the question you’re asking?” At your confused stares, Ari stops laughing. “Oh yeah, you guys haven’t heard. Duh.”

“What happened?” Mia cuts in.

Subconsciously, your hand hovers over the cut on your hip, it didn’t hurt until now.

“Someone dumped a guy at the station last night. Chained, bruised up, and had something pinned to his chest. No one knows what it is yet, the captain’s treating it like a bomb.”

Quiet. Then Mia huffs, “Damn.”

“Sorry–” You try not to sound impatient. “But, I’m still worried about Aaron. He was pretty much sprinting out the door when we ran into him.”

Ari sets his phone on the desk, hand lingering on the navy blue phone case. “Yeah,” he lifts his head. “Earlier, Aaron told me he was gonna talk to Blake about going home, but when he came back he told me Blake wasn’t too pleased.”

“Why?”

“Something about needing more Canine Handlers around here, drug dogs and stuff, he was lookin’ pretty frazzled.”

Two booming knocks set the three of you to a halt, it’s the captain announcing roll call. Mia and Ari are already heading to the meeting room. Dammit.

Neither of them pointed out what’s blaring to you: The precinct shouldn’t need Aaron. You’ve never seen or heard of drug dogs being used here.

          By twelve o'clock, that suspicion swirls into delight up the stairs to Nelson & Murdock. The station was stuffier than usual. During that roll call the captain had everyone clap for your efforts yesterday, just to inform that Officer Farnum had hung himself in his cell last night.

“It’s open!” Foggy’s muffled voice breaks through the wall, hard to tell if he was expecting you or simply doesn’t lock the door.

Whatever the answer, your hand hesitates on the handle. They’re clammy in a way you didn’t think they would. Foggy, Karen, and Matt were all on the other side of this door—that fact needed to sit before turning the knob.

As the door pushes open, a wave of sunlight from the firm’s front window washes over you, its brightness squints your eyes. Once they adjust you’re welcomed to the view of everyone around a table perking up and smiling.

“(Y/n)!” Karen swerves by Foggy to come meet you at the doorway. “I’m so glad you’re here.” When she hugs you it's a pleasant ambush, the scent of cooking oil and fresh vegetables envelops you alongside her arms. You’re late to return the embrace but enjoy it longer than it lasts.

“Really?” You say after stepping back. The plaid red dress she wore is a surprising contrast with her blue eyes, never have you seen her in something so colorful.

Above her shoulder, Foggy approaches. “Oh yeah,” he wiggles his fingers. “Me and Matt have been talking about getting hunting licenses and overpriced boats this whole time. She’s starting to think we’re gonna cannibalize her.” You share a look with Karen, at the first quirk of her lip you two laugh.

A weathered voice cuts from the fold-up table. “Cannibalism. Really, Fog?” Matt. He’s seated in a chair on the right side, his cane perched on the windowsill. “Food hasn’t even been served yet.”

Joining him at the table you watch the way his red frames become a shade lighter in the sun. Why red? Externally, a different question comes out. “That’s where you draw the line?”

Slight smile, slighter shrug. Both actions were deliberate, as if he knew it was going to be his reaction all along. “He’s not himself when he’s hungry.”

“That I am not,” Foggy takes a proud seat next to you. The tie on his shirt loosened, the knot holds its shape despite being lower on his neck. “I haven’t ate anything all morning. I feel like death.”

Still on her feet, Karen wipes her hands on her dress. “I’ll go check on the food, it should be done soon.” She walks into the breakroom, bending her height to poke at the toaster oven on the counter.

The beeps are delayed with the presses of her fingers, the scene shouldn’t be so amusing. “You two have a working toaster oven?”

“If we have a working AC system.” Foggy knocks on the white unit beside his chair. “I say we can have anything we want. Except clients.”

“You had a client. She’s in there making you lunch.”

“Anddd,” Foggy leans his elbows on the table, badly dodging the forks and plates on it. “We have a potential client in you.”

“Whoa there,” Folding your arms, you chuckle away from the proximity. “I’m not looking to break any laws anytime soon.”

A twist in your gut asks if you haven’t broken multiple already, it disappears in favor of Matt’s short hum. “Always good to have backup. Just in case you change your mind.” His head dips toward you. It’s a baiting smile, no teeth yet, he’s waiting for your reaction.

That alone is enough to confuse you.“Wha–what do you mean if I change my mind?” You repeat. Matt’s smile widens, showing teeth. Pleased. A baffled scoff comes out of you at the view.

Smug, Foggy sits straight. “Karen told us how you saved her life again with that nut in the mask.” Below the table, his foot nudges yours. “Face it, you’re building a track record.”

There’s a skip in your heart. “Really?” It makes sense Karen would admit what happened to her lawyers, yet a part of you feels caught red-handed. “How much did she tell you?”

“Just the part where you two came into her apartment.” Matt is quick to explain. He has a hand held up, briefly, to steady you from a feeling he shouldn’t hear in your voice alone.

“Lame the guy took the other one before you could take all the credit. Or arrest him.”

For a moment, you’re confused at Foggy’s remark, nearly forgetting about that lie. You shake your head, and the tension, smiling. “I didn’t join him for the glory, Foggy.”

“Yeah, yeah.” He groans, “It’s about Karen being safe. Geez, you’re worse than Matt.” Foggy picks up a fork to point between you and Matt with it. “So noble it makes me sick.”

Within snickers there’s a loud beep. Karen rounds the corner holding a ceramic tray, a towel on the handles to protect her hands. “Here you go,” she places the tray at the center of the table. “I know it’s not much, in the way of repayment. But it is, um, my grandmother’s recipe.” Once everything is set, she takes a seat across from you. “And she made me promise to only serve it to my future husband.”

Foggy glances at Matt, the duo somehow shares a humorous look regardless of their barrier.

“So where does that leave me?” Pointing at your plate, Karen grins before you finish the punchline. “Because I’m eating this too, right?”

“Yes, you are.” She removes the lid from the tray, and a golden brown lasagna steams into the air. “It’s supposed to be filled with virtue, or something. Maybe it’ll make you lucky.”

“I think we could all use a bit of luck at the moment.” Matt motions a hand to the tray. His comment earns a smile out of Karen as she cuts pieces of lasagna for everybody.

“If you ask me, she could use a little less luck.” Foggy squints his eyes in a funny glare at you. One you try to return without giggling. “Always saving the day.”

To add effect, you make yourself slump under a sigh. “Just not enough luck to take the glory.”

“Ah-ha! I knew it! You’re just as greedy as the rest of us.” He circles the fork around your head. “Can’t fool me, officer.”

“It was worth a shot.”

At the same time, Karen serves herself a slice. “So much for a nice lunch.” She’s seated directly behind the window, her blonde hair shining brighter than her eyes.

The firm’s different during the day, compared to the shivers from your first time here, the daylight shone on every previously darkened corner in the office, and everyone’s minds.

“Picking fights with the local law enforcement.” Matt pretends to chide. Something stirs at the word ‘local,’ like a name you haven’t gotten used to. “You should know better, Foggy.”

Relenting, Foggy fixes his tie. “Yeah, I know. We’re supposed to be celebrating! This is a major win on all sides of the justice system.” He reaches for a bottle that has been facing away from you, once he pops its cork you’re able to read the label.

“Wine!?” You exclaim, “I can’t drink that, I’m going to work after this!”

“Come onn, one cup isn’t going to have you tripping over yourself. You’re not that much of a lightweight, are you?”

“Foggy.”

“Gah, fine. We got some sodas in the fridge.” He points the mouth of the bottle at your face. “But mark my words we’re all having a drink together one day. I’ll make it happen.”

“Scary.” Although you’re mocking him a bit, there’s a happy sting in your cheeks that’s been too absent lately.

        Those sodas were tucked away with another bottle of Foggy’s wine, you crouch to grab a Sprite, nudging the wine aside. Behind, the floorboards creak. “Oh, hey, Matt.” You look up at him. “Did you want a soda too?”

“No, I’m alright.” His voice didn’t signal he wanted to trade beverages. Deeper than usual. “I actually wanted to talk to you.” Matt lets go of the doorframe and strides toward you, a hand gliding along the counter edge.

The change in space makes your pulse thrum, eager to slip away. That emotion eases when you stand. “Yeah?”

He nods, taking a deep breath that creates an agonizing pause you wanted to shake him for, purposeful or otherwise. “How are you holding up?” Like a whip, the gentleness his tone made you almost drop the wet Sprite can. “With your friend?” He continued. It's a hard hit.

One breathless stutter is the most you give him for a while. “I mean, it’s still the worst thing ever but uhm, I’m…” It’s uncanny how you feel the rain on you again, clouding your senses to the point some stranger had to restrain you.

“My father was a boxer,” Matt says the fact like a confession, yet it’s sudden enough to be planned. “Sold matches to support the two of us. Until one night, he decided not to.” His head lowers, a small breath fills the pause. “Died when I was young.”

Lost his father. A boxer.

The suit-and-tie-wearing man in front you is the son of a boxer. You stare at his red glasses, visualizing the eyes beneath them. “I’m sorry that happened.”

“Yeah,” the rue smile on his face is sharp, already hidden once you notice its pain. “Well, one of the things that helped me get through it,” he stops to wet his lips. “Is knowing that he made his choice, and there’s no amount of crying that will change it.”

So, that’s what this is. He really means to say that Jessie’s death was unpreventable. 

“What if there was something I could’ve done? Something I could’ve done to make him choose different?”

“Then you only would’ve stopped him for that day.” Matt lifts his head. This time the claims are easy, he takes a step closer, needing you to hear him. “If whatever your friend did was something he was willing to die for. He’d do it regardless. Trust me.”

It astonishes you when that watery laugh bubbles free, especially after how long you were silent for. He’d do it regardless—the most ‘Jessie’ thing you’ve ever heard. Matt didn’t even know him like you did, and he’s right.

“Geez, Matt. Did you plan that speech?” You manage to mean the smile in spite of the ache, maybe it’s delirium.

That reaction has to be far from what he expected, mouth parted an inch, but he ends up smiling too. “I might have.” He shrugs. “Planning speeches is part of my job.”

“I can tell. But uh, seriously, thank you. I know all that couldn’t be fun to say to basically a stranger.”

“Stranger.” He chuckles, the noise soft enough to be for himself, then shakes his head. “Don’t mention it, I… I guess I saw a bit of myself in you.”

Saw. Past tense. Like he’s already cataloged things he shouldn’t from one interrogation room, car ride, and office space.

Whichever instance, you need a pivot. An escape. “Saw, did you?” The joke slips out faster than you can reel it back, and you watch in horror for his reaction. Godawful pivot.

Pity, or he actually found you funny. Matt grins. The toothy one from before, without the bait to show what his real smile looks like when directed at you.

“A blind joke already? I've thought too highly of you.”

Matt’s reciprocated joke is a winning buzzer to your ears, confetti and everything. He didn't take it personal. “Good icebreaker, right?”

He hums. “Needs work.”

“I knew it.”

Back in the main room, Foggy has poured three glasses. He and Karen drink theirs when you and Matt rejoin. Foggy’s the first to comment on it, “And just what were you two giggling about back there?”

Matt brushes past you to find his seat. “Nothing. Just that Officer (Y/n) here isn’t as polite as she’s led us all to believe.”

You trail behind him, tripping on words. “Okay wait—”

“Psh, I could’ve told you that.” Foggy folds his arms. “What’d she do? Make a blind joke?”

“What?” The temporary chill of your seat shoots up your back. “How did you know?”

“Uhhh, best friend here.” He points to himself with both thumbs. “I’ve been making those for years.” When he sets them down he tips his drink at you. “Though I will say pulling one on Matt first-lunch-outting is bold.”

“In my defense, he walked right into it.”

“Horrible defense.” Matt grins, nodding his head to his cane propped on the window. At your tiny ‘oh my god.’ he snorts a laugh.

Across the table, Karen is smiling. There’s so much appreciation in it you almost ask what it's for but get distracted by Foggy’s shoe poking your foot, and she seemed to want it that way.

Chapter Text

At the end of your shift, you head to the breakroom. All the looks you’ve received diminished, a good sign. Less attention for when you knock over or into something while walking through the station.

Half a foot in the breakroom’s door, you freeze. “Detective Hoffman.” The name blows out once he notices you.

Stood by the sink, Carl Hoffman stops washing a white mug, stills for the splitest of seconds. “Officer (L/n),” Setting the mug down, Hoffman faces you. “I was just thinking about you.”

Instinctively, your body hovers closer to the doorframe. “Really?”

“Really.” Hoffman dries his hands on a towel. “I saw that plate of desserts you got in the fridge. Good looking stuff.”

A few beats too long you're quiet, teeth scraping against your lip. Only when Hoffman quirks a brow do you react. “Oh, I got those for you, Detective. When I was with Sterna yesterday he told me we were all having a potluck for your service anniversary coming up.” You force a sheepish laugh. Hate how obvious it sounds, “I just learned he was messing with me this morning.”

To your utter relief, Hoffman laughs with you. “Sterna, huh? Sounds like him. Well, thanks for the gesture, Officer. Appreciate it.”

“Of course. I was thinking about it when I was collecting Ms. Cardenas’s statement.” Your body relaxes from the door. “Thought I would get something while I was out.”

“Ms. Cardenas.” He echoes slowly. “I remember hearing you did that for Officer Marion.”

Hoffman's knowledge saves you from explaining, but the person who told him... “Yeah, Duncan told me you used to work her case, but,” your head tilts. “You had to drop it, right?”

“I got caught up in another case.” The bait works. Hoffman shoos his hand to disregard the assumption. “Cardenas’s claims didn't have enough evidence to back them up.”

“She told me that her landlord shut off power lines in her building and all sorts of other damages. I don't mean to be rude, but what went wrong?”

Even though you did your best to sound polite, it's hard to hide an accusation. Especially subtle ones. There's no tension in Hoffman’s shoulders yet he’s staring too hard to be casual.

“I heard about the power line too.” He admits, “After that investigation couple months ago we found the line had been cut, not enough evidence to prove her landlord did it. Same goes for everything else.”

The suspicion must've been on your face because Hoffman sighs, near exasperated. “Listen, I know you want to help, really I do. But her apartment is in a bad area, anybody walking around there could've wanted to do it.”

Fake, fake, fake. A good try by Hoffman, still, it provides an idea. “You’re right, I’ve just been on edge lately. I’m sorry to bother you.”

“Hey, wait. You’re the one who used unit 403 yesterday, yeah?” You nod. “Keep it for the night. Blake needs fewer cars cluttering the lot.” Hoffman shrugs a shoulder and chuckles like it's an old joke between them. “You still got the keys?”

That didn't sound like protocol or a real reason, but you’ll need a car where you’re going. “Yeah, I do.”

“Great, I’ll handle the paperwork. See you tomorrow, (L/n).” Placing his mug in the cabinet above the sink, Hoffman looks over his shoulder. “And thanks for the desserts.”

It wasn’t a normal thanks—it was a test, and you’d only half passed it.

          While no law requires you to tell Elena about your impromptu surveillance operation, a pinch in your heart argues she deserves to know someone is taking action for her case.

With your patrol car parked in front of her complex, you follow the flickering streetlights to the alley adjacent to the building. Nobody but a murder of thirteen crows in there. Free to use later.

Heading to Elena’s apartment, you pop stress out your knuckles, confused why you’re so nervous to knock.

It takes her a moment to open the door. “Officer?” Her grey hair is pulled into a bun and she feels her face for glasses that aren’t there.

“Good evening, Ms. Cardenas. I hope I’m not intruding on anything. I can—”

“No no, come in, come in.” She opens the door wider. The darkness outside is made weak against the warm lights inside her apartment, their hue enhances the orange accents of the home. “I was putting away the food.”

Elena streamlines to her kitchen counter, across the marble there are multiple tupperwares either empty or filled with meals. Tupperwares without, were situated by food she hasn’t gotten to yet. Rice, sauces, and tortillas.

In fear your presence taints this precious system, you step back. “Is this all from the potluck you mentioned?”

She pauses clicking a lid into place, when she turns around she’s smiling, voice soft. “Sí.”

Thrown by the tenderness, you clear your throat. Stay focused. “I can’t stay long. I just wanted to tell you I’m going to be doing some investigating for your case tonight, see what people lurk around the building and what happens.”

Both your hands slide behind your back. “So, if you see or hear anything suspicious, please let me know, I’ll be outside.”

“Eso un stakeout?” Elena finds her glasses in her dress’s pocket, the fabric is an orange floral pattern that’s two shades lighter away from matching the orange in her home. She must prefer it.

“Uhm,” a stakeout felt like a Hollywood simplification, yet it’s exactly what you’re doing. “Yeah, it’s a stakeout.”

The answer renders Elena to a thoughtful hush, then she points at you. “You will need to eat.” It’s a declaration. Elena reopens the tupperwares, particularly the ones containing meat.

Truth be told, you are hungry, haven’t eaten since Nelson & Murdock. The moon’s out now, half full. But some discomfort in your stomach shouldn’t slow you down.

“Ms. Cardenas, I’ll be okay.” Approaching the kitchen, you hold out your hands as if that’ll halt her prep. She's splaying out tortillas and packs them into two burritos. “I can’t accept gifts for just doing my job.”

“Food is un right, Officer. No gift.” She waves a spoon in your direction, a possible threat if you argue that point. You can’t. Happy to see you’re relenting, she scoops rice into a smaller tupperware.

Finalizing the meal, Elena gives you the tupperware with the two burritos neatly wrapped in tinfoil on top. “...thank you, Ms. Cardenas.”

“No, thank you, Officer.” She leads you to her door, eyes bright. “You give us hope.”

That’s why you were nervous to knock.

Because Elena deserves better than a wanna-be hero too scared to rock the boat. But you aren’t allowed to run anymore, even from yourself. A little light in your chest said so.

          Parked in that earlier alley, you run Armand Tully’s name through the police car’s MDT database to get his face. Depending on how this went, an interview with Mr. Tully would be the next plan.

Stakeouts are the few things movies got right about policing, they’re often boring. The windows are cracked an inch to allow you to hear outside but not vulnerable.

Other than that, you didn’t do much. Debated eating the food Elena provided until a buzz from your phone got your attention.

Mia texted. ‘Where are you?’

One quick message, so she isn’t worried. ‘Doing some work for a case’ - ‘I’ll talk to you later’ You stare at your screen for Mia’s blunt ‘Okay’ before setting the phone down.

Your eyes settle on the hazy streetlight on the opposite side of the street. This entire time you’ve prepared to see someone come in or out of the alley beyond it.

Instead, the only people around simply went across the sidewalk, of course, some looked shady but nothing criminal.

Caws from the crows pecking in the alley mock the inactivity. Heckled by crows, that’s what this has come to.

Soon the crows are startled by a large black Cadillac, which drives into the parking lot of Elena's building. A suited man steps out the passenger, hard to see his features but the silver of his watch shines in the low light.

“Damnit.” You lean over the wheel, trying to read the license plate. The farthest you got was a BKM, which easily could've been an N, before the Cadillac drove off.

The suited man’s watch flashes again, he taps on his phone the whole trip inside. Within the moment the front door shuts, you open the car, a foot out the door when your phone buzzes again.

Longer, a phone call. Turning the phone around, the caller ID details an Unknown.

If it wasn’t for last night, you would’ve blown past the call and been halfway across the street. But that night did happen.

There’s an agonizing pinch in your gut, not hunger anymore. Dread. You didn’t think the man would call so soon.

