damned (pt1)
pairing: matt murdock x deaf!vigilante!reader
contains: mentions of murder, assault, sa, human trafficking (very brief)
premise: (daredevil, season 2) on a rainy night in the heat of a massive trial, the devil of hell's kitchen tries to stop you from executing the condemned. in the end, the enemy is closer than you think. slight enemies to lovers, but will be very slowburn atm.
word count: 5k
author's note: lolz hey guys... yea this should be a part 1 but idk, i just wanted to get it out because the more i wrote the more i realized a character like this would be great for a frank or ben x reader. sorry if it gets lazy at the end.
this coffee is shit.
that's all you can think about as you struggle to focus on the blurring pages in front of you and the tiny text, miles upon miles long. with opening statements tomorrow, there is little time left to prepare for the mountain of a case you know you have in front of you. it was whatever was leftover from this morning in the pot, and as was most stale coffee, it was barely consumable.
hells kitchen was drowning. in the silent, deadly, predictable way that most occurred. thrashing momentarily before slipping under and sinking without so much as a whimper.
it had been a little over two years since new york had been blown open wide by aliens and given you a never-ending caseload of superpowered freaks. something about the chaos of the sky being ripped open and the end of the world being neigh managed to draw an extraordinary number of mutants, mutates, and enhanced individuals out of the woodwork. and between those trying to naively dole out vigilante justice, and genuine psychopaths using god-like abilities to try and bend the boroughs to their will, you were exhausted. sleep was a rare commodity, and you ran on coffee and advil most days.
half the battle was proving the perps had abilities in the first place. while some things like super strength could be easier to prove, there was no legal standing for it yet. but since you were one of the first few successful assistant district attorneys to try and convict an enhanced perpetrator, reyes made sure subsequent cases were quick to find your desk ontop of your usual 50-case workload.
given, between yourself and three other manhattan ada's, you only had six convictions out of 18 cases. most were lost based on failure to adequately produce evidence of the individual being enhanced in the first place. and oftentimes, if you couldn't prove that, there was no way the person could feasibly be convicted of the crime. all other signs could point to them, but after all— how could a man crush another mans skull with his bare hands if he wasn't enhanced in some way?
of course, you're no better than them.
as the rain pattered outside, forming an even gentle rumble through the air, you nearly fell into a doze, letters blurring into a hazy black before your kitchen table began to shake underneath you. jostling you from your sleep, you squinted harshly as strobe lights danced across your vision, reaching forward to harshly smack the alarm in front of you, off. you felt an empty cup to your right and out of sight fall off the table from the harsh vibrations, and roll across the floor, and let out an exasperated sigh.
you're not picking that up.
dragging yourself up from your seat and collecting your alarm, you toss it across the room and watch it flops on the bed where it belongs. your studio apartment is an organized mess, stacks for different ongoing cases on nearly every clean surface— minus the kitchen counter that divvied up its space between empty beer bottles and your cat's food and water dishes. the little prick refused to eat off the floor.
rubbing your face, you know you've already spent too much time staring off into space. you shuffle towards your tiny bathroom, stripping down slowly from the scratchy business casual outfit you'd been too lazy to change out of after today's proceedings. after all, you knew you'd be changing anyway, and it wasn't going to be pyjamas.
you reached your bathroom and tossed your shirt into your hamper, making quick work of your pants before tying up your hair in a tight, short fashion. you smeared eyeblack carelessly over your lids, looking only to blur your features. from there, it was the usual. black gloves first, all black kevlar leggings, a black motorcycle base layer shirt, tightly laced runners, a buck flipblade tucked in your sock, and a balaclava. light, simple, and manurable as possible.
from there, back out to your studio to draw all the blinds. and from there, finally, underneath your bed, where your rifle in all its parts, its sling, as well as your ammunition belt, lay waiting. after it was all laid out and meticulously checked, twice, you shut off all the lights and began.