A final eye is given to the complex’s front door, and you groan. This is what you willingly got into by giving that man your number. “Hello?”

“Beneath Troika restaurant.” The masked man’s voice isn’t the rich cadence it usually is, it’s labored. His breaths break through the line. “11th and 44th. There’s a boy, he’s in danger. I need an officer to take him home.”

For a moment you’re worried about how he strains that last part, the next, your brain orders to focus on the boy. An easy agreement between your heart. “I’m on my way.”

          It took six minutes to reach the restaurant with your police lights on. Nothing seemed awry on the outside, people ate at tables and there was even a line of cooks in the back.

All the noise started behind the building, beyond an employee-only door with its handle broken off. A chorus of grunts, crashes, and thuds spilled from the steps.

Your hand finds your gun, pressing the barrel to your lips. A silent promise: ‘No killing.’

Reassured, you rush down the stairs to the battle going on below. It’s a small, dimly lit hallway blurred by cigarette smoke. In the middle, the masked man is fighting a horde of other men—too many his condition implies.

While a majority of them are unconscious, the masked man’s leg is dragging. Your finger twitches, that leg’s going to give out if he doesn't finish this soon.

Aiming for their feet, you fire at the men attacking. The space is so congested that your bullet hits the shin of the closer one. He crashes into the others like bowling pins, their attention temporarily stunned.

One. Two. The masked man takes advantage, punching a man flat in the stomach. A different pair charges at you. You let them. They had to split between a smashed microwave on the floor.

Once they are close enough your spare hand sends a wave of pepper spray, eyes covered with your pistol. They groan on their way down.

Fast, you kick each man in the ribs to keep them on the ground. There's no space to see if it worked, could only trust your strength.

The other men are so absorbed in fighting that they didn’t notice their own had already been defeated. In that purgatory, your heart roars in your ears. Don't get scared now.

“Okay.” You suck in air, inhaling straight smoke that’ll fuel you forward.

At a man’s back, your gun drives into the back of his skull. He falls. Another takes his place. He grabs your extended arm, twisting it for leverage as he heaves the rest of you at the microwave. Tripped, your back collides on the floor. Hard—the world flashes white behind your eyes.

When they open again you’re greeted with that man hoisting the microwave, chucking it at you. Your arms shield your head just in time. Metal and glass shred into your forearms.

The microwave’s weight is replaced by the man straddling you, clawing to get your gun. He nicks your wrist. A shallow scratch that burns more than the microwave. For now. Using your free hand you punch the man's jaw, his head jerks at the blow, exposing a beat to shove him off.

Back on your feet, you see the masked man has taken out the remaining men. Only one left. That man prepares a swing to the masked man’s torso, sweeping in, you restrain the man’s elbow to pull him off-balance. He thrashes until the masked man’s fist silences him. His body crumples in your arms.

For who knows how long, the masked man and you are frozen in your stances, unable to snap the adrenaline locking in your blood. Reduced to pair of reeling lungs.

Past a throaty cough, he trudges toward you. It jumpstarts all your senses. Once he closes in it reveals the uneven pants you both share. However, the sight of his stitched bicep and waist suggests additional reasons.

“You weren’t supposed to be here so fast.”

“I was in the area,” you set the limp man on the ground. “Working on a case.”

In the corner of your eye, a shut door sits at the end of the hallway. You make three steps past the masked man before he catches your arm. His grip is barely anything yet it aggravates the tender skin.

The masked man detects your grimace, then hesitates. “That’s not what I meant.” He lets go. “This is a Russian base. They know you’re a cop.”

Images of the Russians at Jessie’s apartment coil in your mind, next the bang of the bullet they shot. “They already do.” You mutter. “Where’s the boy?”

He’s quiet, but joins you at the door. This room smells the most of cigarettes than anywhere else, and at its heart, a pulsing red bulb hung above a crying, curly-haired boy.

If Hell had a staff lounge, it would be this.

Beside you the masked man steps to the boy, you tap his hand to stop him. He does. Even if you don’t understand why, you’re thankful. “Hi. Can you come with us, please? I’m a cop. We’re here to help you.” You don’t say more, letting the boy decide if he wants to close the gap.

Gradually, the boy stands, each step he dares his hands are kept to his chest. Keeping his heart safe. The act breaks yours.

When he’s close enough, you kneel to meet his eyeline, offering your hand. “Thank you for trusting me.” He accepts and you squeeze his hand to soothe its trembling. “I won’t let you down.”

The boy allows you to pick him up, smaller than he appeared. You whisper, “What’s your name?”

“Ethan.” He sniffles.

“Alright, Ethan, close your eyes for me, please. We’re going to my car now.” There’s a lull as he listens, scrunching his eyes shut. You guide his head into the crook of your neck to cover him from seeing the beaten unconscious Russians.

Out by your car, Elena’s food sat on the passenger seat. Two burritos, a plate of rice. First, you glance at Ethan, too young to be shaking this much. Then the masked man who hasn’t been hiding his winces as well as he thinks.

“Are you hungry, Ethan?” You pat the boy’s back to coax his attention. “I got some rice you can pick at on the way home. You don’t need to eat it all.” Ethan lifts his head, he stretches a moment before he nods.

A notch loosens in your chest. “Okay, one second.”

With Ethan in the backseat, you set the tupperware in his lap alongside a fork. Prior to shutting the door, he quietly says where he lives. Progress?

You stay facing the car after it shuts, aware of the masked man’s presence through the window reflection. “Are you coming too?”

It’s silent, yet he’s still there, shoulders slightly hunched. Those injuries were stitched, a detail you noticed but never comprehended. That fight wasn’t his first of the night.

“You could just see him off,” you refrain from asking and turn around. “I’m not planning on getting seen by anybody either.”

That last piece visibly relaxes him, doesn’t answer though. Not till his head dips to Ethan in the back. “Alright.” He spoke low, like part of him didn’t agree.

“Alright.” Matching his volume the two of you split to enter your squad car. The man stops when he opens his door, two burritos on the seat. “Oh,” you gather the food onto the armrest. “Sorry, I should’ve moved that earlier.”

“It’s fine.” He eases himself into the passenger, there isn’t even a need to see his eyes, the way his mouth contorts in suppressed pain is plenty.

The warmth from the burritos digs into your palms. “Do you want one? She made me two.”

An odd thump hits your chest once the offer comes out, swear, the man hears it given his pause. “Who did?”

Not what you thought he’d say.

“The woman I’m helping—she insisted. Got all philosophical on me.” The foil catches the light, ticking faint gold. “It was impossible to say no.” Realizing that’s veering off the subject, you clear your throat. “Uhm. It’s there if you want it.”

The masked man doesn’t respond to that, but he does hold the burritos in his lap after they narrowly fall off the armrest during a turn.

          Pulled beside a tree twelve buildings from Ethan’s home, a typical brownstone neighborhood, you squat to his level on the sidewalk. “You were very brave today, Ethan. I mean it, okay?”

You offer another hand, squeezing his. This time he squeezes back. It wrecks you worse than you could imagine. “Okay.”

“Anything else I can do before you go see your dad?”

Ethan pushes through a lot of hesitation to answer, eyes landing on your badge. “Can I have a sticker?” He points a tiny finger at the gold-plated metal. Unaware that you’d give him the entire car if it wasn’t dangerous.

“Of course.” Over your shoulder, the man is leaning against the car door. “Can you get me one? They’re in the glove compartment behind you.” His arms briefly unfold, just one jut away from calling it a flinch. Tenser than ever, he moves to grab the roll. “Thank you?”

It’s delicate how he hands you the sticker, like he was handling something far more fragile than a sticky piece of plastic. His hand instantly draws back into a fist when you take the sticker from him.

Focusing on Ethan, you press the badge on the left side of his chest. “There you go. Feel ready to surprise your dad?”

“Yeah,” he peeks at the badge, its soft shimmer bouncing off his cheek. “Thank you…” Ethan trails off, lifting his head to look between you and the masked man.

“You’re welcome.” He says, voice subtle. You’re almost too shocked to repeat it yourself.

Ethan isn’t. He grins at the man before you two walk him down the sidewalk.

The walk is wordless until you let Ethan run the final block home, there the man nudges you gently. “His dad is going to see us.” He explains into an alleyway.

Both of you lean on opposite alley walls, waiting out the reunion two buildings down. Mindlessly, you listen for the sound of Ethan’s door opening. It’s muted under a passing motorcycle yet the breathless, “Ethan! Oh my goodness.” has you smile.

Off the books with questionable legality, yet you couldn't be prouder. Another day saved thanks to the man in the mask. Looking at him, his head is also tilted to listen to the same things you are.

Only his side of the alley is dark—hidden from the streetlamp that lit your side. The dynamic creates a shadowy diagonal line separating you two. Wonder how he felt about tonight.

Although you know what to say, you note each seeable wound on his body. “Good work you did today.”

He tightens his arms around his chest. “I didn’t do anything ‘good.’”

“Sure you did. You saved a kid, brought him to his dad, he got a sticker, and now he’s running back home safe. How good can it get?”

The long break preceding his answer doesn’t surprise you. In it, his jaw ticks, the tension holds till he sighs. “Is it really that simple for you?”

“Does it always need to be that complicated?” A curiousness you don’t understand laces your tone. Undeniable all the same.

He huffs. “Guess not.”

For being a concede it’s bitterly said, hard to deduce where it’s directed. Himself, you, or whatever else. The shadowy line grows sharper. “I mean it, you know.” You dare poke that border. “Good work today.”

Lips parting, he wets them to stall a hint longer. “You did most of it.” He pushes himself off the wall and heads to the sidewalk.

Quick to fall into step with him, you raise a brow. “Stranger, I drove a car around and got a microwave thrown at me.” His side profile shows a quirked lip. At least the joke works. “I think you got me beat in terms of heroics.”

Under the hazy streetlight, it sheds the shadows from his shoulders, making the sharp contours of his body seem softer. “Not sure about that one.”

“Why not? I thought you looked plenty badass back there.”

The man chuckles to himself. “Well, before that I was dropped in a dumpster.”

“Oh,” to capitalize on the moment, you’re desperate not to laugh at the mental image. The man shakes his head. “It explains why you’re so banged up.”

“That bad?” He rolls a shoulder, grimacing.

“Did you think it wasn’t?” The man gives you a shrug and for some blocks, it’s enough. Then that nag you’ve been fighting demands you ask now that Ethan is safe. “What happened?”

A gamble, for sure, you aren’t expecting specifics but when he slows down, you think he might say something honest. “The Russians took Ethan to get to me. They knew I’d come looking.” He admits, “I tracked them to a warehouse but the second I came in…”

“They were waiting.”

“Pretty much.”

The utterance blows away in the smoggy night air. Your sigh joins laters. “I don’t blame you. That’s just one trap you have to walk into.” His head snaps toward yours. Doesn't say anything. You let it be. The pair of you keeping the slower pace all the way down the pavement.

           You rest on the driver’s side door, body toward the masked man. “Do you need me to drop you off anywhere, stranger?” The wind has picked up, it rustles a cold breeze through your clothes. The chill numbs your cheeks but not unpleasant.

“No, I’m—” the man goes rigid, the somewhat eased posture he retained on the walk here vanishes. His head tilts toward your car.

“What's wrong?”

It’s the immediate reply that scares you more than what he says. “There’s something under your car.” The man crouches beside your vehicle. Reaching for what that ‘thing’ is. He stills as soon as he finds it, bringing his other hand to pick it off.

He holds up a flat, circular device to you when he rises. “A GPS.” The man informs dryly, “I heard a beeping since the restaurant. Thought it was the car.”

The scoff he lets out lands as a dumbbell to your gut. You had to swallow down the bile its impact builds, but the masked man offers no breather. He steps forward into your space. “Who is tracking your car?”

Too close. He’s not yelling, but he’s near enough to feel dangerous. You press back into the door to get that distance. A fruitless attempt he cuts through. This proximity gives a perfect view of a cut on his lip. Red against a light pink. “I don’t—”

“Yes, you do.” He crushes the GPS in his fist. The broken pieces snag the breeze then scatter on the pavement. “Back at the restaurant you said the Russians already know you’re a cop. And it’s not any police car they tagged, it’s yours.”

Finally, the man releases the space—not pressure. “You know something about the Russians,” It isn’t a question, he’s starting to demand. “And you’re going to tell me what.”

By now, your heart is hammering. “Are you threatening me?”

That catches him, to the point he stammers, his voice miles gentler now. “No. I…” The man drags a hand down his face. “You saw what they do. I need to know everything I can.”

This disorientation is bizarrely a good look on him, he’s never appeared so human before. Could be endearing.

Tension in your shoulders floats away. “Okay,” you breathe. “We can talk.” Opening the door, the man relaxes too. “Just, let’s get out of here first.”

“Yeah.” He says just as airily.

On the drive across the city, you think of the periods this vehicle's been unattended before explaining the files Jessie found. Elena’s. The restaurant. Each a viable moment.

“I don’t know how taxis are related to the Russians, but I know they came in his apartment for them. I swear.” Stopped at a red light, your fingers tap on the wheel. “I just don’t know how.”

Throughout your story the man has been mostly silent, save for a question here and there. Now is no different. “That taxi company, you said it went bankrupt a few years ago?” At your tiny ‘yeah’ the man shifts in his seat. “Was it ever bought out?”

Midway through your turn to the man, a traffic light changes green, its color flashing on his face. You concentrate on the road. “I didn’t check.”

“Can you look it up now?”

“Sure, uh, just let me find a spot.” That spot is tucked between a Honda and Kia Soul. There you search the cab company’s history, scrolling until your pulse stops.

Almost too fast the man asks, “What?”

“Union Allied.” You read. A finger hovers over the name. “It was bought out by Union Allied a couple months ago.”

Both of you sit motionless as the fact sets in. The man is the first to break, facing you. “But they’re shutting down soon. After that pension file.”

“Yeah, but all that money is gonna have to go somewhere, right?”

“Right.” He whispers.

Another hush, though different, this time you’re thinking in the other’s presence. “Maybe tomorrow I can go to their office. I’m sure cops have been in and out of that place lately. I’ll go poke around, try to find out where the money goes.”

“No way.” It’s firm and unyieldingly spoken. “They’re already onto you. It’ll be too dangerous.” Before you can even make a case for yourself, he continues. “What you should do is get rid of this car. Use different ones, never the same.”

Aware of his point, you don’t argue. Deep down, however, you’re reviewing Carl Hoffman’s offer to keep the vehicle. Sharp rocks fill your lungs. Hoffman's close with Blake, if one of them is up to something the other wouldn’t be far behind. You sink in the seat. “And what about the Russians?”

“I’m not sure yet.” The man opens his door. Stepping outside he adds, “I’ll let you know.”

The wind swishes in the interior, it jolts you straight again. “Hey, I have questions for you too.”

“I know.” The bastard smirks straight at you. “Next time.”

And suddenly your cold cheeks tug in a smile. “Liar.” You counter, expecting that to be the last thing said until he doesn’t shut the door for a drawn-out moment.

“Good work today.” He shuts the door not a second after murmuring those words, like he’s running from them. Which you think he is.

Chapter Text

“I can’t believe they’re pairing me up with you again.”

Part of you wishes you had rolled your eyes at Sterna’s remark. It’s late, cold, and you’ve been stuck drawing parking tickets all day. The conditions were perfect, instead, you buckle your seatbelt into place.

Dispatch call at a bowling alley, another murder. Sterna complained he and you were responding to this call because of prior experience. If you could even call it that.

“Me neither.” You mumble, though Sterna continues like you didn’t even speak.

“You’re a little liar, you know that?” He jams the keys into the ignition. A full police SUV he decided to bring for this job. No rhyme or reason, he just wants to use it. “Hoffman told me about that potluck bullshit you pulled on him.”

The heels of your boots dig into the floorpan. “He knew it was a lie?”

Momentarily offended, Strena scoffs, about to spit more, but is forced to input the bowling alley location. He wastes no time getting back on your case, however. “No, not after I backed up your lie.” He switches on the police sirens.

Adjusting to their volume, you rub your chest as if the thumping beneath it could be soothed. “Why?” The question came out too quiet—Sterna looks away from the road to glare. Maybe he didn’t hear it, he just knew you’d ask.

“You think I was gonna tell Hoffman he got played? I’m not suicidal.” Red and blue lights bounce on his face, the insistent colors amplify his furrowed brows. “He’d probably go up to Blake and God knows what they'll do to me.”

Your hand drops into your lap. Not only did Sterna look distressed, it’s the use of ‘they’ll do’ that reignites the fire that’s been doused in parking tickets during the day. Its heat is pleasant.

“What do you mean?”

“Please,” he groans, “You’re telling me in the month you’ve been here you ain’t notice those two are up to something?”

A reply comes out more impressed than it should. “You’re telling me you do?”

The sirens were now too loud, for both of you, Sterna turns them off. Everything goes dark. “(L/n),” his address sends shivers up your spine. “I’ve been here long enough to watch this place rot.”

“So you become part of the reason why?” You stare dead at Sterna’s side profile as he drives, barely visible with the passing citylights.

Strena didn’t stutter once. “You bet. And I’m one of the highest-paid officers because of it. I get to send my daughters to a college far away from here.”

That earns your pause, caught in between the middle ground of trying to empathize, not understanding, and simply not wanting to be with Sterna any longer. It was hard to imagine a man like him helping anyone sleep better at night, even his kids.

Words find themselves at an approaching yellow light Sterna speeds to pass. “And that justifies everything you do out here?” Your hands clench. “Justifies how you treat the people you swore to protect?”

“I don’t need to justify shit to nobody but God. I do what’s best for my family.”

“And you think God would approve of how you do that?”

Follower of God, Sterna’s rounded jaw flexes. “Better question is where do you get off talking to me like that?” His voice is a dangerous rasp. “This isn’t your circus, Officer. Your ass is gonna be hightailing it back to Long Island the second you can.”

The worst part is he wasn’t wrong to think that. Aaron left, although you question why, you should’ve been fighting to be right alongside him.

“Because I swore an oath,” your eyes wander to the city out the window. Dark, yet people were walking around. The City that Never Sleeps. “To serve and protect the community, not just mine.”

Sterna sneers, “Self-righteous.”

Knee-deep more accurately. You didn’t take the barb to heart, if he found you impossible to understand too, so be it. “If you break one code of conduct during this, it’s going straight to internal affairs, I don’t care who hears. ” Is the final thing you say to him, despite his arguments and vague threats.

         Boots running on the pavement, Sterna’s pair is a pace slower than yours. The cold air blowing past cools your head, which you didn’t appreciate until you locked eyes with the suspect inside the bowling alley.

A ginger, balding, with blood splatter all over his face. Not a new sight, certainly one you’ll see again.

What struck you is his posture, demeanor. On his knees, hands behind his head, then his eyes. They were blue, constantly blinking, and you see his bottom lip hesitate before Sterna yells, the volume as overpowering as he is.

“Don’t move!” His gun is pointed before he even clocks it. Click! “Hands in the air!” Sterna anchors his head into his radio. “Dispatch Victor 23, we have the suspect at Whitestone Lanes Bowling.”

“I want a lawyer.” The bloodied man asks. There’s an odd quality to his tone, it wasn’t calm but he couldn’t be scared. He would’ve ran instead of waiting for the police.

Keeping a gun raised in one hand, you steady the other out to the man. “We can get you a lawyer, sir. But you’re going to have to come with us.”