part by part, you assemble it— body, barrel, scope, silencer, slowly fall into place. and like a work of art in the louvre, you admired your self-constructed masterpiece. it was not the first, nor the last time you would.
and you feel dirty with your momentary pride in it.
when you were done, you loaded the gear onto yourself, making sure the custom rifle was secure in its sling.
before making your way to your bathroom once more, ready to make your way out the window to the fire escape, you checked yourself once over in the mirror. your eyes stick out in the mass of black, and the rifle looks big on your back. maybe, some time ago, you would've hesitated. felt uncomfortable with the sight. but you knew what was coming was a necessary evil. you had made peace with it a long while ago. you're the last resort.
mitch mccormick is slated for execution. end of story.
///
you were out of breath, and the cold rain had made you more unsteady than you anticipated.
the rootops had been slick as you made your way across towards your condemned tonight, and you had almost fallen twice. but you had made it nonetheless, and had parked yourself ontop of a gravel rooftop across from the shannon. with it being 3am, the bar appeared quiet and shuttered for the night— blinds pulled down, parking lot empty.
but inside, you knew damn well mccormick celebrating the fact he had just gotten off.
while the irish traditionally delt in drugs, mostly heroin, but mitch mccormick is of a filthier kind. from what you knew for certain? he delt in people. what you knew but couldn't fully prove? he delt in sex.
he had been on your caseload because he, according to courts, 'allegedly' crushed a mans skull with his bare hands. two weeks ago he was released from jail, and deemed not guilty of all charges. including mutliple counts of human trafficking, both tradtional and sexual assault, and one count of 2nd degree murder.
as you unslung your rifle, setting the sling next to you, and like a well oiled machine, you scanned for signs of life as the rain pattered against your skin.
it could be tricky sometimes, not being able to hear if there was cheering, glasses clinking, or the rusling of clothes. but your senses are well trained, you catch it as soon as you see it— the slight movement of the blackout blinds in the window closest to the door. and light peeking through them. someone had bumped into them.
as you lower yourself into an army-crawl position and begin to adjust your rifle, you watch closely as headlights begin to approach from up the road. you could feel the rumble of the car under the roof through your chest, as a black bently rolled to a slow stop infront of the shannon, its windows tinted. a lone driver sat well-dressed in the front seat.
less than a minute later, the bar door swung open, and two men stumbled out, a third walking calmly behind them as he pushed the door shut behind them. the two, obviously drunk, irishmen were red in the face, faces pulled back in a look of jolly laughter as they leaned against on one another. as their mouths began to move and they swayed back and forth together on the sidewalk, you quickly realized they were likely singing a song, no care for the rain soaking their clothes.
you looked through your scope briefly to confirm, but you knew they weren't mccormick. after stairing at his rancid face in court all day for weeks, he was easy to recognize.
the third man, their bodyguard, stepped around them and opened the door to the back seat, and ushered the men in, his face pulled into a neutral, if slightly annoyed, expression.
as the two drunks practically fell in, the bodyguard shut the door behind them, and re-entered the bar as they rolled away, taking their laughter and songs with them.
you knew all of this beforehand, of course. the irish didn't drive, they had drivers. and they had bodyguards waiting to escort them to and from their vehicles at every stop.
however, now that frank castle had been arrested, and would be on trial shortly, their remaining numbers had become sloppy and comfortable. all you had to do was wait for mccormick to leave, your shot was more than clear, and the shannon was an old building with no basement, one enterence, and one exit. you had studied the floor plan well, along with every other bar the irish freqeuented.
you would have come sooner, but castle had torn up the town and sent the irish scattering for about a week.
all you had to do was wait for mccormick to leave, take the wide open shot, and disappear before they could even see you on the rooftop.
it didn't take long before you settled into a comfortable position. or, as comfortable as you could be with the rain beating down and your fingers slowly cramping around the rifle. cars rolled up, drunk irishmen and the occasional lady friend filed out with the body guard, rinse and repeat. the low rumble of the cars approaching and leaving felt fuzzy in your chest. none of them were mccormick. you figured he'd be one of the last to leave; after all, it was his celebration.