Beyond the man lies a body, skull caved in. Blood everywhere. You try not to picture what did it, makes it easier. But this is a bowling alley. “Sir?” The man tilts his head. Almost mystified by the phrase.

“Yes,” that drawn-out hand returns to your firearm. “Come with me and we can give you a lawyer by morning.”

His silence is long, Sterna nearly intervenes but the man's voice shuts him. It’s a throaty ‘Okay, Officer.’ that stops you both. In a world full of instant denials, this compliance would confuse the strongest officers.

“Okay,” you exhale, reaching for the cuffs on your belt. Mentally reciting his Miranda Rights before you say them. His eyes on yours the entire time.

On the left, Sterna doesn’t lower his gun. It stays where it’s pointed throughout the arrest. “Don’t move.” He repeats. This may be the only instance where you’d trust Sterna to have your back.

With the man cuffed and restrained, your body shifts him facing the door. “I’ll take him to the car, you…” memories of Karen’s apartment weigh on your tongue. Blood, isolation. You didn’t even feel human then—that kind of feeling should die with you. “Call forensics, please.”

Similar memories appear to replay for Sterna also. The skin around his cheeks turned red, in anger or just the memory. “Sure.” He pushes past to the bowling counter where a frightened young woman stood. You frowned. Leaving her with Sterna of all people isn’t going to help her trauma.

“You know, officer.” The man spoke slow, careful. “You’re the first person to call me ‘sir’ in a long, long time.”

Hard to say if he was manipulating you or just genuinely sad. Either way, it made your skin crawl. “I take it you don’t work with very polite people.”

“Nah, they just don’t respect me.” Outside, he stops walking and exhales. You're tense, ready for anything. “Your partner doesn’t sound like he respects you much either.”

The man lets you guide him forward again. “I’m not sure I respect him.” You decide to confess.

Opening the backseat doors, the man puts himself in the seat. “And you still tell the guy ‘please?’ Jesus, I wish I was like you.” He sinks in the seat. A dry laugh bubbles from him. “Probably missed my chance though, huh? With what I did.”

Sirens wail in the near distance as they pivot into the parking lot, their light grows brighter and brighter on the man's face. You don’t know what kind of person feels changed by something that simple. “This all can be used against you in court, remember?“

“Yep. Thanks for the reminder, Officer.” He drags his head to look at you. Something in his gaze makes you hold the door open an extra moment. It’s a melancholic haze threatening to drown you along with him. So, you shut the door, not having a clue where to start writing this interaction in your report later. You’ve cuffed all kinds of killers, none willing to be locked up.

          Reports are an aspect of policing you never found boring, it’s a good way to process the things you’ve seen. Journaling, in a more professional sense. What you didn’t like was having to talk about them in the courtroom. So many eyes. You lucked out with Karen’s case not going to trial, but this one, charges have already been pressed: John Healy, manslaughter.

“These night cases are hitting you hard, huh?” Mia props herself on the edge of your desk, a little smug.

“I don’t know how people do the night shift.” You rub your eyes. “I feel like death.”

A different voice cuts in lighter, smoother. “Good news is, you don’t look it, so there’s our silver lining.” Duncan holds up an envelope when the two of you look at him. “Mail from the DA.” He passes it to you. “You know what it is.”

Subpoena. You don’t touch the envelope anymore. “Why do you have it?”

“Both got delivered to Sterna,” Duncan slides his hands in his pockets. “He asked me to give you yours.”

Short and entirely too simple. If Duncan didn’t like Sterna as much as he told you, he spends a lot of time with the man. Your eyes land on the dark circles under his own—not the only one staying up late.

Mia pushes herself off your desk to meet Duncan. “You’re doing Sterna favors now?” She raises an eyebrow.

“He did me a favor yesterday.” He shrugs one shoulder. “I owe him.” Grinning, Duncan puts his attention on you. “Sterna did not look happy. Enjoy the case.”

In a stride that doesn’t match his tired eyes, Duncan retreats to his side of the office. “‘Enjoy the case.’” You flick the edge of the envelope. In a week, you’ve dodged bullets. Saved children. And yet it’s this goddamn envelope that makes your hands sweat.

Mia peers at your envelope, and you hand it to her like a test you didn't agree to take. “Two homicides and a court appearance in three days.” She huffs, humor with no smile. “You alright, (Y/n)?”

To prevent a yawn, you dip your mug to check how much coffee is left in it. Not enough. “I will be.” You stand. “The trial will give me a small break.”

At least in court, the violence stays in words.

“Coffee?”

“Yeah.” Your open hand points to the break room. “Want some too? There was a new cup Mahoney put on when I walked in.”

She shakes her head and tucks her hands in her arms. “Can’t. Meghan wanted to talk to me.” Those arms bunch closer. “Not sure why, but I’ll see you later.”

“Alright.” Vaguely giving her a wave as she nods past, you stow the behavior away to ask about another time.

          Across newly cleaned tiles, the scent of wax and chemicals accompanies you to the station’s entrance, where you’re stopped by a flash of blonde. “(Y/n)!”

Muffled by the glass doors, Foggy strides in. You meet him halfway, the relief in his voice both worrying and comforting. “So glad I saw you first.”

“Why? What’s wrong?” You glance at the doors one more time, nobody else enters, causing your brows to furrow. “And where’s Matt?”

The name stresses Foggy’s features downward. “That’s only part of the problem.” He lowers his voice. “About thirty minutes ago, this fancy guy came into the office. He gave us this case to represent and a big, fat check. I mean huge.”

“What’s the bad news?”

Foggy drags a hand through his hair. “He was all kinds of sketchy. I don’t even know where to start.” A breath sucks into his chest, and he kept glancing at the door. For Matt.

You lead Foggy off to the side. Situated by a fake fern plant at the bend of the hallway. “What’s his name? Maybe I can run it through the MDT.”

“He didn’t even tell us his name.” Foggy hangs his head a bit. “But he was definitely suspicious. Too polite, and his watch was too shiny. It was unnerving.”

A flash of silver twists in your mind. The Cadillac. The man. The watch.

“Was it a silver watch?”

He blinks. “Uh, yeah it was. Why?”

Nowhere near enough evidence. “Might be nothing,” You gesture to his leather bag. “What’s the case?”

“Not sure yet,” Foggy rubs the back of his neck. “I was planning to read it with Matt before we got here but he just ran out. He said he’d meet me at the station but..”

“Worried?” You finish for him.

Sighing, his eyes become unfocused. “Yeah, I’m worried. I know he’s capable of taking care of himself and everything but—” He lets out a soundless groan. “He’s just so stubborn. This morning, he had a big bruise on his eye, didn’t even tell us how he got it, and he was all worked up over that guy earlier. I don’t want him walking by himself like that, you know?”

Those words sit in your heart as you watch Foggy’s eyes never settle on one spot. Then you smile, not out of joy—grief. While Matt’s behavior is concerning, the fret on Foggy’s face looks like yours when Jessie would go off on his own too.

“You’re a good friend, Foggy.” His eyes halt. “And I’m sure Matt knows that too. He’ll be okay.”

It’s hopeful, Foggy’s voice, like he wanted you to be sure for his sake. “You think so?”

“I think we don’t have a choice.” You chew your lip, the pain prevents any unwanted tears. “We can’t stop him. All we can do is hope he’s alright. Even if we may not like it.”

“Especially if we don’t like it.” Foggy grumbles, but lightens up when you chuckle. “Thanks (Y/n), I feel ten times better.”

At this point, you’ve started to think you have a weakness for blondes. Karen, now Foggy. One look and you didn’t know what to do. “Of course.”

Chatter from the station fills the break between you two, a usually dull sound that feels more alive with Foggy in front of you. “I should go meet our new client.” He undoes his bag for a cream file. “See you afterward?”

The grip on your forgotten mug tightens, not that you need caffeine anymore. “Sure. I’ll keep a lookout for Matt.”

“Smack him around for me when he gets here, will you?” Foggy points the file edge at you. “Not too bad though, I want to get some hits in.”

“I’ll leave you his good eye.”

“He’s blind, (Y/n)” He puts on a deadpan. “He doesn't have a good eye.”

You gasp, “Foggy!”

With a laugh Foggy skirts around you, waving the file goodbye on his way to the front desk. “You can tell him I said that!”

          Eight minutes after your chat with Foggy your fingers tighten on the front desk counter. There he is. A mark on his eye, tension in his shoulders like he’s waiting for a fight. “Matt!” You slip past Mahoney, who has been grilling you about your friendship with Foggy, to approach. “Are you okay? I was starting to think you weren’t coming.”

The red bruise is just beside Matt’s left eye, his red frames almost draw attention to it. No wonder Foggy was worried. “Really?” Matt swings his cane to his side, the move frees up space between you two. “I’m guessing you ran into Foggy already then.”

Seamless subject change.

“I did,” you observe the tension in his shoulders. “He told me about the new client you two got this morning. Is everything okay?”

“No,” he steps closer, your head dips to hear the small rumble of his voice. “He knew about Karen’s case.”

A buzzing sensation tingles your nerves. “What? There’s no way.” You look over to the front desk. Mahoney was gone. “Nobody outside of us and the station ever heard about her case. Where’d he hear it from?”

“Inside the station.” Matt’s jaw is tight. One of his hands scrapes along its line, stretching out the muscle. “He said he has a friend.”

That could’ve been an accusation if you assumed Matt has less faith in you than he does. Truthfully, you didn’t know what he thought of you, but always got the feeling he knew more about you than he should.

Still, you respected his intellect, however unsettling. “I can ask Mahoney, he sees all types of people at the front.”

His eyebrows quirk up. “You know Mahoney?”

“He actually asked the same thing about Foggy after he left to talk to your client.”

Matt clenches his cane then forces himself to relax. “Right.” He sighs, “Do you know where Foggy is?”

“Not necessarily,” you admit, “but I can find out. Follow me.” Matt points out his cane, you guide his arm before pulling instantly away. “Sorry, is that okay?”

Something, maybe the waver in your question, has him shake his head, smiling. “You’re fine.” He matches your hush. “And thank you.”

Although you weren’t sure what he’s thanking you for—your hand, silence, trust. The rapid drum of your pulse calms, and you lead him through the station. Hand tucked around the crook of his arm, warmer than you expected. Feeling the gradual ease in his shoulders you glance at Matt’s side profile, the swoop of his eyelashes visible behind the glasses.

Without that tension, his focused expression made his thoughts look more like passing ideas.

After asking officers for a Foggy Nelson you’re directed down the grey hall to room 440. The officer stationed at the door glances between you two. “I got this room.” You let go of Matt’s arm, your hand vulnerable to the chilled air.

Wordless, the officer walks off, leaving you and Matt coupled by the handle. “Foggy’s worried about you, you know.” The words slip but you meant them, knowing all too well how a reckless friend affects the mind. “And me too honestly, that bruise looks bad, Matt. What happened?”

His lips part for minuscule seconds. You stare. Reminded of a similar mouth until he speaks, voice low. “It’s nothing. You two don’t need to worry.”

“But we are worried.”

The simplicity throws Matt, if another clench of his cane tells you anything. This time you see the redness of his knuckles. Not bruised from defense. From striking.

Son of a boxer. You have a lighter shade on your right hand. A quiet ache that only stings when you think about it. What the hell is Matt hitting?

He murmurs, “I know.”

Satisfied with that answer, you unlock the door. “Good.” And as you push open the door you speak. “I got you something, Foggy. I didn’t—” You’re cut off when you see who Foggy was sitting across.

John Healy. The man looks freshly washed, like what he did last night didn’t stain a single part of him. “Hey, Officer.” He isn’t surprised like you are. Probably saw you through the room’s window. “Nice to see you again.”

“You two know each other?” Matt is quick to point out.

“They do!” Foggy exclaims. “I just found that out right now.” Searching through his file Foggy picks a specific paper. “Your report is in here along with that other guy’s.”

Whirlwinds of different legal footnotes and contradictions hit you like darts. John got his lawyer. “Uhm, yeah, I responded to that call last night.” You step from the door. Half to let Matt in, half to get away. “You two are gonna represent him?”

Foggy’s brows knit in concern but misses the chance to comment. “I’m not so—”

“We are.” Matt intercepts, going inside to set his cane against the wall. Your throat goes dry. Of all the clients in all the cases in New York, they got handed this one.

         “Wow, this makes it kind of illegal for us to be friends right now.”

The wisecrack provides more grimaces than laughs, and not at all what you were expecting to hear after detailing your subpoena to their opposing counsel.

Shaded under the scaffold of a neighboring apartment complex Matt taps his cane. “Not helping, Foggy.”

“I know, I know.” His hands almost carded in his hair but stop midway, like he didn’t want to muss it up further. “I’ve just never been in this situation before. I panicked.”

A brave pair of blue jays saunter near Matt but promptly flutter away when he talks. You understood their scare, having felt the same way before. “There’s nothing to panic about.” He says. “Nothing changes. We’re just doing our jobs.”

Both your hands stretch against the other, byproduct of how long they’ve been in your pocket. “Just my job is to make yours harder.”

“That doesn’t have to be true.” His body faces you. “Foggy told me a little about your report.”

Throughout your career, your reports have been read aloud in courtrooms, meetings, and reviewed by people you’ll never know the names of. It’s not strange to hear a lawyer got a rundown on your report. It is nerve-wracking to hear Matt got a rundown on your report.

You rub an nonexistent itch on your nose. The distinct squawk of blue jays in the near distance. “Really?” He nods and you didn’t know what to make of it until Foggy spoke up.

“I was specifically telling him about the arrest portion of it.” He clarifies. That earlier restrained hand going in his hair, you don’t think he notices himself. “It was pretty weird. Could be useful when we cross-examine you, though.” Foggy pauses, then grins. “I promise we’ll go easy on you.”

Cross-examination from Foggy. It would be a first, being questioned by someone you know. Should’ve been scary, but Foggy made it sound funny. Something you’d all laugh about later over drinks. You like that about him—Jessie would like that about him.

I’ll remember that when I see you guys in the courtroom later.”

“Oh yeah–” Foggy pounds a fist in his hand. “This reminds me actually. Karen wanted to talk to you this morning, she didn’t say why but I was thinking you could come drop by after work. We have our work cut out for us anyway. We’ll be there.”

Hearing the offer, that Foggy wanted to continue the friendship between you four made your heart tick. Once, but still profound.

“I would love to.”

          Karen didn’t wait for your visit to Nelson & Murdock for whatever it is she wants to tell you, she calls ten minutes before you leave—about to check up on Mia. “Hello?”

“Hey,” the breathiness she spoke with strikes you, and you know well what desperation sounds like on her. “Are you busy? I really need to talk to you. I’m outside.”

“Outside?” You scan the window—no Karen, just the NYPD logo reflecting in cold glass. Grey city, blue sky, everything waiting to crack.

There’s a pause over the line. “Yeah.” She swallows, “I didn’t want to, uhm, see…” The people who tried to kill me. “Anyone who would recognize me.”

Her word choice questions whether she knew Officer Farnum is dead or talking about someone else. If not, you surely didn’t want to be the person to tell her.

“Right, of course. We can talk. I was about to head to the office anyway. I don’t know if Foggy told you about that.”

“He did.”

So she doesn’t want Matt or Foggy to hear what she says. Impossible to tell which is more worrying: That she was hiding something from lawyers, or friends.

“Alright, I’ll be right out.” You holster your bag over your shoulder. “Where are you?”

“I’m by this apartment complex right next door. I’ll see you.” She ends the call afterward.

One more check to ensure you had your keys, you weave through the desks or other officers to the front desk where Officer Mahoney is ‘writing’ on a piece of paper, though his hand movements were much too languid.

For an embarrassing amount of time, you observe Mahoney. The lidded eyes. His cheek smushed in a fist. Before you get caught staring, you approach the counter.

Mahoney’s gaze drifts up to meet yours. “Hi?” He raises an eyebrow.

“Hi,” you beat the urge to fiddle with your hands by stuffing them in pockets. “I wanted to ask you something about this morning."

That fist crumples. “If this is about Foggy I have nothing to say about him.” His tone is firm but when he sees your head tilt, he grimaces, like he said too much.

“No, it’s not about Foggy.” You say slowly. “I wanted to ask if you have any records of a man coming in. I don’t have a name but he wore a suit, a really nice silver watch, might have a black Cadillac, and… And was suspiciously polite.”

This last detail is a bit of a stretch, the third one might not even be true yet it’s all you had.

“You know you just described a quarter of a million men in New York, right?”

“I know, I know, but please? Do you have anything that could help?”

Mahoney avoids your eyes, releasing a sigh. “I might, but don’t get your hopes up.” He sits properly. “A man like that came by yesterday night. He had glasses, blue eyes, black hair, and a silver watch—the thing was shiny as hell. Saw him get in a Cadillac when I was leaving the station.”

“Was he with anyone?”

Pressure builds in his shoulders, those once fleeting pupils zeroed in on you. He bounces his pen on the paper. “Don’t tell anyone I said this.”

“I promise.” You give a purposeful pause to hold his gaze, show your sincerity. “I won’t say a word.”

He nods. Before he speaks, you thank whatever force made him trust you. “He was with Blake.” You don’t get to react, Mahoney keeps talking. This is something he’s been wanting to say for longer than a day. “I know it was him, man. I saw his face. I don’t know what they were doing, but I knew something was up but I…”

Scared. That fear of rocking the boat, that guilt of not doing anything—you could smell it on him. “I know.” The depth of your tone surprises you, like the guilt grew its own voice. “It’s okay.”

Neither of you knew where to extend the conversation, and you didn’t have a clean transition to your next question. Eventually, you hide in the quiet. “Mahoney, can you look at the security footage from last night and see if you can get a license plate, Face ID, or anything at all?”

“What are you trying to do?” The question you expected, the intensity of which it came, you didn’t. After your argument with Sterna, you wonder how many Hell’s Kitchen officers knew how close this corruption was.

“I’m not sure yet,” your hands grip the edge of the counter. “But I’ve seen things too. I don’t know what they all mean, but I want to find out, and I’m going to need all the help I can get. Mahoney, please, you don’t need to get involved any more than this.”

“You’re going to get yourself killed.” Mahoney swiveled his head for onlookers, settling his furrowed stare on you.

Jessie died, Daniel Fisher died, Officer Farnum died, Karen’s intruder died, and several people before them. If you’re next in line, hopefully you’ll scare them more than they already scare you.

“Is that a yes?”

“…Yeah. I’ll do it.”

Chapter Text

When Karen said she needed to talk, the last thing you expected was an offer. She stood under the scaffold where the pair of blue jays were. The birds disappeared with their blue sky, only shades of orange are left.

“They were trying to buy my silence, (Y/n), even though their ‘client’ tried to kill me.” As Karen spoke, she picked at the buttons of her white blouse near her chest like her heart wanted to get out.

A breeze ruffles through your uniform. “Did you sign it? The NDA?”

Her hands fall to her sides. “I didn’t. They told me to think on it.” She looks away from you for the first time in this conversation, a humorless huff blowing past her lips. “To talk about it with my lawyers.”

Car honks and metal cranes nurse your silence, but Karen’s expression makes you hesitate. She doesn’t look defeated. There’s a sharpness in her eye, a fire

“Why didn’t you?”

“I couldn’t tell Matt or Foggy, they’d say I should sign it. Put it behind me but—I can’t.” Her voice cracks there. She takes a moment to pull herself together. Pushing back her hair, touching her red face. “I just can’t, I won’t. People died, (Y/n). You know what they’re capable of. Every time Union Allied tried to kill me, you were there. You know—”

The tangent was hitting too close to not cut-off. “Karen, you don’t need to justify this. I’ve been feeling the exact same way since I got dispatched to your apartment.” You squeeze her arm. “So, what do you want to do?”

That makes her smile, it’s fond yet disbelieving. Eases you all the same. “I… I want to go talk to Ben Urich, he’s from the New York Bulletin and wrote that paper about the Union Allied Scandal.” From her black bag, she reveals the newspaper.

While aware of its existence, you never read it, having lived a darker version. Taking the newspaper you skim through the pages.

“I think he can help us, or we can help him.” Your eyes perk at the use of ‘we.’ Karen hears the silent question. “And, uhm, I was hoping you could visit him with me sometime. I know things are a little busy for you right now, Foggy told me about the case.”

It’s not just the case, it’s everything surrounding it. Your mind is tangled in all the loose threads, a mess you get more questions from each time a thread is pulled—Ben is just another thread.

“Yeah.” You let go of her arm. “Once this is over, I can go with you after work.”

“Thank you so much, (Y/n).” Karen hugs you, gripping the back of your uniform. Her next words are muffled by your shoulder. “I really didn’t want to do this alone.”

And that made it worth it, even if Ben Urich only provides more questions to keep you awake at night. At least you made someone feel less alone, plus getting hugged is more than enough reason to follow her anywhere.

          On the walk back to Nelson & Murdock, you insisted to buy takeout. Not just for yourself but everyone else. Especially after Karen admits she hasn’t eaten anything.

“Hey guys, we got you something!” Karen lets you enter first. The main room is dark save for the white light bleeding from the office.

Through its window, Matt and Foggy were sitting at a table, manila folders and stray papers that are kept in place under mugs. Foggy makes eye contact with you, a grin flourishes on his face, it only grows stronger when you raise up the bag of takeout.

“Sustenance!” He rounds the corner with impressive speed, Foggy meets you in the hallway, hands wrapped together. “You are the most amazing, most talented—”

Shaking your head, you swing out the bag to Foggy, letting it hit him once. “Just take it.”

“Will do, Officer.” He flashes one last smile then goes to Karen back at the door.

Your laugh fades as you step into the office—Matt’s face is quieter. His sleeves are rolled up to his elbows, revealing a gold watch on his wrist faintly shining in the light. You tilt your head. Braille. Subtle on the gold dials, but there.

“Thank you,” Matt starts, “Since Foggy seems to have lost his manners.”

Still at the door, you shrug a shoulder. “I’m more worried he was trying to quote The Lego Movie to me.”

“You’d be right to, he’s watched it recently.” He adjusts his glasses, the position of his wrist conceals his expression.

“With who?”

The immediate question earns a short laugh. “He was babysitting some of his nieces last month.” Matt shifts in his chair to face the sound of your footsteps. “It‘s as scary as it sounds.”

In the chair across from him, you set your bag beside it. “What, did he drag you down with him?”

“Maybe.” He dips his head to the right, that little smile turns into a little smirk.

The visual of Matt trying to keep any number of children, let alone girls, in line alongside Foggy is so heartwarmingly hilarious that your giggles are almost involuntary.

“Aww,” You tease, “Did he tell them to call you Uncle Matt too?”

“I’m not answering that.” He answers with a full smile pulling on his lips.

Before you could prod at him more Foggy and Karen come into the office. “Look at you two, already having fun—too much fun.” Foggy sits beside you. He unties the bag and begins setting out boxes.

“Too much fun?” Karen lifts a brow, placing a collection of sodas at the cluttered center of the table. They’re the same Sprites from last time.

“This is a serious time in our firm’s history, Karen.” He points a plastic fork at her. The utensil lowers as she sits. “Tonight’s going to be full of penal codes, reading statements, and finding nonexistent witnesses.”

Taking a Sprite from Karen, Matt is the first to crack open a can. “I’ve been thinking about a witness we could use.”

Eyebrow raised, Foggy sheds his grey suit jacket onto the chair. “Really? Who?”

“(Y/n)—”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa, Matt.” Foggy waves his hands as if to halt the idea. “She’s the prosecution's, we can’t touch her.”

“Not if we use her as rebuttal.”

Foggy’s brief silence at that point is unsettling, either he sees what Matt is saying or completely baffled. “You’re telling me you want to hijack the state’s witness list and throw her on the stand?” When Matt nods, Foggy gapes. “Are you crazy!? They’re not going to allow that.”

Matt’s silence is much longer, and he takes a deep breath. “(Y/n), has the DA set a time for you to meet them?”

Despite Matt asking you the question, the person you look at is Karen, who is somehow more confused than you are. You hold your plastic fork closer. “Uhm, no, not yet.”

“That’s because she just got subpoenaed this morning!” Foggy reasons.

“They’re streamlining this trial, Foggy.” Matt presses a finger against the table. “They aren’t going to waste a second prepping their witnesses. Especially if they were planning to use her in their case.”

“What the heck are you saying?”

“I’m saying that they’re not going to use her report. It contradicts her partner’s completely. We can use that because they’ll call him instead and keep her hidden. That’s why they subpoenaed her in the first place.”

He leans back to sit straight. The air around him ensnares your attention, created by the set line in his jaw. It reminds you of when you first met him—always thinking something worth hearing, and now you’re hearing it about you.

Slowly that air shifts from half lectures to a quiet understanding, less heavy. Foggy glances at you then returns to Matt, sighing, he wipes a hand down the buttons of his dress shirt. “You really think this’ll work?”

“If she’ll let us.” Matt’s head anchors to your voice. Two red frames staring through your heart.

Part of you delights in the idea of helping out Matt and Foggy, while the other considers what you’re helping them with. Who you’re helping them defend. This wasn’t Karen. Healy didn’t stare into your eyes with a terror you couldn’t look away from, he looked at you like someone who knew what they did.

“I was there that night, Matt. I saw the blood, that bowling ball, the smell…” Your breath shakes. It’s a sensation your hands follow, they drop the fork to retreat to your lap. “I know self-defense is your plead and everything but who’s really to say he didn’t kill that man? I don’t know how I feel about helping defend a potential murderer.”

His lack of reply makes your eyes flick back to him, you had half a mind to think Matt did that just to keep your attention. “(Y/n), you have a strong sense of right and wrong,” He doesn't wait, he moves. “But I’m not asking you to say anything other than the facts of what happened that night.”

Beneath your badge, your heart couldn’t decide if it wanted to slow down or speed up. Eventually, you lean forward on the table. Matt’s shoulders shift, but you're too focused on his face to see why.

“To prove if John Healy is a good man or a bad one isn’t why I want to call you for rebuttal.” Matt lowers his voice disarmingly soft. Your eyes drop to his mouth, as if seeing the words will help you hear them, then Matt dips his head and you already return to those brown eyes. “It’s because the jury needs to hear both sides. And if it benefits us it’s because of the facts, not morals.”

Longer than you should, you’re taking in his face, the way he merely exists in front of you. He made perfect sense, yet there’s something you can't understand: His motivations. What drives him to be who he is?

“I’ll do it. But only if the DA leaves me out of it, like you said.”

That line in his jaw releases its tension. “Deal.” He extends his hand out. Once your hands brush you realize how close you two got when your hand didn’t have to reach far for his at all.

His hand is warm. Yours is not. The contact jars your senses like you've been underwater. AC hum, the takeout, the slight callouses of his fingertips. It’s so much warmer than the crook of his arm back at the station, this is his skin.

Afterward, the two of you pull back, your hand rubs your thigh to shake off the new tingling wrapping around it. “Your hand’s warm.”

“Yeah?” His hand disappears under the table. “Yours is freezing.”

“Sorry,” You grin. Matt hides his smile, staring at nothing in his lap.

An almost awkward silence follows before Foggy comes to save it. “Well!” He claps his hands. “I think that’s a good spot to take a break. We have a witness and Matt’s got half of his closing argument done already.”

“You think so?” Matt comments.

“I thought it sounded like one.” Karen offers. Though her cheeks are a touch red. You tug the collar of your uniform, it has been starting to feel hot in here.

Foggy nods, his eyes squint lightly. “Yes. Very thought-provoking, Matthew.”

Joining Foggy your shoulders relax under his levity. “Very thought-provoking.” You echo. “And I’m notoriously unreasonable.”

“Notoriously.” Foggy’s elbow presses against yours as he snaps his fingers.

“Alright.” Matt chuckles, “Come on, let’s eat.”

Karen sits up in her chair ready to accept one of the boxes Foggy passes out. The office hums to life with overlapping chatter. Everyone tries to figure out which box holds what and whose sharing their favorites.

          On the morning of the trial Mia lounges over your couch while you’re fussing with your appearance. Even though you’re only expected to be in uniform, the pressure to look nice is still there.

She’s been mostly quiet during your routine, outside of offering advice and weighing options. Her silence is different compared to her usual demeanor, it’s pensive. Eyes lowered and a biting lip.

Spilling coffee from your Van Gogh Starry Night mug, you observe those behaviors to spot an approach. “What did Meghan want to talk to you about?” You set the mug down. A faint clink against the granite. “Is she okay?”

Immediately, you clock Mia tightening her arms, then unfolding them. “She’s fine, just wanted to check-in on me, see if I was okay.”

Check-in. The phrase stirs a grey feeling in you, it’s almost guilt, it’s almost shame. Checking in on a friend, your friend, the only person in Hell’s Kitchen that could understand how you felt losing Jessie. ‘I lost him too.’ She had said. One fact you’ve done nothing about.

“Are you okay?”

Mia replies quicker than she usually does in these situations, she stands from the couch. A tiny smile that clawed and scratched its way to her eyes. “I’m alright.” In slow steps, Mia walka to the counter. “Stop fussing, you got court.”

“I’m not fussing,” Your hands come to adjust your uniform’s buttoned-up collar. On regular days you leave one unbuttoned for comfort. “Just worried.”

“I meant over yourself, but thanks.” At your dry look, Mia’s smile grows to a smirk, she swats your shoulder. “C’mon, let’s go. You’re going to be late.”

          The courtroom is made up of dark wood that panels to the high-rising ceiling like a cathedral, and the gallery benches, the pews. It’s unlike any court you’ve been in and around Long Island; Oakwood with fluorescent lights to brighten every inch.

“It’s so dark in there.” You murmur to Karen in the hallway outside.

She rubs her arms, a pattern of goosebumps rises along her sleeveless shoulder. “And cold.” Karen peeks behind herself to assure she isn’t in anyone’s way, even then she shuffles closer. “See you after?”

Nudging your head toward the hallway chairs, where you’ll sit alongside your fellow witnesses, an exaggeratedly tired smile forms. “I’ll be here.” Karen chuckles at your act, wishing you luck before disappearing through the courtroom doors.

One by one the other witnesses flow into the hallway. Most are doctors or specialists, all sporting a blank face, this wasn’t their first court appearance.

Then there was the young woman from the bowling alley. Hands close to her body as she sat down pulling the hem of her dress, eyes skirting to every person nearby. Once it was your turn, you nod. She doesn’t react, only lets go of her dress.

Sterna is the last witness to show, he makes eye contact when he sits across the hall, avoiding the empty seat next to you. Childish. It sends a prick to your gut, you cross your legs to somehow hide that internal response.

Within the time opening statements were to start being delivered, a well-dressed man quickly strides down the hallway, his loafers clicking on the floor. The noise drowns out at the sight of his watch. Silver, shiny, and expensive.

Seated in the chair right beside the courtroom door, you’re able to get a good look at his face when he approaches it. His tall shadow covers you as a fox would a bird.

Each box his face checks your pulse grows in speed, he matches Mahoney’s description to the letter. When he smiles at you, crooked and toothy, a dread screams in your soul. This is the man.

It took all your police training and personal restraint not to chase him into the court. The chilled air from inside brushes the back of your neck like a taunt.

‘Is the man who just entered the courtroom the same man from your office?’ You text Karen at the sound of the doors shutting. Two minutes later she replies:

‘Yes, that’s the guy

Do you recognize him?’

‘No but I might be able to find out

An officer I know told me he was with Detective Blake if you remember him’

‘I do

You think they’re connected?’

‘Yeah but I’m not sure how or why

I’ll let you know if I find out anything’

‘Okay’

On Brett Mahoney’s contact, a number you gained recently, you ask if he has been able to look at the security footage yet. After a while, he messages that he is going to try tonight.

Nothing else interesting happens for the remainder of the trial. Only every time a witness is called inside do you try to see anybody familiar inside. In your mind that was Karen, Foggy, or Matt, not the prosecution bench.

Doctors and specialists are the first to be called, Sterna is the second last behind the young woman. You never follow. A buzzing sensation billows in you, nervousness with edge. Rebellion. Knowing you agreed to counter Sterna’s testimony, another cop, in a trial you should’ve been silent in, is new.

Court adjourned for the day, you wait by the door for your group among the various others pouring out. Matt comes in, guided by Foggy, Karen beside them. Their faces are taut. “How’d it go?” You ask.

The four of you stand off on the left of the door, waiting for the crowd to dissipate. Foggy releases Matt's arm. “Their witnesses were pretty much slam dunks. The only ones we could pick at were that lady and your partner,” He points a finger at you. “Real piece of work by the way.”

“Tell me about it.” You remark, “Any good news?”

“We have you as our star witness now.” The weight in Matt’s voice makes your shoulder twitch. Not quite a flinch, just something involuntary, and a little too honest.

“Right.” Clearing your throat doesn’t kill that earlier buzzing, but it’s something to do. “So, what’s the plan?”

Matt speaks softer this time, and he starts walking down the hall, cane flicked out. “We’re going to need to prepare you for cross-examination before anything else.”

Footsteps echo along the tile when yours fall into step beside Matt’s. “Really?”

He hums, the deep vibration turns your head to watch him think, seeing the slow blinks under those red glasses. “The prosecution is going to come after you hard, and it’s going to be easy for them to do so.”

“Because I’m a transfer?”

“Exactly,” His head tilts. “Their goal is to question your credibility. It’s important for everyone that you stay calm on the stand.”

Brief pause, you do a once-over of his side profile now that it's closer. The low lighting hid the ornate features of your surroundings. “This is the part where you say ‘no pressure.’”

A humored huff comes from his nose. However, Foggy cuts in behind you both. “And me and Karen will do somersaults in the back to cheer you on.”

“Oh hey, Foggy.” You look over your shoulder grinning. “Didn’t see you there.”

Rolling his eyes Foggy and Karen step into the space you make in between Matt. “I started to think you actually didn’t.” He sighs. “See, Karen this is what I meant by them having too much fun.”

She glances at you before responding, the blues of her irises catch the daylight from the approaching glass doors. “I see it.”

The corners of Matt’s lips lift, it reveals a set of smile lines at the edges. “Just doing our due diligence.” He shrugs, voice light.

Foggy waves his hand, tossing out one last quip before adding his own suggestions. “They’re going to lose their minds when we call her, Matt.”

“Then that means we’re doing something right.”

Chapter Text

No one tells you it’s the paperwork that’s scary. Not just the blood. Or the screams. It’s the silence of a courtroom when your name’s on the docket, and it hasn’t even been called yet.

It’s the calm before the storm. Sitting in that overpolished hallway picking at your fingers, heartbeat in your ears.

Remember what you were told last night, don’t let them get in your head. But above all—know that they’re only grilling you this hard because they’re scared. Use it.

Foggy had given you that tidbit. Alongside one thumbs up and two back pats.

“Officer (L/n), you’re being called to the stand. A rebuttal witness.”

The court officer is younger than most you’ve seen in their late thirties or early forties. She’s new, though isn’t rattled about the job, she instructs you calmly.

“Okay.” You exhale. Thank you.”

Inside, frigid air ghosts over your skin as you cross the door’s threshold, like another dimension.

In the gallery Karen sits at the farthest bench near the door, she offers a swift smile you try to return. Instead, it’s interrupted by a strong voice. The DA, Madison Weaver. He’s wearing a blue suit, on his feet, towering over the table.

“With the utmost respect, Your Honor, we believe the court overlooked the fact Officer (L/n) was previously subpoenaed by the state. The defense is cherry picking our bench to insert sympathetic character evidence through the back door.”

From the opposite side, Matt speaks up. Still seated with Foggy and John Healy. All in grey. “Your Honor, we’ve established that Officer (L/n) is being called solely to rebut Officer Sterna’s description of my client’s demeanor. That door was opened by the prosecution.”

Madison’s fist comes up to his chest, fingertips peak over his shoulder as he talks. “But the impact is prejudicial.” The DA’s co-counsel, sitting, nods along. “We opted not to use her precisely because her observations were irrelevant to our theory of the case—”

“Then perhaps you should’ve reconsidered your theory, counselor.” The judge, Vargas, shuts down Madison with more than words, but the sharp crook of his brow. “The objection has already been overruled, and unless you have new grounds, we’re moving on. Officer (L/n),” His address shoots across the room into your chest. The impact is icy. He signals a dark finger to bring you closer. “Please, come forward.”

Beside you, the court officer resumes her lead to get you sworn in. It’s a battle between your instincts and mind to not peek for your friends or others you recognize like Sterna.

Don’t fidget.

This is the part you really hated about testifying. Down at the stand, the weight of everyone’s gaze on you. They seemed taller from this distance.

“Good morning, Officer.”

Your vision locks on the calm voice. Matt stands, lifting his cane to his chest in that familiar way.

One light breath slides some stress off your shoulders. “Good morning, Mr. Murdock.”

Referring to Matt so professionally released the rest of that stress, it’s like you were messing with him.

Maybe Matt felt that way too, his head tilts. Quiet, for just a second. “Please, state your name and occupation for the record.” Once you give it Matt is quick to begin real questioning.

“You responded to the incident at Westlanes Bowling with Officer Sterna, correct?” He steps forward after your agreement. “And you made the initial arrest of John Healy?”

“I did.”

Another step. “Describe his behavior at the scene.”

Now your eyes wander. “He was on his knees with his hands behind his head when we found him. Just waiting.” They land on Healy, sat beside Foggy, the ginger hair on his beard newly shaved. “He was blinking a lot but looked me in the eyes and asked for a lawyer.”

There’s no follow-up question so you continue the recount. “I told him he’ll get one, that he just needed to come with us. He agreed. That’s when I arrested him.” Healy returns your stare then, face betraying zero emotion, doing exactly what you were. Watching. “He didn’t resist at any point and was very cooperative. It was odd, sure, but never did I think I would have to use force.”

“Did he say anything to you?”

Attention back on Matt, the space he crossed during your distraction makes you sit straight. He’s four feet from the stand.

“He mentioned me calling him sir. Said I was the first person to call him that in a long time and that he wasn’t respected much.”

There’s a sneeze from the gallery though neither of you reacts to it. “He said…” Matt takes a final step closer. The proximity hits a nerve. Just like that handshake in the office. “He said he wished he was like me.”

Voice low, Matt holds his cane with just his right hand. The other rested at his side. “How did he say it?”

“I—I thought it was flattery at first but he didn’t even look at me.” The polished cadence of your own voice starts to waver more than you’d want. “He actually put himself in the backseat when he said it. I didn’t know what to make of it so I just reminded him that anything he says can be used against him in court.”

“Thank you,” He pauses, “No further questions.”