you knew it was just a matter of time.
as another blacked-out car rolled away, you let out a small huff and shifted slightly, when you felt it.
goosebumps raised all over your body as the ground shifted slightly about 10 feet behind you. you felt your stomach drop as you felt another slight shift. whoever was behind you was moving closer, and trying to be quiet.
your thoughts raced momentarily— was it the irish? the owner of the building you were on?
but you shut the thoughts down quickly and attempted to calm your nerves with a deep breath as they shifted closer, now 6 feet away. soon they'd be close enough to grab you. not to mention it was nearly 4:30 am, and you have maybe five minutes before another car comes, possibly mccormick's.
trying to act natural, you leaned into your scope, focusing on nothing but the person closing in on you, as they reach 4 feet, 3 feet, 2 feet— close enough to touch you if they reach out—
close enough to feel their breath on the back of your neck where your balaclava rides up, despite how far they still are.
you swing your rifle around and strike them hard across the temple with the butt of the gun.
a man in a red suit hits the ground hard , trying quickly to collect himself from the unexpected strike.
but you hit him again against the temple and press the rifle hard into his chest, pinning his disoriented body to the ground as you quickly straddle him, using your body wieght and gun to shove him down again as he tries to force his way up.
you get a good look at him momentarily. he's definetly a man, his chisled chin with a five-o-clock shadow is a dead give away. the upper half of his face is covered with a mask, and you find the need to ask who he is escaping you. red lenses stare back at you as two horns poke in the air, rain pattering down on the mask.
you had the devil of hells kitchen pinned underneath you.
you knew of him, of course, everyone in new york did. he was one of the only vigilantes who didn't seem to be completely insane— he saved people first, caught bad guys second.
before you could say anything at all however, he took advantage of your moment of observation by shoving against you with all his strength and headbutting you. hard.
the world spins as you fall back, loosing grip on your rifle as he flips the postion, straddling you. you reach up to push against him, but he gathers your hands together and forces them above your head.
as you trash, you can feel a humming from him through where he's connected to you— your wrists, you waist; he's speaking.
he raises your wrists slightly and slams them harshly agsisnt thee gravel roof, as if to get your attention, and you glare ahead wildly at him, eyes peircing through the dark.
"stop." you watched his lips move as he spoke. if you could see the rest of his face it would be easuer to glean his tone, but you presumed he sounded pissed.
you slowed your thrashing, but gears turn in your head as you tried to figure out how to get out of this. you have maybe 3 minutes before another car rolls through, and with how many people have left, you have a sick feeling in your stomach that it would be mccormick's. you struggle to focus on the man hovering above you as your forehead throbs from the earlier smack.
"who are you?" he asked, shifting his weight slightly above you, pressing down on your wrists harder.
"does it matter?" you reply. you can feel your voice is gravely and dry from hours of disuse. the gravel is hard on your back and the rain is wet on your skin, making you desperate for a drink.
"it does if you're with the irish." he retorts, lips moving fast, stern. "are you stupid?" you scoff, moving slightly beneath him "of course i'm not with the irish. why would the irish post a sniper on their own bar?". he quickly tightens his grip around your wrists once more and you wriggle, and stiffen his thighs around your waist, and your heart jumps for a different reason, almost startling you.
you see his head turn slightly, almost inquisitvely as he looks down on you. before he can ask another question, you speak.
"you're the devil of hell's kitchen. you hate people like this, the irish. or at least, thast what the media says." you speak slow, low. you can feel the rumble of a car approaching beneath your back, you have 2 minutes at most.
"why stop me?" you question.
you feel him stiffen. "stop you from doing what?" he asks, slower than before you notice. "from taking care of people like them?" you reply— firm, sure.
"is that what you're here to do? 'take care of it'?" he scoffs— you can tell from the way the air leaves his lips and hits your face. his breath is fresh, and smells like mint despite the general musk on his body you now realize you've been smelling this whole time. "how many people are you going to kill before its delt with? hmm?" you felt him humming throughout your body. "do you really think you're helping stop this cycle? or are you just contributing to i—"
"oh spare me with that crap!" you inturrupt, voice low as the car rolls ever closer. "the men in there are murders and drug dealers. they will kill hundreds if not thousands of people in their lifetime. do you really think i haven't thought about 'the cycle'?"
he seemed taken aback by your response, grip on your wrists loosening. "you don't have to do this." he states, firm, and you can almost feel his eyes boring into yours through the lenses, "you—"
"i already have." you reply.
you don't give him a chance to respond before gritting your teeth and headbutting him. your head rings as he falls back slightly, and you use all your strength to shove him off of you, crawling foreward toward the edge of the roof.
as your vision stopped spinning you could feel him stumble to a stand towards you, and you claw at your ankle to grab your buck knife, flipping it open and tucking it under you as you army crawled forward, feigning that you were still disoreiented or weak.
you let the devil get close to you, but when he tried you flip you over and re-pin you, you use the momentum to swing your body and the knife around, stabbing him in the side.
you saw him cry out, stumble and fall hard onto his back as he gripped his lower waist, clearly a weakpoint in between the plates his armor— a lucky stab. and for a moment, you feel bad.
but then you glanced behind you, over the edge of the roof, and see the car roll to a stop.
you quickly gather up your nearby rifle, and try to calm your racing heart as you remount your rifle. you notch the butt of it into your shoulder you can feel the devil writhing in pain behind you, and you do your best to focus on if hes approaching while the bar door swings open again.
and sure enough, mccormick stumbles out.
you take in a shakey breath and lean into your scope, lining up the shot as you hold your breath and hover your finger abouve the trigger.
you can see nearly every hair on his twisted face through your crosshairs. he was wrinkled and greying, hiding his true strength behind age. his face was twisted into a laugh, as he walked out with his arm around a young woman, her face low, solemn.
too young to be a woman.
a young girl.
you steel your resolve.
you only know the devil cried out behind you because at the last moment, mccormick looked up, and met your gaze through the scope.
and for a moment, the proud prick looked afraid as you sqeezed down on the trigger.
with a jerk, the rifle goes off, a single round going clean through his left eye.
mccormick falls back, hitting the ground with a limp smack as you pull away from the scope, hands now shaking with adreneline. you watch as the girl next to him screams and stumbled back falling to the ground harshly and crawling backwards on her bottom in a frantic rush. there is blood splattered across her face.
the bodyguard begins to shout and look around frantically as he ducks back in towards the bar, unable to figure out where the shot came from due to the silencer. the driver speeds off into the disance, rumbling low bemeath your feet. you watch as the door slams shut behind the guard, leaving the girl screaming in the street, alone. likely holing up in fear that castle had broken out, and come for them, which worked to your advanatge.
you can feel the devil shift behind you, and you stand and turn to look at him.
he is standing now, hunched over, mouth agape and hand on his side, wrapped around the blade buried there. you can tell he cant decide whether to say something, attack you, or some other third option. but you speak first.
"he wasn't the first. and he won't be the last." you begin, stairing down the devil across from you. "i don't want to do this. i have to. i'm the last resort when all fails. when justice fails. do you think letting him go to face the court is the right option? that man on the pavement was a murder, a rapist, and a human trafficker. he walked out with a little girl on his arm, aquitted of all crimes. she deserves justice. all of his victims deserve justice. i'm just the only one left whos willing to give it to them."
he stares as you, and as he tries to take a tenative step forward, you take one back.
"you call this justice? a girl left bloody and alone in the street? and an open spot the irish will be fighiting over to fill?" he inquires. you can see the pain in his grimace, and you don't know if its just because of the knife in his side.
you hesitate, looking back to the girl, now curled up crying against the building, next to mccormincks body. you wonder for a moment, if he's right, before remembering what he did. what mccormick would continue to do if left alive. and then you reply.