Every time you’re brought on the stand it’s mind-boggling how quick it actually is. The legal equivalent of pulling out a tooth. Twist. Pull. Done.

However, cross-examining is a new beast. If direct is pulling out a tooth, cross is a root canal dressed in a blue suit.

“Officer (Y/n),” Rising, Mr. Madison Weaver redoes the button on his jacket. “You said you’ve been transferred to the 15th precinct… What? Almost a month?”

Feels like less, feels like more. “Yes.”

“So you’re relatively unfamiliar with the neighborhood, suspect records, and even the officers, would you say?” Throughout the question Weaver stalks along the jury, listing each item on a finger.

It wouldn’t be lying to say he’s right. More so now with what you know. Seen. Heard. You knew too much, yet not enough. “Every station runs a little differently, but the job’s the same.”

“Naturally. And you were partnered with Officer Sterna at the scene. An officer with over a decade of experience?”

Despite the jab, an image of Sterna first’s day as a cop flashes in your mind. Prior to the corruption. Was he like you? Wanting to help people, protect the innocent.

“I was.”

He stops walking the instant your lips close. That prior question didn’t matter to him, you could feel it in his stare, this is what he wanted to say. “And why should the jury believe your report to an officer with over ten years in Hell’s Kitchen?”

That, that was one question you weren’t prepared for. There’s no why, you’re not here to claim you’re the better cop. “I think…” Row three, seat two of the jury. A woman hasn’t stopped looking at you. You’re not sure if that’s good or bad.

At the very least, you have the jury’s attention.

“I think the jury shouldn’t disregard any testimony given today, or yesterday, it was given for a reason. Sterna did the same as I am, saying what we reported.”

Before you could be proud of your answer Weaver resumes strolling like you never spoke. Unafraid. “You also ‘reported’ calling a murder suspect sir.” His hands motion air quotes, then exaggeratedly fall to his pockets in a soft thump. “Is that normal police protocol?”

It’s the first question not directly about yourself. Somehow it offends you more than all the others. “It’s normal human decency.”

The bite in your tone is so potent you recoil from it, back against the wooden chair. Bad move, bad move.

“Human decency. Of course.” Weaver smiles. Not a fake one, he’s pleased with your answer. Knows he got you. “But are you trained to give suspects comfort during arrest?”

Heat flares in the back of your neck. Comfort was the last thing Healy needed at that point. He knew he killed a man, you knew he is a man. It’s insulting to both ends. “I’m trained to de-escalate situations without force.” Your voice lowers, and he halts. Great. “And I did.”

“Or maybe you were just too green to recognize a killer for what he was.”

“Objection, Your Honor.” Matt counters from the table. One leg under it, and the other pointed out. “Improper and without foundation.”

Weaver’s hand goes into a fist. Now that he’s not gesturing his arms around, you could spot the triangle-shaped cufflinks glint. Still, he remains level, almost overtly casual. “I’m questioning the witness’s credibility. A matter that’s relevant to this case.”

That makes him stand up. Cane pressed hard to the floor. His voice stays even, his jaw does not. “The prosecution chose not to call her.” He reminds, “You can’t question her now simply because her testimony doesn’t fit your narrative.”

Feeling the edge in Matt’s voice, Weaver shoots his head at him. Demeanor snapped in an instant, all glares and blunt brows. “I can question the reliability of someone testifying against a veteran officer, Mr. Murdock.” He turns his body toward the defense bench. “Especially one less experienced.”

Matt clenches his cane. “Officer (L/n) isn’t a rookie, she has served seven years on the force.” The fire in that fact, one you didn’t tell him.

“You’re not questioning reliability. You’re undermining her credibility as an officer with a change of location, not real evidence.”

He’s defending you. Saying what you couldn’t. Yet the stubborn part of you wishes he hadn’t—that you hadn’t talked yourself into this corner in the first place.

“Enough!” Sooner than Judge Vargas bangs his gavel, you flinch at his volume. Vargas waits for both attorneys to sit. While he waits, the pulse of everyone in the court fills that silence. “Both of you, reel it in. The witness isn’t the one on trial. Mr. Weaver, either move on, or wrap it up.”

Tight-lipped, Weaver puts his hands in his pockets. “No further questions, Your Honor.”

Vargas nods, asks Nelson & Murdock if they want to redirect. Foggy declines. And you’re released on unsteady legs disproportionate to how long you were seated. Twist. Pull. Done.

For the three steps down the witness stand, your head is bowed. Trying to comfort yourself by thinking: Your testimony could’ve gone worse. It wasn’t working.

At the final step, you had to lift your head. The first face you register is Foggy’s, he waits for you to look at him. When you do he mouths the word ‘Nice,’ scrunching his nose. You smile. Not just from his funny expression, because he’s there.

Toward the back of the courtroom, Karen is in the same seat. Most witnesses sit behind the attorney tables after testifying, or plain leave, as most of your fellow witnesses have. Sterna specifically. But you wanted to be with Karen.

Best part is that she did too. Beside her chair a black purse holds the open seat, she moves it once you’re close enough. “You did amazing.” She whispers. Even if you might not believe it, it’s nice to know others thought it.

          Hung Jury.

The four of you stood outside the courthouse, aftershocks of the morning chilling on already cold limbs.

“That could’ve gone worse.” A dry huff slips out of you at Foggy’s wording.

“You guys did the best you could with what you had.” Karen tries to assure. Matt needs it most. Ever since the verdict his shoulders haven’t moved.

This wasn’t a loss. Didn’t feel like a win either. The exact grey area you wanted to avoid when agreeing to testify. The truth didn’t help anyone. John Healy’s free on a hung jury.

Foggy scratches the hairs on the back of his neck. “And with who we were up against.” He complains, “He somehow got worse than I thought he’d be.”

Eyes on you, memories of your cross-examination sit between you all. “Yeah. Definitely one of the more high-stress questionings I’ve been through.”

“Hey, you did good though.” Foggy taps your shoulder. He brings that hand to point at Matt beside him with his thumb. “Even if Matthew here got a little intense.”

It’s a tease. Always. Just not the time. Matt grips his cane, a repressed jump in his forearms to prevent himself from jabbing it on the concrete. Clearly, he wasn’t proud.

“Still, thanks for bailing me out back there.” As you talk, a sheepish smile spreads on your cheeks. Thankfully Matt wouldn’t see it.

“I didn’t bail you out.” Matt straightens his posture. The first words he spoke since the verdict. “Weaver pushed too hard on your police records.” He made it seem simpler than his face showed during court. And it’d be a lie saying you didn’t want to play along.

After this one question. “How did you know my police records actually? I don’t remember telling you I worked for seven years.”

Matt’s lip purse. “I… had Foggy look it up for me.” The weightiness in that detail could’ve been fit for a church confession, something he didn’t want to admit in public. Or at all. “After you left last night.” He adds much later.

“Oh.”

For the case, you told yourself. No need to be embarrassed. Police records are public, anyway.

“Speaking of last night,” Foggy cuts in before the quiet gets too long. “I haven’t had a cup of coffee since then.”

Subject change, and a damn good one. Bless him. Knowing the perfect way to capitalize on it, you point in the direction of your apartment. “I know a good place. It’s called the Sparrow’s Nest. The service is kind of blunt, but the coffee and bagels were amazing.”

Were to die for, if you’d let yourself be ironic.

“Oh, a bagel sounds nice.” Karen hums. Earlier, she had admitted to skipping breakfast since she was nervous for how today would go.

“Great!” Foggy swings his arms to power his stride down where you pointed. Like gravitated ants, the rest of you follow. “I’m starving too.”

          Hell’s Kitchen had been kind enough to let you spend the remaining day in peace. Foggy heckling you for coffee preferences aside. It was when you left Nelson & Murdock did the city remind you why you’re here.

‘I got an ID from that plate. BKM4449. It's under James Wesley.’

The text came with a screenshot from Mahoney’s home laptop. Bright, slightly blurry but you could see the man’s picture front and center.

‘This is the guy you saw at court?’

‘Yeah that’s him

I’ll talk it over with some friends. promise I won’t say you were involved at all

Thank you so much’

‘You’re welcome.

Be careful with whatever you’re doing’

‘I will

You be safe too’

Mahoney sends a thumbs-up emoji. The color changed to match his darker skin.

Car engines zoom past your stagnant body on the sidewalk, each one whipping a breeze stronger than the last. James Wesley. That’s a name, that’s something you can use. A lead. After all these loose threads.

There’s no understanding the heavy thumps in your heart, the way your breath caught. Some adrenaline-twisted version of happiness. Relief? What mattered is that nobody familiar was around. Society let the hysterical grin dance on your face the entire walk home.

          It’s nighttime now, the equilibrium between when Hell’s Kitchen is the loudest and quietest. Meghan sat beside you on the couch, her starry grey socks propped onto your coffee table. Also beside yours.

Clicks from the remote give your mind something to focus on, preventing you from falling asleep. “I can’t remember the last time I sat down to watch TV.” Meghan notes during her search.

“Hence why we’re doing this.” The blanket cuddled up to your mouth muffles the reply. Dark green, you glance at the hue. Faint hints of Karen’s scent still stuck to the blanket. Powdery, warm.

Over in the kitchen, Mia cracks open the last bag of microwave popcorn you didn’t even know you had. This sleepover was your idea. Needing to reconnect with Long Island natives to remind yourself you’re one too.

That, and the fact you’re guilty of neglecting them lately.

“But what do we watch?” Meghan asks. The clicking stops, and you glance over, smiling at her drumming two fingers on her lips. Completely rhetorical.

A vibration on your stomach distracts further comments. Letting the blanket go, you flip over your phone. Call: Stranger. Ever since Ethan’s rescue, you changed his contact to his ‘name.’

Ice prickles its way out your ribs. You glance at Meghan and Mia as if they saw the caller ID and knew exactly who he was. “I’m gonna go take this—be right back.”

Meghan’s eyes trail your rise to your feet, the TV glow catches on her glasses. She opens her mouth but Mia’s voice speaks instead.

“You better not bail out on us.”

You laugh it off like it isn’t a real possibility, rushing to shut the bedroom door behind you. “Hello?” The greeting comes out shaky. Though the stranger didn’t sound any better, he’s winded.

“Wilson Fisk. Have you heard that name on any police reports?”

The only Fisk you recall is Amador Fisk, a parking ticket. One you gave out yourself. “No, but I can check in the morning.”

He pulls away from the phone, however, you still hear the soft ‘Okay.’ With a cough, he continues closer. “Thanks. Let me know if you find anything.”

“I will.” Chewing your lip, you hesitate to reveal your own news despite being so happy about it a few hours ago. “I got a name too, actually.”

Both of you are quiet for too many beats, eventually the man shifts over the phone line. A foot, maybe, scraping against brick. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. James Wesley. I’m not sure if, uh, it’s related to your guy but he’s involved in this somehow. A friend of mine saw him with my boss, Detective Blake.” Your tone grows more confident as you go on. It’s a weird sensation, your mind switching gears in real time. “And he’s definitely involved.”

Again, he’s quiet. “Alright, I’ll keep it in mind.” When you hum the man takes a deep breath. “Don’t say the name I gave you around anyone. It’s dangerous.”

“Okay.”

“I mean it,” he insists, “Don’t say it.”

This time you promise, and that seems to satisfy him. He lays off, thanks you for the name, then hangs up. Your hand presses against the cold wood of the door, almost thrown by how fast that was.

Another name. Another whisper dropped after sunset. First Wesley, now Fisk. How many more shadows can you uncover before they give chase?

Nevertheless, you return to the living room. You’re hit by the warm smell of freshly made popcorn, it wakes a hunger you didn’t know existed.

“Smells good.” You muse.

Two heads pop up behind the couch. “Oh, (Y/n), everything okay?” Meghan lowers her glasses back on her nose.

“Yeah, everything’s fine.” Footsteps cracking on the wooden floor, you join them on the couch, adjusting the dark green blanket over your lap. “What are we watching?”

“NCIS: Los Angeles.” Mia answers, her smirk written all over her voice. “Ironic, I know.” She passes you the bowl of popcorn since you’re sitting in the middle.

Already digging into the popcorn Meghan mentions it was between this or Dr. House. “Thought it’d be funny to poke out those fake Hollywood inconsistencies like they do on the internet.”

“Make proper critics out of us, huh?” You pick a handful of popcorn, smiling.

“It’ll be fun!”

It was. The chance to not feel like the city of New York was growing devil horns that got bigger by the day. To pretend Jessie was just loudly snoring in his apartment, and fall asleep on Mia’s shoulder halfway through episode four.

Chapter Text

The masked man hasn't called in three days.

Considering the progress made after the trial you thought you two would be chasing these leads while they were hot, that he felt the momentum you did.

And you at least expected to make some headway on Elena’s case or with Ben Urich. Both were brick walls.

Elena’s landlord had completely stonewalled you from setting up a meeting. Your first roadblock, so you took it well. If Mr. Tully was fighting you this hard then you must be on the right track.

Ben was worse, no reactions to build off of. He scribbled a lot, didn't look up. Karen had done most of the talking. You added pieces here and there, but the badge on your chest might as well have been a muzzle—you could feel his apprehension the second you walked in. Maybe he didn't trust cops, most journalists don't. Or maybe he was smart not to.

“Don’t stress over it,” Karen had told you afterward. “He’ll contact us when he’s made his decision.”

All true, for the most part. It doesn’t change how your hands grip Ben’s Union Allied newspaper. You have to be close to something, anything. What are you missing?

Tossing the newspaper, it lands on the countertop next to Jessie’s files, the impact knocks them over, earning a groan. As you recollect them, different taxis are illuminated by the outside light coming in from your window.

To get your mind working, you lean on the counter flipping through each photo. Yellow. Yellow. Yellow. Black Cadillac. Your heartbeat slams that photo onto the granite. Broad daylight, mall robbery, a taxi and Cadillac parked together at its front doors.

After turning on the kitchen lights you read the last three numbers of the Cadillac’s plate. 449.

Up till tonight, you were only focused on the taxis, never even considering the various cars in these pictures. Now, you’re kicking yourself for thinking any other way.

          Checked back into the station you picked a police car to attend your night ‘shift.’ Not 403, even though you wanted to use it, the masked man was right, too risky. 523. An older model. It smells like petrol, loose threads in the seats, and the MDT system ran slow. Still, it’ll get the job done.

Once James Wesley’s records show up on the screen you plug in his address and start driving. His car by those taxis is an easy coincidence, however, you've learned there are none when the Russians are involved. Your foot is heavier on the pedal than it usually is, but you couldn’t stop. Not when this could be the final piece.

Then—

A flash of orange against the darkness, small, unmoving. As the car’s headlights got closer it reveals what that flash truly is, a cat. Your shoulders sink.

This isn’t the time. There’s leads. A timeline. But you couldn’t leave. Not when an animal is lying on the side of the road, hurt at the very least—dead at the very, very worst.

God, what if the cat is dead? You’d be thinking about it for days, sleepless nights if you go.

Pulling over, you jog down the sidewalk to the cat. “Hey, little guy, please tell me you’re alive.” At his side, the orange cat didn’t react to your plea, nor once you prod at his paw. “Hey,” You repeat, shakier this time. “C’mon, don’t be dead.”

No response.

“No, no, no.” Your hands tremble, hovering over the animal in a disarray you didn’t think you’d have in this situation. Heartbeat, is there a heartbeat?

Hand lifting the cat’s hind leg, turns out he’s a girl, you press two fingers on the inside of her thigh. The femoral artery. “Give me a pulse, please.” Nothing. Though it’s hard to hear anything over the banging of your own pulse. “Shit,” That hand flies to your face, covering your mouth.

Already, tears obscure your vision, clouding the cat to a fuzzy orange splotch. Come on, do something. Stop crying. Pick her up—

Clink!

Glass bottles from the alley. You lurch over the cat’s body to somehow protect it. “Who’s there!?” Shouting, but your voice is hoarse, congested, obvious that you’ve been crying.

“It’s me.” The alley speaks. From its shadows, the masked man materializes into view. Clad in black. He takes three cautious steps forward. “What’s wrong?”

Your body both tenses and eases its stance, no longer bent over the cat. “Uhm,” a sniffle you didn’t want to let out escapes. “The cat, I-I think she’s dead, I don’t know. I found her here, she’s not moving, and I can’t feel a pulse in her…” You trail off when the man kneels in front of you.

“She’s not dead,” He murmurs. Head tilted. “I hear a heartbeat. Faint. But she’s alive.”

“How did—”

“Is there a vet nearby?”

Momentarily stunned, you swallow down the dryness in your throat. “I’m not sure,” Never have you wanted to know Hell’s Kitchen like the back of your hand till now. “I can check in the car.”

The man nods, then scoops up the cat. One hand at her head, the other on her hip. “Her ribs are broken.” He explains, “A car must’ve hit her. Recently.”

Again, you want to ask how he knew that but the word ‘recently’ flares your insides. Recently means you had limited time. That can work. “Okay, let’s go.” Wiping a stray tear, the two of you head to your car, you open the door for the man before getting in.

Walker Veterinary Hospital, closest one nearby. “Godamnit, it’s twenty-three minutes away.”

“It’s okay, just start driving.” The man says, his tone gentle. It both disorients you then brings you back together.

“Right.” Deep breath. The gear stick is pulled to drive, not any later you turn the police lights on.

          Haphazardly parked along the street, the man places the cat in your arms. “I’ll come back.” You exhale, “Let you know what happens.” He doesn't respond and you're too occupied with the cat to see if he nodded.

Time waning down, you book it to the vet as fast you could without jostling the cat. Inside, the bright lights ache your eyelids after being in the dark for so long. “Excuse me, ma’am.” At the front desk, an old woman’s eyebrows perk up. Samantha, her tag read. “I found her on the side of the road earlier, I think her ribs are broken.”

Samantha stands to examine the cat. “Dear,” she mumbles, turning to call for a team of veterinary nurses who provide a stretcher for you to put her on. Under the lights, you finally notice the green collar around her neck, made of glossy leather.

“Thank you, Officer. We’ll take care of her the best we can.” Samantha nods, hands clasped over her chest.

Sounds like she thought you’re leaving. The expectation makes you realize how invested you are. Awkwardly, your hands slide behind your back. “Would it be okay if I stayed? I just want to know she’ll be alright”

“Oh,” The woman’s hands unclasp. “Of course. Feel free to have a seat, dear.”

On a chair by the door, you wait for your nerves to settle before calling to the man. He picks up at the second ring. “She just went in right now, I’m, uh, waiting inside.” Your leg begins bouncing. “Are you at the car?”

“I’m… around.” He answers, “Call me when you get out.”

The man promptly hangs up. Providing you no alternative to sitting with your thoughts while you wait.

Fifteen minutes later a family, father and daughter, burst into the vet. It almost jolts you out of your seat. The young girl runs up to the counter, sniffling, on her tiptoes to peer over it. Her father steadies his hand on her head. “Sorry, we were called about our cat Gigi?”

“Ah. Yes, Gigi was brought in by an officer a few minutes ago.” Samatha glances at you and your leg stops bouncing. “She’s actually right behind you all.”

Out of the two, the girl is the first to turn to you. Her face is puffy red. It twists your heart. “Hi.” You give a quick wave.

“Officer!” The father’s hands go to smooth his tussled brown hair. “Wow–” He clears his throat. “Thank you so much for bringing her in.”

“It’s—”

A nurse comes through the door, he steps away when the family swiftly faces him. “You’re Gigi’s family?” They nod. Already you assume the worst, hoping for the best. “I have good news.” The nurse steps forward, a small one. “She’s still weak, but she should recover.”

“Oh thank god.” The father digs his knuckles into his forehead, but his daughter keeps looking at you, new tears falling down her eyes to her wobbling chin. You stand, an action that’s much easier now. “Again, thank you, Officer.” The father continues, “You don’t know how much this means to us.”

“It’s nothing, sir.” Smiling, you shake his hand, grip firm compared to his shakes. “I’m just glad she’s okay.”

Below, his daughter hiccups her cries.“Hey,” you kneel to her level. “It’s okay now, yeah? The hard part’s over. Just gotta stay brave a little longer.”

Although you offer your hand, the girl hugs you with a force surprising for her small size. She mumbles thank-yous into your shoulder, her tears soaking your uniform. You don’t leave the vet until she pulls away first. Not just because she needed it, but because this felt like the first clear-cut win you’ve had.

          Back in the cold night air, the masked man isn’t at your car or shrouded in the adjacent alleys. ‘Around,’ he said.

Funnily enough, it took one glance upward to spot him on the edge of the building in front of you. One tall shadow beside the crescent moon above.

“You’re ridiculous, you know that?” Pocketing your phone, you cross the street to the fire escape on the building, the steps to the top are only made bearable due to the glowing sparks in your chest. “Ah geez, I’m really glad you waited.” You suck in a long breath to bolster over the roof’s border. “That—would be a waste of energy.”

The man doesn’t turn around. “I still could.”

Two of your boots thud on the floor. “True, but that would be ungentlemanly of you.”

This time, his head moves in that same tilt you’re beginning to watch more closely. “You’re in a good mood.” He notes, “Guess everything went well.”

“Went great, actually.” Beside the masked man, your elbow brushes his, once, then he steps away. “Her name’s Gigi, and she’s expected to recover.”

He hums. “Good work today.”

A little light flutters in your chest like wings. “It was an A-minus.” You shrug. “I lost my composure for a second.”

For a few seconds. However the masked man doesn’t mention that. Gradually, the silence grates on your nerves. Fingers tap on your thigh, teeth scrape your lip.

The man sighs, it’s full of relentless weight. “Is there something you wanna say?”

So much. There’s so much you wanted to say.

“Yeah, uh… where have you been?” He doesn’t answer right away. Your tapping gets worse. “I mean, I know we’re not actual partners and stuff but, I just thought we’d be working together more after what we found out.”

All those words might’ve dug you in a deeper hole but it’s impossible to take back. The man unfolds his arms. “I haven't made any progress since that day.”

Your head turns to him. “Oh.” The faint glow from the orange streetlights showcases his frown. “I haven't made much progress either, to be honest.”

“Really?” His tone matched yours, surprised, and a bit relieved. If you weren’t projecting that is.

“Yeah, nothing has really worked out. That's why I was driving out here. I needed to do something to help all this.” Vaguely, your hand gestures around the city. It falls back to your side with a soft thump. “I guess things haven't changed.”

The man goes quiet again, he speaks up sooner but the stillness never leaves. Not fully. “You helped that family.”

There it is.

“How do you do that?” The question comes out quick, in case you're cut off like the other five times this happened. “The broken ribs, heartbeat, that GPS. How do you hear that?”

“It's complicated.”

No way, you’re not going to let him dodge this. Your whole body turns. “Hey, you said you’d answer my questions the ‘next time’ we were together.” Arms folded, you force a cop-like sternness. “This counts as ‘next time.’”

Didn't work. A huff blows out his mouth, the frown on it twitches up. “You also said I was lying.”

For a second your tongue tries saying a name, his name. One you didn't have. The masked man notices your little stammer, facing you.

Though silent, the sight of his smirk garners a scoff. “Are you really going to make me beg?”

He flashes that cheshire cat smile, a brief flicker of white in the night. “No, I’ll let you have this one.” The man pauses. Debating the best way to answer, ideally. “I can… It was an accident, when I was a kid.” His lips purse. “I got the ability to see by hearing things, or smelling them.”

Accident. The image of what kind fills your head. Lab accident? Chemical accident? Of course, you doubted you'd get more than that.

“Wow. So, you really are a superhero.” You settle for instead, expecting him to deny it. He does. Now it's your turn to get quiet.

Back toward the street, your hands hide from the chill inside your pockets. The cityline this high up is simple. No grandstanding Empire State Building, or a view your mother spends an exorbitant amount to see. All those sparkly buildings were behind you somewhere.

Nothing stops you from spinning around and trying to find them, but you were content with this. Each building is a couple hundred feet, though their height is the last thing on your mind. It’s the windows, tiny golden or white squares. That's what you love about New York City.

“Can I ask a question now?” The man mumbles.

“Sure.”

“What are you thinking about?”

You blink out the trance. “I—” Exhaling, vapor from your breath clouds into the air. “Just looking at the city. It’s really pretty.”

The chugs of a metro train blare in the distance, the man seemingly waits for it to pass before talking. “What’s it look like?” When you glance at him, he gestures to the black cowl over his eyes moments later, wordless, and with the barest traces of humor.

Ironically, you’ve thought about that question many times during family trips to the city. Despite never being asked it. “I always thought it looked like stars, the buildings at least.” Your eyes squint to blur the lights. “Their windows are just tiny square lights all clustered together, very organized squares, kinda like dominoes, but stars sound better.”

“It does.” The man’s head lowers an inch. “Poetic.” His tease is so subtle you miss it, even said thank you, daring to feel proud of your metaphor until he chuckles to himself. Then you elbow his side, fighting laughter as well.

          Things start looking up after that night, in the most cosmically karmic way. The next morning an email from Armand Tully sits in your inbox. Agreeing to meet but only in the presence of his lawyers. You accept these terms and he says you’re welcome to come by after work.

The rest of the day you’re near ecstatic, people notice, Mia definitely notices. It reminds you still need to get information out of the guy, plus him having his lawyers there is a good countermove.

Sunset begins. The afterglow of Tully’s e-mail is long gone, in its place a sobering wariness that’s cut through when Foggy calls you. “Hey! You wanna come by the office?” Foggy’s voice chirps from your phone just as you lean back in the driver’s seat. “We have quite literally nothing to do around here. I’m thinking we all get drinks, nothing crazy, since I know you got that whole buttoned-up cop thing to keep up.”

Gripping the keys in your palm, an impulse asks you to reschedule with Tully, it’s easily squashed but you don’t regret the idea. “I can’t, Foggy. I’m sorry.” To keep it light, and Foggy not sad, you add. “I’m actually cheating on you guys right now for work.”

“What?!” Foggy exclaims, perfectly outraged. “Who’s the lucky law firm?”

Both of you laugh. “Hm, not sure yet. I’m heading over to meet them.” You rev up the squad car. Another different one, number 417. Runs smoother than the last. “I’ll call you guys tomorrow.”

“Alright, alright. I’ll be counting on it, see you later.” Prepared to say bye, the gear is pulled to reverse— “And remember, I’m getting the four of us in a bar one day. I’ll drag you and Matt by the ear if I have to.”

Your eyebrow raises on the way out the parking lot. “Why me and Matt specifically?”

Side grumbling, likely toward Matt, Foggy groans by the time he answers you. “Because,” He drawls, “Me and Karen went drinking last week and we couldn’t find you guys anywhere. I swear, neither of you answer the phone.”

On the road, memories of that time pass by. It was Ethan’s rescue. Later that night, you scrolled through the multitude of missed calls from the two. If it wasn’t for their drunken texts asking where you were or blurry photos of a fish market, you would’ve been worried rather than falling asleep.

“Probably because you were calling at 2 a.m.”

“Fine, point taken. But still, remember. Drinks. Us. It’s happening.” Assuring him that you’ll all go out sometime, Foggy relents, hanging up the phone.

          A couple minutes later you pull into an open spot at Elena’s building. Mr. Tully gave you his phone number in his last e-mail, telling you to message him when you’re outside. You text. Leaning against your car door while you wait for a response.

The bark of a dog, a big one considering the depth of the sound, cranes your neck backward. First, you see red, then who’s wearing it. “Aaron?” Both eyebrows furrow. You push yourself off the car to approach him.

He’s in the same red jacket he wore the last time you saw him, no Jordans, curls unkempt, and a German Shepherd leashed at his side. “What are you doing here? I thought you went back to Long Island?”

“Yeah,” he drags his free hand down his cheek. “I did.”

Aaron doesn’t elaborate, you wait for him to, but eventually elects to ask. “Then what are you in Hell’s Kitchen for?” Still no verbal answer, he just shakes his head, adjusting his handle on the neon green leash. “Aaron, what’s wrong?”

“I came here to warn you.”

“About what?”

“You gotta stop diggin’, (Y/n).” A needle presses into your spine, straightening your back. He’s pleading. “The Russians, they’re not playing around.” The German Shepherd whimpers, he pulls the leash like he is trying to get away. “Trust me.”

You’re too late to question what that meant. The blow came sideways, behind you, a thudding crack just behind your ear. Knees buckling as the world tilted. The last thing you see? Red. The last thing you feel? Aaron’s arms catch your fall into his shoulder.

Chapter Text

You had woken up in the back of a taxi cab a long time ago—a goddamn taxi. Gagged, hands and legs duct taped together, and a thrumming ache down the nape of your neck.

The taxi partition blocked you from seeing who was driving until they reached a parking garage. When they open the door, the crisp outdoor air is near revitalizing after the stale cab.

It’s not Aaron who opens it, but you hear the jingling of a dog collar somewhere before the other man pulls you to your feet. He’s a buzz-cut blonde, clean shaven. Strong arms, you’ve begun to notice, trying to wrench yourself free. He yanks you forward, your boots scraping across the gravel.

At the center of the garage, there’s a crowd of men, above them is a yellow sign. Veles Taxi. Heart wailing, you put more power into your resistance, grunting words that’ll never be heard. This is it. The company you’ve been obsessing over, what Jessie died uncovering.

He'd want this, for you to fight, to never stop fighting.

In Russian, your captor scoffs, shoving you to the ground. It’s cold, wet. A douse to the fire in your chest and a throb in your shoulder. You turn onto your back, instantly blinded by the fluorescent light overhead.

“Where’s nurse?” The blond man asks.

“They’re bringing her now.”

“Good.”

Away from the roof, your neck twists to their hushed conversation. One man snaps his fingers at another, giving an order you’re helpless to translate. He nods then returns with a metal fold-up chair, they force you on it. Swear, the rust digs into your back.

The ghost of that fluorescent light still burns your eyes. It hides the man’s face but not his sweaty grip yanking off the tape. The tear rips a spot on your lip.

Breathless, you gape at the man, vision returning. This man has a full brown beard. “What… do you want?” The bearded man smiles, standing to his true height. Other men join him, one by one to make nine. “Answer me!” Your attempt at yelling cracks, literally.

Out of the men, the one who brought you here slides through them. “At least we know I got the right officer.” His hands are slow out his pockets, no weapon, just fists. He strikes, once, steadying your thrown head by clutching the top of it. “Ask dumb question, I punch you. Don't answer, I cut you. When I want to, I hurt you. Deal?”

Forced to meet his green eyes, you couldn’t abide rule two. The force from his fist buzzes into your gums. He hits again. This time it really hurts. “Fuck,” You spit blood. Red splatters on grey concrete.

“Deal?”

Unable to reply, you're nodding in place of it, dazed off to the side. The blond man says an agreement you only start hearing once a cold metal lifts your chin. Knife. “The man in the mask, you know him, yes?”

That’s what this is about.

A different man tosses his hand, tattooed in various symbols. “The files, Pavel. She has the files.”

“We don’t give a shit about the files.” Pavel hisses. “The damage is ready done. That man found us.”

“He did?” You’re ignored in favor of their argument. It ends soon, at the rumble of a car engine.

From the taxi’s driver and passenger, a bald man exits with another balding one. They rear to the trunk. Pulling it open, the muted screams of a woman soar, her bound feet jabbing away the men. Must be the nurse they mentioned.

The two men restrain her legs then fling her onto the floor. The grunt she makes sickens your gut. Clearly, you got the nicer captors. That sickens you more.

She’s bloody. It’s on her floral print shirt, mouth, matted into her hair—the black strands flung across her face.

“Hey, hey, stop.” Your body pushes toward her. “Stop it. Let her go, she—“ A kick is given to the legs of your chair. That same shoulder takes the brunt of your fall. Wheezing, the world spins long after you land. “She’s not part of this. Please. She’s not part of this.”

A shadow looms. Pavel’s polished loafers catch the light before one drives into your gut. The intestines there threaten to burst free, your body curls as much as it can to keep the vomit in.

“Nothing to do with it, eh? Cute.” Pavel yanks the chair up. “Guess the man likes keeping the women in his life separate.”

Although you weren’t able to lift your head, you could still shake it. Over to the left, duct tape is removed from the woman's mouth. She shouts at the two men, demanding answers that are silenced. A punch. A liquidy squish. Her cries.

Your head muscles up at the last noise. “No…” The woman’s punched square in the nose, blood gushing. Slick and shiny.

Imagining how warm it must feel coils ice around your limbs instead of tape. “Stop!” The phrase is too much of a plea to be taken seriously.

Damn it. Think, think, think. Nurse. Injuries. Help. Why did they bring you here? The masked man. “She doesn’t have what you want!” They all pause. Good, keep going. “I know him. I work with him, you’ve seen me do it at the restaurant. Because he called me, he wanted my help. I can tell you more about him than she can. You just got to let her go.”

More silence. Pavel squats to your level, his pine cologne is pungent. “And we supposed to believe you ‘sell out’ your partner because?”

“Because I‘d expect him to do the same thing in my position.” With all the remaining conviction your body has, you make eye contact. The green in his irises dark as poison. “And if you let her go, I’ll show you why.”

Pavel rises, muttering things in Russian to the other men. Whatever it was, it incites a second argument.

Propped on a taxi, the woman stares at you, chest heaving. No thoughts or observations run through your head. Just a frightened, hurt woman who shouldn't be here.

Then a prick, a knife. Your head snaps to Pavel. The prick becomes a thousand burning needles slicing the raw flesh of your upper arm. You bite down a sound you don’t have the strength to make.

“Lie. The next goes to your throat. Deal?”

Gasps follow the removal of his serrated knife. It tingles where the heat of your cut is, each red drop soaks into your uniform. “Deal, or do I kill you both?” He’s breathing heavily now.

“You can’t kill them!” The bald man snarls. “Valdimir—”

“I know what he said!” Flashing the knife at the man, Pavel glares before returning to you, immediately you squeak the word ‘Deal.’ for the chance he wouldn’t hit you. “Alright,” Pavel pockets the blade. “Let her go.”

The woman shrieks again, and you shudder harder than when Pavel’s shoe hit your stomach. You want to sag in your chair—she’s walking free. But your body trembles too hard. The wound won’t clot. And they’re not finished.

Someone grabs your chin, you assume Pavel. Yet couldn’t recall if he wore gloves. That hand tightens, it forces your face to theirs. Most you see is a pair of lips moving, the voice in it plain static under your skull. The hand lets go.

“Is the,” It’s hard to hear yourself talk over the growing ring in your ears, or say something other than a slurred noun. Worse, your eyes couldn’t track a thing, transfixed on one darkening spot: The tip of your boot, dusted in gravel.

Time folds in on itself. Voices fade. Inside the gap where fear should be, Jessie’s laugh spills in. That lazy, sunny one that always came beside a bad idea. You weren’t laughing now. It would hurt too much.

Is this how Jessie felt during his death? Hopefully, he heard a sound like his laugh when he was about to go. Or a sound he wished he heard, maybe the bridal march playing at his sister’s wedding. She’d look beautiful…

Pine.

Overwhelming pine. Sharp enough to clear the fog for half a second. To remind you exactly where you are, and who’s got their hand on you. Pressure vices around your cut. You cry out not from pain, the humiliation of being made to. In front of them.

Fresh welts pour down your elbow, making it impossible to tell where blood ends and skin begins. Sensations roared to life in the worst way.

“Hear me now, Officer?” Pavel releases your arm. “The man. What do you know?”

Christ, you don’t know anything. Nothing they’d believe. Nothing that would save you now.

At your silence, Pavel swings his fist into your cheekbone. Everything flashes white. It's the hardest he's punched. Iron blood coats your tongue but the strength to spit isn't there, causing the fluid to dribble down your chin.

“Answer!” He raises his fist again, you brace for the blow that never comes.

Metal crashes in the dark. Later: a voice yelling.

A familiar one. Something dreadful lights your lungs. An emotion you were scared to name. It's too bright, too strong.

Guns you didn't realize the Russians had start firing in scattered succession. Reacting to none of it, you wait. To die, for a miracle, you're not picky on the order.

“Come closer and I blow her brains out!” One Russian shouts, a gun’s barrel pressing into your head.

To die, then.

“Put the gun down or you won't have hands to shoot it.”

Low, lethal. The air changes. Stranger. Him.

The choked ring of hit metal echoes behind you, it almost covers the Russian’s thud when he falls. “Is she dead?” A woman’s voice. Distant. Or underwater.

Footsteps pound the ground, then they drop. A human. All black, but not empty. “(Y/n)?” The masked man's voice is a mess. Taken someplace deep. “Shit. Hey, it's me. I'm gonna get you out.” He reaches for your face, his gloved fingers tracing a bruise. You flinch. He flinches harder. “—Sorry, I'm sorry. You're okay. I promise.”

“It hurts.” You croak. No tricks left. No fight.

The masked man swallows, throat working around the audible lump in it. “I know it does.” Those words shake, barely there. He tilts his head to an imperceptible degree. You recognize him listening. To the lag in your heartbeat.

“I should've gotten here faster.”

His hands tremble so bad it’s a miracle they can hold you at all. Still, he cups your arm, thumbs stroking fabric in a rhythm too frantic to soothe. Trying anyway. “Just breathe—just stay with me.”

To prepare either you or himself, the man counts under his breath after cutting you free.

One. Two. Three.

Agony blazes as he lifts your arms around his neck. Next, you’re weightless, carried beneath your thighs. Cradled glass. “Shh… It’s over.” The world fades, replaced by the continuous thud of his heartbeat against your cheek. “It’s over,"

You press your face into his shoulder. He smells like the city. Sweat, steel, and something warm. Everything you didn’t know you could miss. “I got you.” His murmur stays there, close to your ear, as if he’s holding you both together with the sound of it.

          The woman’s name is Claire, she instructs you to repeat it every time you fade into consciousness. When you awake the final time, you're on a couch, warm light all around you. Nobody’s nearby, although you hear mumbling from behind the couch. Something about safety and being gone.

After listening for a while, you attempt to sit. Each dulled pain in your body crashes into you with a new tightness. Glancing at your arm a line of stitches replaces the blood, a black fabric wound below the injury. Last ditch tourniquet, probably.

That muttering screeches silent at the tiny grunt you make. Footsteps, two. Calmer. Softened by a rug. The man appears at the couch’s backrest, adjusting the cowl over his head. Claire rounds the corner to your side. “Hey there, Officer.” She kneels. “How are you feeling?”

“Uhm,” you glance at different areas of the apartment. Soon, your gaze steadies on Claire, the blood on her face is cleaned but there’s still red hints on the bronze skin. “Better, I guess. Where am I?”

“My place.” Claire sighs, “After those jackasses let me go, one of them snuck me your phone to call this guy. You’re unfathomably lucky.”