"don't try to stop me again."
you break out in a sprint to the left and jump to the next roof over, not giving him a chance to follow with the blade in his side as you take off into the dead of night.
///
you find yourself grateful the next morning that reyes insisted on two ada's for this case. if it were just you preparing opening statements and compiling evidence for her, you're sure you would be fired over this.
initally, it was just supposed to be blake. but as the workload grew, and more of castle's 'victims' were discovered, it became too much, you ended up assisting with opening and closing statements, and organizing the witnesses. otherwise, you were just along for the ride this time, your caseload was heavy enough as it is afterall.
but of course, you were 10 minutes late to the pre-trial briefing at 8:30am. your shoulder was sore from your rifle skipping your collarbone, and your body still buzzing from leftover adrenaline and two energy drinks, because coffee didn't cut it anymore. and of course, the room went silent as you walked in. you could feel her eyes boring into your skull even now, as you double-checked yourself in the bathroom.
your hair was well done, and you had worn your nicest pantsuit and pumps. after all, this was probably going to be the most important case of your career, and it was definitely the most important case of reye's. she had made that abundantly clear. you had managed to cover up the bruise in the middle of your forehead from the evening before pretty decently as well.
finding yourself preheitvely exhausted, you sigh. with half of new york, let alone manhattan, being ineligble for jury; this case was alrady too much.
but still, you took a deep breath and steadied yourself, before flashing youself a fake, rehearsed smile in the mirror.
you can do this.
///
you a bead of sweat dripped down your neck as the court stood awaiting the defendent. you could hear a pin drop as chains clinked together, the sharp vibrations ringing clear through the floor. you could practically feel it through your feet.
frank castle made his way into the courtroom. his head wasnt held high, nor low, just even. and he looked at no one— just straight ahead. he looked dead behind the eyes.
he was serious looking, yes. definetly a marine. but he didnt look degranged. and even if you did.. you didnt wholly disgaree with his actions. you just needed to be on tbis case ans make reyes happy.
you felt a pit in your stomach as he made his was past you, guard behind him, towards the defense were he could take his seat. this whole pre-trial had been a stark reminder of what could happen to you if you were caught. of course, you and frank weren't quite on the same level of violance.
but the issue still stands; if anyone knew what you did in your free time— what you did to the defendants you couldn't prove guilty? you would lose everything.
you were quick to notive the defence was down a man. nelson and murdock had been reduced just nelson. or murdock. you werent sure, as you hadn't met the two yet. but the anxiety was clear on the young man's face as he shuffled through papers, murmuring to the woman next to him. you couldn't quite make out what they were saying, head held low and papers partially covering their mouths.
at that moment you felt blake tap your arm gently and gesure to the front, indicating the judge's arrival. your eyes drifting to the ASL interpreter at the front of the room. their eyes were locked onto you, signs clear as they repeated the baliff's statement.
"all rise. court is now in session, the honorable judge cynthia batzer presiding. indictment number 1986-4447, the people v. frank castle."
"be seated" the judge stated, taking a seat herself as everyone in the courst followed suit. she looked just as tired as you felt. your shoulder ached with another wave of sore pain.
it didnt take long before reyes began her opening statments, addressing the jury directly and she stood infront of them. "ladies and gentlemen of the jury frank castle brutally tortured and murdered thirty people. thirty that we know of. he took the law into his own hands, and acted as judge, jury, and most violent executioner. over the next couple of days, you will hear that the defendant's victims were criminals. however, the victims are not on trial here today. nor will they ever be for their crimes, and serve time as they so rightly should."
you shuddered at her words, knowing you had to write them yourself, despite not truly believing them.