Luck didn’t encapsulate half of what’s pumping in your veins. Even if it’s just leftover adrenaline. “Wait, who gave you my phone?” A rasp scratches your voice, you cough. The jostle racks a throb in your shoulder.

“Some dude in red. Curly hair. Looked pretty young.” She prods at your abdomen. There’s pauses between the presses for you to react. Nothing. Her hands pull away. “Why, you know him?”

Nodding, you settle into the couch. A plush pillow at your neck. The sudden softness takes too long to process.

“Yeah.” You blink through your memories. “His name’s Aaron. I worked with him before he said he went back to Long Island, or that's what he told me… he was there when that other guy knocked me out.”

The masked man tch’s, a sharp, bitter noise that constricts how much space actually is in the apartment. There's a clench in his jaw, you can’t make much of his expression. The most important part of it covered, his eyes. But his body language has always been more talkative.

Out of the scoff-induced trance, Claire clears her throat. “Right, well. I’m gonna get you some water. You lost a decent amount of blood back there.” She stands once you nod, disappearing to the kitchen.

Arms folded, the man remains where he is. Leaking tension. Any other instance, a joke about that stance would be tempting to say. Now, you debate if a swallow is okay.

“Do you have any idea what I walked into back there?” He speaks tightly. Not yelling yet, he’s holding it in by the teeth. “You were bleeding out. I thought—” He cuts himself off, jaw clamping shut.

“I was trying to save her life.” Your legs push to sit up. Despite avoiding any pressure on your hurt arm, the stitches sting. “If anyone would understand that, I thought it’d be you.”

Quick to move, the man circles the couch, closer to you, exposing a ripped portion of his black compression shirt at the hip. The tourniquet.

“Understand?” He laughs once, not bothering to hide its sharpness. “I could barely hear your heartbeat and you expected me to understand that?” At his sides, his hands curl to fists. “You threw your goddamn life away.”

Your fingers claw the couch cushion. “I didn’t throw—”

“That’s exactly what you did!” Him shouting isn’t new, at you is. The volume rattles in your chest, something he’d usually notice. But keeps talking, his hands break out their fists in a series of different gestures. “No plan, no backup, no idea what’s going on. Just offered yourself up to the Russians and then what? Wait for them to get bored?”

“If they let Claire go, she could call for help.” It's a quarter truth. Your breath hitches halfway. “And she did.”

“Bullshit,” he snaps, the room’s heat spikes. “You weren’t thinking that far ahead and I know it.”

“Fine, you're right. I didn’t. I saw her bleeding and I couldn’t…” Things go dizzy. Blood loss or bad memories, undecided. You had to push through whatever this is. “I couldn’t let another person die because of this. But how is it different—”

“Don't compare this to what we've done before.”

“Then answer! How is it different!?”

“Because you were dying in my arms!” His voice breaks like someone else tore it out of him. Knocks the air right out of you.

A hand scrubs over his mouth, but the frustrated growl slips. “Do you know what that would've felt like? I won’t-” He stops to take a shuddering breath. “I won't risk that. You weren't supposed to be this close to all of this in the first place.”

Beneath you, the couch creaks. “What?”

He paces to a window on the right of the apartment. It's open yet he doesn't exit. The wind brushes white curtains to the man’s black clothed sides. “This,” he motions between you two. “Is over.”

In seconds your heart is racing, the pulse tries to chase after him before he leaves. “Are you serious right now?”

“Yeah, I am.”

Whether it was two syllables or ten, you wanted to say his name. People listen to their names. “Is it really that simple for you?” Your mouth goes dry. “We’re done. After everything?”

“I was clear about what this was the day we met.” He fully turns to you, mouth set in a hard line. Back to steel. “We’re not anything. I wasn’t supposed to matter, and you weren’t supposed to care.”

Not anything. The rooftops, car rides, the stupid little ways you got him to smile. That wasn’t anything. You force onto your knees. Fingertips grip the threads on the couch’s backrest to numb any aches.

“No, the things we did mattered. You don’t get to twist what happened between us just because you got scared.”

It's his silence that unnerves you. Not his shout or how simply arguing with him puts Pavel's knife back in. That statement is meant to get a reaction—he doesn't even move.

Instead, he looks at you for a long, unreadable second, then turns away.

“Hey,” Ignored. His leg goes over the windowsill. Your tongue stammers on a knowless name, in that precious second his boots hit the fire escape with a hollow clang. “Wait!” You reach forward before discovering you’ve used the wrong arm. White-hot pain flares down where the stitches are, doubling you over the backrest.

When you look up, the window’s empty. No man in a mask, his trembling hands touching your face and carrying you. It’s Claire, cup of water in hand.

She sighs. “You reopened your stitches.” A clink follows the cup being placed on the coffee table. Claire whispers about lying down, her hand on your right shoulder to lower you. The window is hidden by the couch inch by dreaded inch, till the last thing ripped open is something Claire can't stitch.

Chapter Text

Antiseptic and cooling gel sting in your nostrils, it offers something to focus on besides Claire mumbling on the phone. She hasn’t brought up the argument, likely out of respect for your condition. She'll ask sooner or later.

“They got a room for you,” Claire sets her phone on her lap. “It’s ready when you are.”

Metro General, the hospital Claire works at. After re-stitching she informed you she wants to take you there. Check your shoulder, stomach, head, for damage she can’t see.

“You think they’ll take my work insurance?” Left arm tucked around your stomach, you sit up wincing at your joke.

Claire comes to assist you the rest of the way. “I think the hospital will take your statement before billing you.” She keeps her hands on your shoulders until you nod you’re okay. “They might even deduct a few hundred depending on how much you play up the heroics.”

On your feet for the first time in Claire’s apartment, new details reveal themselves. Most are different bags tossed about the home, a beige diaper bag being one of them, but it’s filled with healthcare equipment. A stethoscope hung over the main pocket. Her work bag. Claire tucks the stethoscope back in then heaves its strap onto her shoulder.

“Took care of a lot of police officers before, huh?” You follow Claire to the door. Slowly, not because it hurts, rather because your body didn’t trust itself to move. “Or is that just experience?”

Keys jingling, Claire unlocks the door, holding it open for you. “I did for a bit,” The door clicks behind you both. “Nowadays, I’ve been taking care of your partner more than my own patients.”

Your heartbeat jumps while your muscles freeze. Each settles down quickly. “How do you know him?” Your volume hushes, like he could hear it.

“My neighbor found him half dead in my dumpster. He brought him up here and… the rest is history I guess.” She shrugs, hands inside her coat jacket. A strong wool one that scratches the open tear in your sleeve as you two walk.

“He told me about that, when we saved a kid from the Russians.” The memory is oddly fond, nostalgic even, for a time that wasn’t long ago. Warm rice, glinting police stickers, and brownstone streets. All the good parts. “I should’ve thought to ask where he got those stitches done.” You find it in yourself to smile. “All your handiwork, right?”

She smiles back, footsteps echoing throughout the stairwell chamber. “All my handiwork.” Every few steps Claire glances at you, a silent check-up. “He told me about you, you know.”

“He did?”

At the bottom of the stairs, you two stop at the doorway. Pale streetlights peek in from the one window, a single silver strip across Claire’s face.

“Two days ago, I think. I was patching him up from a fight with the Russians at their base. I asked him how he found it, and he told me a cop he’s been working with gave him the clues.”

It’s hardly a worthwhile fact, he was just being honest to her. Still, your hands flex, anticipating. What does he say about you when you’re not around?

“I was surprised someone like him was working with anyone, especially a cop. So I pressed some more, see what he’ll tell me. Not a lot.” She muses that last part to the stale air. “Eventually I asked why you weren’t beaten up right alongside him… he said it was because you were a hell of a lot smarter than him.”

There’s a dark prick in your heart, but you chuckle anyway. “Guess he was wrong.” You bounce your injured shoulder, regret it immediately.

Claire doesn’t move, her eyes scanning your frame in the style that makes you feel too seen. “Maybe. But thanks for what you did back there, seriously, I mean it." She frees her hands from her coat to wipe them on its hem. “That’s a lot of pain you took on for someone you don’t know.”

“I’m just glad you’re okay.”

Neither of you speak further, continuing toward her car. A black sedan. On the back window sits a faded sticker of some college emblem you couldn’t make out.

Buckled into the passenger seat, Claire hesitates putting her key in the exhaust. “Sorry, I have to ask you.” She stares at the wheel. “How did you two meet?”

The black tourniquet from the man’s shirt feels tighter, regardless of the fact it’s loosened. “It’s more complicated than fishing him out your dumpster.” A corner of your lip quirks up. “Lots of stuff that doesn't make sense. Stuff I wished I asked him before he… well, left.”

“He’ll come around. Trust me.” She turns on the car. Its engine a long rumble before the dials light up. “I was in a relationship like that, and he was a vigilante too.”

Frantic warmth spreads from your chest before reaching your cheeks. The implication hits you harder than the real information. “We’re not—”

“I know.” She almost sings the words. Smug? You study her tiny smile for an answer. “Look, I’m not trying to pry on you two’s business. Just, I know what it’s like to be on the other side of an overprotective shutdown. You’ll work it out.”

Part of you thinks she’s right, though it’s also the part that throws your life on the line. You force a different topic. “Wait, so, you dated a vigilante?”

That should’ve been the first question out your mouth, it’s a thousand times more important than whatever you’re fighting. Dating a vigilante. Claire of all people, a woman so grounded tangled in life you knew was everything but.

“Tell me about it.” She sighs. By then Claire had pulled out the parking lot onto the main roads. Red lights, white, green, all reflect into the car. Her voice spoke of silent experience, whoever she dated, it was clearly for a while and left a lasting impression.

It’s hard to imagine what that would be like, or so you would think, Claire parallels it to you and the masked man. Already, you sense that image forming, and you scrub it out but the idea is there.

         Scans of your left shoulder, stomach, and head took longer than you expected. Claire said their hospital is overrun with victims of gang violence, or the gang members themselves.

In the end, she told you to rest, an activity that was harder than it should’ve been. None of the body parts you got scanned hurt till now—the adrenaline long gone. What saves you is the dull throb in your skull, exhausting your psyche.

But once the sun starts humming gold streaks through the cracked blinds of the hospital room, your eyes hiss away from it. Akin to a hangover, with the addition of a boulder being strapped to your right arm. While liftable, you definitely didn’t want to.

“Morning, hero.” Over on a maroon chair, Claire held her coat to her chest. Bags under her eyes. The sleep she advised you to get was not a luxury she afforded herself. “Sleep well?”

“I think I passed out more than I slept.” You flex your good arm, the one the IV drip is attached to. “It feels like I got microwaved.”

That earns a laugh, you try to join but something in your abdomen burns. “Pain’ll do that.” Claire walks to your bedside. “The results came in while you were asleep. Good news there’s no internal bleeding, so we aren’t going to be breathing down your neck. Bad news, you have a minor concussion and there’s contusions all over you. Those bruises aren’t going away anytime soon.”

At your attempt to sit higher, Claire helps you from putting pressure anywhere unwanted. Situated upright, your fingers graze the bandages covering the bruises on your cheekbones. “That sounds about right.”

“You know the drill, no gang busting for a few weeks. Ice that shoulder often, watch your head, and a nurse is going to come by with prescriptions for the rest of you.”

“My mom says ‘you know the drill’ a lot.”

Unrelated, you have no clue why you said it. Could be because you wish you’re home right now. Claire smiles, a small tilt in the lips. “Your mom sounds like a smart woman.”

Your mind blurs in memories of Long Island. It’s in that moment where a new ache blooms in your body, a deeper one. For the beach. You want to see the ocean, the sand scratch your legs, and the color blue after seeing so much red.

The emotions must be scrawled over your face since Claire rests her hand on your wrist. Soft. “It’ll be okay.” She says. “I called some of your friends to let them know you're here.” When your brows furrow she sinks her free hand into her pocket to give your phone. “A woman named Karen has been calling you non-stop. She’s on her way with two others, I think. Hard to tell, they were all talking over each other.”

Karen. You pace your breathing with the name. That means Matt and Foggy are coming. That’s good, you need to see them.

“Okay,” your shoulders relax. “Thank you.”

Hand still on your wrist, Claire squeezes. “Still, are there any family members we should contact?”

The last thing you wanted to be asked right now. “I don’t have any family nearby. They’re all in Montauk.” Beeps from the monitor beside your bed seemingly grow louder. “I’m here on—on a transfer.”

It would’ve been an easy lie to tell yourself. You’re hurting. That stutter didn’t mean anything. But you’ll know, you’ve poured everything into this city. Being a transfer sounds like a cover-up.

“We can still contact them, if you want.”

“No,” A smile you never gave before shows itself, it's a scramble of wistfulness and genuine sadness. “I don’t want to worry them about some stitches and bruising.”

For a bit, Claire doesn't reply, giving time for you to change your mind. “(Y/n), this is a serious thing that’s happened to you. I—”

“It’s for the best, Claire.” You cut off gently. “I couldn’t even tell them everything anyway. I don’t want to lie to them.”

They don’t need to know what their daughter is wrapped up in.

Sighing, she lets go of your wrist. “So what are you going to tell the police? Your supervisor already knows, he’s coming to get your statement.”

The question speeds out your mouth, it’s hope, it’s fear, it’s your muscles coiling under the bruises. Supervisor better not mean the captain. “Detective Blake?”

Claire blinks. “Uh, yeah. I’m pretty sure that was his name.”

Everything slows, even the beeping of the monitor being fed a secret straight from the heart. You settle back in the bed, voice flatter than you mean it. “Don’t worry. I’ll tell him the truth.”

         Out of your two sets of visitors, you nearly pray Blake would be the first to show. Get him out of the way. Instead, Karen pushes open the door, Matt and Foggy behind her. The boys were in matching navy suits, intentional? While Karen’s in a pinstripe blouse, her hands wiping at her black pencil skirt.

“Hey, you guys.” You wave your IV-ed hand. “Looks like you really were worried about me.”

“What gave it away?“ Foggy enters the room first, nodding to the bag on his arm. It’s a bag from the bodega near their office. Red letters repeating the phrase ‘thank you’ on it.

Too tired to examine what could be inside, you let it be. “Probably the goody bag you got there.”

He sets the bag in your lap. Its weight is heavier than you predicted. “Handpicked and approved by each of us.” Foggy declares. “We thought we should get you something on the way here, and Karen said you had a thing for mugs.”

The word mug perks your eyebrows up. “You got me a mug?” Like a Christmas present, you unwrap the brown paper around the mug.

On its inside it says: You’ve been poisoned! In a childish black ink font.

A breath bounces off the shiny ceramic. It’s sweet, overly sweet. Your heart couldn’t take how much it wanted this mug, from them specifically, the tips of your fingers stutter along its purple rim. They were worried about you, took time to remember, to decide what you’d like.

And you did, you really did.

“Aw. Guys, I love it, thank you so much.”

That’s nowhere near enough to express the emotional investment you put into their gift. This is a reward to you.

Looking up from the mug, the three of them are staring at the grin you didn’t realize was there. “I thought you might like it,” Karen murmurs, her hand going to the railing of your bed.

“Who you really should be thanking is Matt.” Foggy points to Matt whose head dips down once mentioned. “He had to play the blind card to get us all in here.”

You’re eyeing Matt’s poorly hidden expression. The smile on his face only grew after the remark. There’s something bashful about it that quiets your own grin. “The blind card?”

Matt lets go of Foggy’s arm to bring his hand to the cane at his chest. “The hospital usually only allows two people at a time.” He explains, his smirk peaking through. “But I told the staff I needed Foggy to… lead me around the place.”

“So you turned Foggy into your seeing-eye dog to get him in? You know that’s illegal, right?” Everyone laughs, but when you do, it jostles your body, causing you to curl in yourself, hissing slightly.

Their smiles fall and you hate it. The flicker of normalcy with them is fused out. “Are you okay?” Karen leans forward, her blonde strands framing the blueness of her eyes, making them pop in color.

Over her shoulder, Foggy’s head peers in. “Yeah, that nurse told us what happened…” He frowns. “You look pretty bad.”

“I’m fine, or well, better.” You sling your left arm around your stomach, fingers gripping the hospital gown. “There’s actually something I wanted to tell you guys.”

Before any of them could encourage you to continue, a knocking at the door turns Foggy and Karen’s heads. Matt stays facing you, his hands firm on his cane.

A nurse comes in, Lelia, she guided you for those scans last night. Kind young woman. She’s holding the door open for somebody much less kind. Blake. Your body buzzes in a way the monitor makes too public.

“I’m sorry everyone but I’m going to have to ask you all to step out for a moment.” Lelia bows her head to your friends. “Officer (L/n)’s statement is going to be taken and we need everyone out the room.”

They agree, quietly, Karen eyes Blake the most between her and Foggy, who glances back at you instead. The door clicks, cutting off the rest of the available air.

“Nice mug you got there.”

Blake stands at the foot of your bed, the golden badge around his neck catching the sunlight coming through the window. Police badges aren’t on your side anymore, not right now, not with him.

“Didn’t realize you guys became buddies.” He slides his hands in his pockets. Inside it he’s holding something, your eyes squint at it but your mind is uncooperative in piecing together its shape. You can’t tell if it’s your injuries that’re holding you back, or Blake’s presence.

The mug in your lap is brought closer to your already protected stomach. If it didn’t make you appear so vulnerable, you would’ve stuck it under your hospital blanket. Keep this piece of pure goodness away from his eyes.

“Good morning to you too, Detective.”

Unreactive to your dry tone, Blake strides to your bedside, a red-tipped recorder out that pocket, he clicks it to life. “Good morning, Officer. Hope you’re feeling better.” The recorder’s activated ping drills into your ears, too loud. “Let’s start from the top.”

If relieving your kidnapping could be called easy, Blake leads with easy questions first. What happened? Where were you? Why? Aaron’s the only thing you hide. Not to lie. To save the accusation for later.

Now. Blake powers off the device after you answer how you escaped. “The man in the mask set you free?” He repeats, slow, and with a quirked brow. “Are you sure that happened?”

“Are you asking if I’m lying to the station or to you?” This is it. Wincing through the pressure leaning forward puts on your abdomen, you lift your gaze to Blake’s.

The neutral white walls surrounding him close in, imagining the gossip they could tell afterward. Blake knows what you’re saying. “Is there a difference?

“There shouldn’t be.” You flex your hands around the blanket pooling on your lap. “But I think I speak for everyone at the 15th that they know you and Hoffman are connected to what’s going on in Hell’s Kitchen.”

He shoves the recorder in his pocket. Everything’s off the record now. “Listen here—”

“Everyone sees it!” Your volume rises. Quicker than it should’ve, you aren’t supposed to be this worked up. “They just don’t say anything, but I’m going to. I know it’s all connected.” In a rush, you swing your legs over the edge of the bed to properly face him. “So listen to me, what does the name James Wesley mean to you?”

Your breathing is labored while you wait for Blake to answer. His shoulders are bunched taut to his head, those dark set brows you always noted about him strung in a tight line. “The hell did you get that name?”

“I got an ID from you in his car a couple days ago, it’s a car that I’ve also seen nearby Veles Taxis. Want to know where?” You press your hands into your thighs, eyes blinking owlishly on purpose before narrowing them. “Those files you kept hidden in your desk.”

Blake draws away from you—the window’s light doesn’t touch him now. For a scarce second, you think you had him. “You mean the ones Jessie McNair took?” Crossing his arms across his chest, the muscles in his cheeks twitch upward.