"and moreso, justice does not belong in the hands of a man like frank castle. this isn't the wild west. this is new york city. justice is served here in a court of law. and it is up to each of you to take back the city from lawless vigilantes like frank castle. this man is no hero. he's a serial killer with a gimmick. and he is guilty. thank you."
reyes returned to her seat next to blake, and looked over to you with a look of slight approval. you nodded back in response— she had been pleased with the statment, clearly.
the judge gave a moment for the jury to take in what reyes had said before moving on. "mr. nelson, are you prepared to make your opening statement?"
there was a momentary pause, and as you couldn't see the defense too well now that you were sitting, you looked towards the interpreter to gauge what was being said. however, they looked slightly hesitant and confused. they looked towards who you now knew to be the nelson half of the team, and then to the judge, before the judge began to speak again and they began to sign.
"mr. nelson? mr. nelson? are you reserving the right to make your statement at a later time?" she questioned. it quickly clicked to you that the defence was either woefully unprepared, or was not anticipating the absence of their murdock half.
there was another momentary pause before you saw mr. nelson stand out of the corner of your eye and move towards the jury as the interpreter began to sign his words again.
"no, your honor, the defense is ready to proceed. ladies and gentlemen of the jury the defendant, frank castle, is not... sorry." he hesitated, as did the interpreter, clearly struggling to find his words.
"mr. castle is as much a victim— no, he's not." he retorted, shaking his head as the interpreter struggled to keep up with his changing mind. "okay, so you're 19, standing in hot sand sun burning down noise yelling, gunfire. the only thing that you know for sure is that you're surrounded by an enemy that wants you dead. but you do it. you endure it. why? because you have orders. and you have a duty. and also because your life doesn't end here."
as he began to speak clearly and steadily, you began to tune in more, watching as he addressed both the jury and the court, turning towards the crowd slightly enough that you could read his lips.
"you have people you love waiting at home. because aside from being a decorated marine, the man before you is a good husband and an excellent father. frank castle returned from the hell of war wanting nothing more than to pick up his life."
"but his wife, young son, and daughter were brutally murdered by criminals, and no one, not the police and certainly not the district attorney, stepped up to make it right." your face scrunched in slight confusion, and you looked towards reyes to see her face twisted and sickly-colored. what did he mean by that, and why did she seem so stricken by it?
"see, frank castle never came home. he just traded in one war zone for another. this trial isn't about vigilantes. it's about the failure of the justice system. and how one man, frank castle, is being used as a pawn to cover up that system's mistakes."
"the prosecution wants blood." he pointed to you as he said it, and something stuck deep in your check as you listened.
"but as the judge just said to get it, they have to prove their case beyond a reasonable doubt. so all I'm asking of you today keep an open mind. that's all, your honor."
and with that, he turned back to the defence, and made his way to his seat.
you saw the courtroom door to your left open, and watched as a young man practically stumbled his way through, cane in hand. you quickly registered he was blind, and turned to blake with a slight quirk in your brow, and he shrugged with a slightly amused smile.
of course he had failed to mention someone on the defense was blind. now you just needed someone mute in the mix and you'd have the whole trio.
as you turned back to watch the newly arrived lawyer, presumably the murdock half of nelson and murdock, you observed quietly as you watched him likely whisper-argue with his colleague.
he was handsome, no doubt. and had a fire about him, obviously, as he went back and forth with nelson.
as he straightened out, you saw him wince and scrunch slightly, reaching for his side as if hurt. before you could think further, reyes called your name.
"yes?" you replied, looking down slightly to readjust your gase and look at her. "can you find my list of questions for our first witness?" she inquired, practically tearing through the papers in front of her as she looked for whatever paper she wanted.
"of course." you murmured, digging around for a moment before passing it back to her.
when you looked back to the defense, goosebumps raised all over your body as you made eyecontact with a blind man.
you felt your stomach drop as murdock stared you down. you felt the sweat return to the back of your neck, his gaze was intense, and confused, his jaw locked tight.
and thats when it clicked
his jaw. his side. and as your eyes drifted to his forehead, a faat lump of a bruise stared back at you. and most importantly, the way he was staring at you, probably having recognized your voice.
you were looking at the devil of hell's kitchen.
and he was looking right back at you.