Inside your mouth, it feels numb, or the worst case of cotton tongue the world’s ever seen. It’s not even that he knew Jessie took them, it’s the fact he said his name.

Jessie McNair. He shouldn’t say that name, not then, and especially not after what he told you.

“Want to know how I know that?” Blake dusts his hands on his suit, stalking nearer. “An officer told me, said she saw him digging through my things and run off with those files. I think you know her. Meghan, right?”

All the blood inside you stops flowing, enough to drown out the heart monitor that has been getting faster and faster. Swallowing, you croak. “Meghan?”

He closes in, and he’s wearing pine cologne. Pine. Your mind goes black, the black of Pavel’s shoes, the black of the wet concrete. The monitor blares, which only worsens how ragged your breaths have gotten.

“Don’t test me, Officer.” His voice hits your cheek, it feels like a punch. Pavel’s punching you—you scoot further back in the hospital bed. Gasping for air. “Or I’ll have you shot in the same goddamn alley.”

“Stop!” You don’t know who you’re yelling to, Blake, Pavel’s punches, or you’re begging Jessie to stop. Stop and stay for dinner with you that night.

A team of nurses, maybe, burst through the door. It’s another punch. You duck your head down trying to dodge it. There’s too many sounds. One voice, Lelia’s, tells Blake he needs to leave. He didn’t argue. Just his shoes retreating across the tile, the first breath you could take without tasting pine.

Next, a weight settles on your knee. Warm, really warm. “It’s me.” Your vision clears. “You’re okay.”

Red frames. Calm voice. “Matt?” His touch is heat against the cold in your veins, a point on the map you could cling to.

You blink, in case it was fake. It’s not, he’s real. Matt nods, wetting his lips, they open to speak further. Then his hand was gone. Replaced by cooler fingers that shook as they found yours.

“(Y/n), it’s okay. I know you’re scared.” Karen. She presses your palm to her chest. Her heart was racing, but steady in a way yours wasn’t. “But you’re safe. Trust me.”

The monitor still beeped fast, but it wasn’t screaming anymore. “(Y/n)?” Focusing on Karen again, your fingers twitch on the top button of her blouse. Blue pinstripes. Blue like the ocean.

“Yeah,” You exhale, breath catching. “I’m okay.”

Karen instantly folds you into her, and you slump into her powdery-clean scent, letting your non-stitched arm go around her. She’s a good hiding place. A second pair of arms wraps into the hug. Foggy, muttering about how much he hated Blake.

Matt didn’t join them. You couldn’t see him, but you knew he’s there, a shadow just beyond the circle. In that space between you two, one thought lodged hard in your chest: Meghan knew what Jessie did.

Chapter Text

It was a blur after that. All you knew was that the nurses made you pull away from that hug too soon.

Once they confirm your panic attack didn’t mess with anything physically, you’re discharged under strict conditions: Come back the second your head feels nauseous or dizzy, if pus forms in your stitches, abdominal pain, plus the classic take-it-easy restrictions.

Claire is the nurse to see you off, a bag of medication in hand. “Okay, there’s antibiotics, painkillers." She holds up a bottle, eyes a firmer warning than any bright label. “This’s acetaminophen, it'll knock you out so be careful.” Putting the bottle back she lists the final item. “And there’s a sling you can put on if your shoulder starts crying wolf.”

“Sounds like a party.” You tuck your hands into the stiff, new police uniform, one Blake provided. Stripped of a badge and radio. Uniform in name only.

“That’s the spirit.”

She holds out the bag but Foggy intercepts. “I got it,” he says. The small bag hoisted over his shoulder. “Need her in tip-top shape for the next favor she owes me.”

The real tragedy is that your shoulder is too sore to elbow Foggy. This recovery is harder than anticipated. “Thanks, Foggy.” Your volume is low—body still getting used to being on its feet again. “You too, Claire. Thank you.”

Adjusting the woolly coat collar away from her neck, Claire inhales, holding that breath as she looks at you. “Thank me by getting some rest.”

Alarms from an approaching ambulance wail in the distance. Someone's hurt. In your pockets, you force your fingers to ease. “I will,” the phrase doesn't taste like a lie, yet you aren't confident you’ll keep it. “Be safe, Claire.”

“You too, be safe.” She opens her arms and a smile spins on your face, all too happy to accept the hug. Claire must’ve applied a new spritz of perfume before leaving, the antiseptic clinging to her clothes is overshadowed by a flowery scent. It’s pleasant, so you linger a touch longer. “See you later, alright?” Claire steps away, keys coming out her coat. “And, I swear, if you wind up here before getting your stitches out, I’m leaving them open.”

Her threat buzzes a happy yellow inside your chest. “Dully noted.” Waving goodbye, Claire gives one last smile, then disappears to her car somewhere in the parking lot.

Despite not being sure you’ll rest, you hope Claire gets some herself. She got kidnapped too. Still, she’s here taking care of you. Heart of a nurse, that’s for sure.

You turn around to face your friends, and they’re standing side by side. “Ready to go home?” Karen asks. The wind has picked up, or it was always that way, and the morning breeze flutters in her hair.

Almost wincing, you scratch an nonexistent itch on your nose. Part of you agrees with Karen. Go home, crawl into bed, forget all of it. The other half, won’t let Elena Cardenas’s name fly away.

“Actually, there’s something I wanted to talk to you guys about.”

“(Y/n)…” Matt says slowly.

“Nothing bad!” The protest is reflexive, defensive of a prospect you haven’t made yet. “I mean, it’s helpful.”

To the firm, the part you don’t say during your retelling of Elena. About her situation, her life. “I don’t know what’s up with her landlord, but it can’t be a coincidence I got kidnapped barely a minute after I texted him.”

“And you want us,” Foggy gestures between him and Matt. “To be her lawyers.” Not a question, he’s clarifying. The depth of what you're asking them hits you all at once.

A definitely pro-bono case that’s related to the same people who put you in the hospital.

For a breathless beat, your gaze lowers to the worn-in stone leading to Metro General’s entrance. “Only if you guys want to.” The confidence you’ve been talking with drips to the edge of your uniform sleeve. “I wouldn’t force you to take a case like this.”

“We’ll take it.” Matt’s cane taps on those stones, a single click that lifts your eyes.

At his right, Foggy drags a hand down his cheek. Mumbling till he swings it to his side. “This is up our alley, isn’t it?” He said to himself.

“But,” Karen steps forward. Cautious, yet fast, like she was trying to block the other two from what she’s about to say. “Are you sure you want to do this right now? You—” She stops, but her meaning is clear.

Police habit, you try putting your hands behind your back, it tugs a stitch. Not helping. “Mrs. Cardenas told me about all sorts of housing violations she can’t prove,” you swallow the grimace. “And now that Tully works with the Russians somehow, I’m worried it’ll get worse than just a cut wire. I can’t let that happen.”

          Outside Elena’s building, two blocks from the subway you four took, the first thing you notice is that your police vehicle is gone. 417. Could’ve been stolen or retrieved. The likelihood of either are closer than it should.

In your vision, the spot Aaron appeared that day blurs, but one thing stays sharp. He didn’t look like a man trying to kill you. He looked tired, maybe even cornered. And he gave Claire your phone. That has to mean something.

“(Y/n)?”

Karen’s fingers touch the sling on your shoulder. The pressure jolts your mind to the rest of you. You’ve been standing still. Get it together. “Sorry, I’m just a little on edge around here after… you know.”

They’re all quiet before Foggy squints up at the complex, hand shielding his eyes from the sun. “Yeah, I would be too.” His shoulders bounce. “Her place is rent-controlled, I’m guessing?”

“I think so?” Your brows furrow at your own uncertainty.

“Well, that explains half your problem.” Foggy flicks his thumb to the front door, a lone sparrow tweets at its steps. “This is technically a city issue. That’s why the police haven’t done anything—no offense.”

Lack of evidence, bad area. Both excuses Hoffman gave instead of the truth. “None taken.” You sigh, jutting your head to the door. “C’mon, her home is actually nicer on the inside.”

Instead of her door, Elena meets you at the elevator to it. Dressed in a long-sleeved blouse embroidered with butterflies, she gasps at the sight of you. “Officer! ¿Qué pasó?“

Instinctively, your cheek twitches to feel the bruises stretch under the bandages. Parts of the discolored skin must still show, it stings.

“Just an accident, Mrs. Cardenas. Where are you headed?”

One of her hands hesitates touching your sling, she means well, but you hate this handle-with-care treatment. “To visitarte tú!” Elena continues to inform you about a recent encounter with strange repairmen. She speaks a large portion of it in Spanish, most parts are said too hastily to translate.

Then brushing past Foggy, Matt strides to Elena. “Cuándo pasó esto?” To punctuate, your heart pings. He spoke smoothly as he does in English. It completely throws your guard when he introduces himself afterward.

Karen asks the question you’re too distracted to. “Matt knows Spanish?”

“Took it in college all four years.” Foggy leans in. His whisper an octave too loud for the name.

Turning your head toward him, you properly hush your volume. “What’re they saying?” Foggy doesn’t make it through his shrug before Karen answers, one finger on her bottom lip.

“Uh, something about her telling repairmen she’ll call you if they don’t leave—”

“(Y/n),” Your back straightens at Matt’s voice. “When did you first message Tully?”

It takes longer to respond than it should. The days were blurring together. From when you saved Gigi, to the present. “About three or two days ago, I think?” Your left arm raises but the sling prevents it from going further. “Around when Healy’s trail ended.”

Matt’s jaw locks, a tension runs along the muscle. He doesn’t elaborate till you prompt him with a small: “Why?”

“That’s when he sent those repairmen to her apartment.” Matt palms his jaw to relax it. However, the stress travels to his other hand around his cane. “They didn’t have permits, and nobody in the building was warned. So she set them away.”

The cool leather of Karen’s black purse grazes your elbow. “Do you think it’s related to what happened to…”

“It might.” He faces Elena once more, asking her if everyone could come into her apartment. Talk about the situation, Tully’s lawyers, and a pending case.

If he hadn’t spoken when he did, there would’ve been a scary moment where Karen, Foggy, and Elena were all staring at you with that worried look. Silently, you thank him for the save upon entering the orange-hued home. One Russian storm from breaking apart.

          Watching Foggy and Matt circle around Elena’s case, you’re struck by how well they fit together. Foggy fills the air, friendly and fast, while Matt hangs back, quiet—until he drops a question that slices straight through the noise. A rhythm you’ve seen before with Karen, back at the beginning, before the call that split your life in half.

Matt’s theory holds. After Elena told the fake repairmen she’d call you, Tully sent you that email, bait on a hook. You were so damn eager to take it that you didn’t stop to wonder why it dangled in the first place.

No smoking gun yet, but it’s enough to get Nelson & Murdock moving. Matt straightens, his hands wiping on his suit lapels. “I’ll hit the station. See if anyone’s filed complaints against Tully.” Accepting the cane from Foggy, it clicks open three times before hitting the floor. “You handle L & Z.”

Landman & Zac, their old internship before starting their firm. Karen had been the one to tell you this while they were deliberating with Elena.

Foggy freezes mid-nod. “What?” He sweeps down his tie like it’s the crime scene. “I can’t go there alone. They’re gonna shark attack me, Matt. Look at me, I’m delicious."

Despite his stoicism, Matt’s always an easy smile talking to Foggy. He points his cane at Karen seated next to you. “Well, take Karen.”

Your eyes study how the idea makes Foggy stammer, leaning back as if it punched him in the heart. “I-I mean, yeah, if she wants to.”

Immediately, you check Karen’s reaction for similar nerves. She meets your gaze. “Oh,” Karen switches between looking at you and Foggy, then stills on Elena. “Sure, I can go.”

“See? You got back up.” Foggy rolls his eyes at Matt’s irony. It’s supposed to be funny, everything they should be.

The thought flutters, whispers, one you could’ve easily brushed off to toss in a joke of your own, but admittedly you have a lesser grasp on yourself than usual.

You and Jessie were like that. He pulled your sleeve, murmured jokes unbecoming of a trained officer, and it was your job not to be amused or goof off with him. But he was too charming, too good of a hugger. Your slinged arm presses against your chest, trying to replicate the hug he gave you before he left that day. The last time you told him no.

“I can help.” You blurt. “I can go to the station with you, Matt. I know where they are, looked through them. There’s one where the building inspector isn’t named. We can ask about that.” Pushing forward on the couch cushion, it puts too much pressure on your abdomen. “…I’m sure they’ll let me in still.”

Regardless how well you stuff the hurt grunt in your chest, Matt hears it. His head cocks to the side. “I’ll be fine.” Bringing his cane to his chest, he turns your way. “You need to rest.”

“But—”

That came out more childish than your dignity allows, at least it causes him a small grin. “I’ll be fine.” Matt insists. “Mahoney’s there.”

Sunlight washes inside Elena’s apartment, and it hits the reds of Matt’s lenses in the exact way they did in squad car 308, like they’re on fire. Yet unlike that time, he’s smiling.

“Oh, so, Mahoney’s your guy now?”

His smile widens to a smirk. “Don’t be jealous.”

Any quips die in your scoff, unsure how to combat his lowered voice without digging a deeper hole. Jealous is a funny word. “Right, you’re all just going to abandon me.”

“For a case you provided.” Foggy reminds.

Smug doesn’t suit him, you deadpan when out of nowhere, Karen squeezes your hand, the contact unprompted, unnecessary.

Because she wanted to. You need time to process that. Half-waiting for someone’s grip to mean pain again, not comfort. But Karen is nothing like that. It undoes the tight coil in your spine in a way words can’t.

“We’ll come back.” She stood up, dashing invisible dust off her purse, eyes gentle. Too knowing. “If it’s okay with you, Mrs Cardenas?”

Sitting on the chair in front of you, Elena nods multiple times. “Of course, of course, estaría feliz de cuidarla.” She walks to where you're seated. “Le debo mucho.”

Three people are towering over you now, both Karen and Matt appear taller from your position. Especially with Matt’s head tilted at like that.

Even if none of them know what you’re thinking, your heart feels exposed. “Alright, you win.” Your arm folds under the sling to keep your heart in its ribcage. “Be safe.”

“We will,” Matt says, like he knows what you’re thinking. You want to believe him. Almost do.

          Doted on.

The last time you’ve considered yourself doted on would be in Long Island. After saving that old woman stuck in the rain, you got sick. Sick in health. Sick of the idea more people like her wouldn’t receive the same kindness.

Your mother coaxed those grievances out of you similar to how Elena’s treating you now. A heavy blanket with a black and white tiger on it draped over your lap, multiple pieces of food, and disarming small talk about her day before striking in real questions. Hard to fool someone triple your age.

When explaining the bruises, you pray she wouldn’t feel guilty. You know you would.

Instead, she hugs you. “Rest, mija.”

And she leaves like she didn’t just shatter your ribcage. Mouth agape, the pieces tumble to your stomach, piercing the bruises there too, your free hand twists the fabric covering them. But your eyes stay on Elena’s frame washing dishes, her back facing you.

It’s a good thing. The scene gets blurry. Tears. In a flurry, you blink them away, taken aback by your own reaction.

Rest, probably worth your while.

Snuck beneath the heavy blanket, that medical bag is pressed on your knee. Reaching for it, you remove the sling, mindlessly stuffing it in till you hit the mug your friends gave you.

Half because you want to be trusted to hold an object heavier than bread, you bring out the mug.

Instantly, you recognize the black fabric inside it and press the mug on your lap in fear it’ll explode.

The masked man’s tourniquet. Why did Claire give you this? Your thumb rubs along the threads, he ran around in the cold, got punched, in this. It’s so thin.

He really dared to call you the reckless one. A huff follows you pocketing the fabric in the mug, to throw it away, yet when your reflection flashes on your phone screen seconds later, it doesn’t look mad.

Tabs among tabs of missed calls, texts, line on the lockscreen. Karen is the first name you see. Mia second. Your finger stops on Meghan’s, it continues with a harder swipe.

Stranger, 12:53 a.m.

There were two calls from him, minutes apart. The initial call is the one Claire made after Aaron gave her your phone, has to be—you open his contact. The most recent message is you asking if he made it to Long Island.

Whatever text you send now, there’s only one shot at it. Either he’d block you, or… you’re not sure what the worst-case scenario is here.

A pathway in your mind treats this like a hostage situation. Know your suspect, got that. Gain trust, probable. Identify motives, no clue.

Focus on what you have.

‘Aaron I’m not going to report you. I want to work with you so I can learn what the Russians are planning. I know they're forcing you into this. And we can take them down, no matter how deep this goes. Just say the word, I’ll help you.’

Utter word vomit, yet it’s all true. Clicking send, you’re not granted an answer till the sky turns orange. He calls.

Elena is downstairs watching a neighbor’s baby until his mom comes back from the store. You’re keen to avoid questions later. “Aaron?”

This better not be a trap, and it has every reason to be.

His voice is muffled. “You really mean all that?”

“I wouldn’t lie.” On the power button, your finger taps against it. “If we work together… We can be each other’s person on the inside, we can stop them from the inside. You just need to trust me.”

There’s a scrape, cloth-on-cloth, his volume clears. “Trust ain’t the problem.” He sighs, “I don’t want anyone else gettin’ hurt, (Y/n). I already saw you get beat last night.”

“I’m fine.” Your head shakes. “We don’t need to fight them, Aaron. I need information. The more we have, the more evidence we can collect. No one needs to get hurt, we’ll be smart.”

Out of all reactions, Aaron chuckles, you could count the breaths between each sound. “You don't know what you're getting into—”

Cold sweat flares in your neck. “I know exactly what I'm getting to. I have for a long time.” For trying to get Aaron on your side, that’s harsher than it should be. “Are you with me or not?”

For a scary beat you thought you've pushed too hard, a plan to backtrack revving in your mind. Obviously, that taped lid on your emotions needs reinforcing as of late.

“Yeah, I'm with you.” His exhale ruffles in the mic. “It’s why I called—Vladimir, our main guy, he chasin’ Fisk and your guy big time after what went down.”

Fisk, the name is a fable. At least with Wesley, you had a face.

“You mean the parking garage?” A shudder claws your neck, one you force back in the mental jar. “Fisk was related to that?”

“Huh?” Aaron stutters. “No, man. Vladimir's brother, the masked guy killed him.”

You don't even process that. It’s wrong, that's wrong. “No way,” The finger tapping drains to your legs. “He doesn't kill. It's the first thing he told me when we worked together.”

“His mask was in the body bag.”

“He…” the blanket felt too hot on your body. He wouldn't. He saves cats, children, women, you. “He doesn't kill.”

“Alright, alright.” More shifting, denim against leather this time. “I don't know him like that. But that's just what I heard.”

Did you even know him like that? You push off the blanket. “Anything else?”

“Uhh, this all kinda recent. Vladimir just sent out orders to bring out all their weapons and—shit, I shouldn’t be saying this here.”

“Then come to me,” You sit at the edge of the cushion, the thick thumps in your pulse numb any aches. “I’m at that apartment you saw me at.”

Aaron hisses at the memory. “Sorry about that, by the way.”

Clicks from the front door echo inside the home. “It's fine, meet me here soon.” Manners elude you—two inches from the end call button before you add. “And thank you.”

In time with your farewell, the front door creaks open. Elena enters, a pot of indoor flowers in her arm. Your chest stings when you stand; meeting her halfway to both talk and warm up your muscles from sitting all day.