Chapter Twenty-Two: Talk (Part 1)
Author's Note: Mexico and Brazil losing in the same day k m s. But this brings me to (Y/n), as like a character, not our placeholder. YES 'OUR'
I honestly don't remember how I got the idea for this fic now, just wanted to write abt Daredevil. I had only vague concepts about her, random scenes I wanted, but really I met her the same time you did and her character just idk talked to me, and I just ran with it.
Most people hide at night. Daylight, you’re learning, has its perks: your blind spots are visible, pedestrians give cover, and you can watch the building across the street.l
At the front doors to Wesley’s complex, there’s no doormen, but you counted five cameras from your bench. Where you’ve watched the garage attendant in his sharp suit since 4:00 p.m. It’s 5:21 now.
This place valued privacy, status, not strangers smeared in bruises. Even if you played the ‘cop’ card, you’d have no warrant to back it up.
A buzzing in your pocket gives something else to focus on. Matt’s calling. The sight jerks your heart. Karen and Foggy call all the time; Matt never has.
“You need to come back to the office.”
Matt’s voice is like how it was during Healy’s trial. Sharp, firm. The voice of someone who’s tired of being patient, and you got a hint why.
Over the line, Foggy blurts nonsense about ‘She’s paid to do stuff like this.’ Then Karen interrupts, closer to the phone. “Yeah, don’t be mad at her. I’m the one that roped her into it.”
“I’m mad at all three of you. Equally.” Matt retorts.
“Wait, wait, wait.” Your free hand picks at your jacket’s zipper. “What happened?”
“Karen cracked and told Matt everything,” Foggy explains, there’s a protest in the background from Karen.
That hand stops picking to pinch the bridge of your nose. Less than a day after Foggy joins, Matt already knows. “Right.” You inhale. “What entails ‘everything?’”
“Is there something else I should know?”
Foggy, Karen, and you all shout some variation of ‘No!’ A couple of heads turn. A mom tugging her kid along scowls. You duck lower on the bench, phone pressed to your ear while Karen assures Matt that everything meant everything
“Look,” he starts, “You need to come back from wherever you’re investigating before you get hurt.”
Given how this stakeout has gone, returning to Nelson & Murdock is a good idea. Talk things over with Matt, make sure he isn’t too upset by everyone’s sleuthing.
“Yeah, I’m sorry,” you rub the side of your neck. Hand heavy on the skin. “I’ll head over soon.”
All three of them go quiet for a second, like they didn’t expect the relent. Karen speaks on it first. “Did… the investigation not go well?”
You don’t say it aloud—the day is wasted, a ledger of nothing gained. “Eh, no, but I mean, it's part of the job.”
“You know you’re supposed to be off-duty, right?” Foggy mentions. “‘Cause if not we might have to sue your station for breaching labor laws.”
A smile sneaks up on you, easing your posture against the bench. “Don’t worry, I do. Just call it pro bono, in lawyer-speak.”
“Darn it,” he snaps his fingers. “That would’ve been a major cash check.”
Laughter spills from both ends of the phone, but Matt cuts through it. “We’ll see you soon.”
The other two add in similar words before ending the call. Without their chatter, everything feels lonelier, especially under today’s failure. You stand, bones aching from the metal bench.
At least it’s over, the words repeat themselves as you study Wesley’s building one last time. It joins the neighboring structures with its height, paneled in glass that reflects to your side of the street, making it warmer.
Something, you’re still waiting for something to make this day count.
Across the street, crowds of people make their way past Wesley’s building. In that fast gait only New Yorkers can maintain. Then one of them stops with a limp.
The man is either seriously drunk or hurt, your foot steps closer but stops mid-air.
Oval cheeks, thinning brown hair, a face stamped into memory by fear. His features root in your gut, Claire’s kidnapper.
There’s bandages yellowing over his head. Burn marks on his jaw. Must’ve survived the bombings.
If he’s here. How many others survived?
With renewed purpose, you speed to the crosswalk before the timer ends. Once you’re on the other side, a chill hits, colder here from the high-rises blocking the sun.
Claire’s attacker is still up ahead beside the alley to Wesley’s building. He lingers, then hobbles into the crevice.
On your back, the undershirt holster digs in the skin. Not leaving home without that anymore. Reaching for the firearm, you round the corner inside the alley.
Traffic fades behind you, replaced by the drip of water off a rusted fire escape and the sour smell of garbage. A muffled Russian curse fills the silence, yet you don’t see him.
“Hello?” You load the gun with a harsh click that announces you’re armed too. Even if he’s hurt, he can have a weapon.
“Who’s there!” The Russian tries to bark, but it becomes a wheeze. His voice leads you beside a dumpster, where he’s weakly holding a knife pointed at nothing till he sees your frame.
“You,” he glowers. It’s rare that someone's more beat up than you. He knows it too, shrinking into the shadow of the dumpster. “Bitch cop.”
Actual strangers have called the police much worse, it rolls off by now. “Remember me, huh?”
He attempts to stand, but you pointing the gun forces him to freeze. “From the alley,” his free hand wipes grime off his mouth. “With that masked dog.”
Simba is the dog you think of, but no, the venom in his eyes is for the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen. Your eyes squint. “You were there?”
“I run when Vladimir was shooting.” He spits. The saliva lands a few inches away from your boot.
Unmoving, you nudge your head to Wesley’s building. “And why are you here? You know James Wesley?”
“You’re getting arrested no matter what happens.” A hand goes to your phone. To call someone you haven't decided, trust is sparse in the 15th precinct lately. “So you can answer my questions, get a plea deal. Or we can drop you in a cell and force out where your other buddies are hiding.”
The Russian is quiet, not due to him thinking, at least not about your offer. He sinks back on the floor, his knife going slack. “I’m the only left.”
Wind rustles through the alley, muffling the distant car horns and other city noise. You wanted to demand all sorts of things. Jessie, Wesley, Fisk, the Yakuza. So much that you forgot what higher-ups praised you for back home: Patience.
“Then help me bring down Wilson Fisk.” His eyes widen when you say the name. Perfect, your gun comes down to your side, finger still on the trigger.
“Because it’s him you should want. He almost had me arrested. He’s trying to kill the masked man with the press. And he has the most to gain by cutting out your people, the middlemen.”
The man slurs the vowels together, leaning his head back to meet your eyes. He flashes his knife once, a reminder. You resist rolling your eyes, knife to a gunfight here.
“You don’t have to trust me. Just hate Fisk more than we hate each other.” Against your better judgment, you crouch to his level, gun angled so he can’t forget who has more power. “You’re already going to prison. Make it mean something.”
He holds your gaze for one long moment. “Fine, but I tell no other officers about Fisk.” The man coughs trying to work out a glare. “I go to prison. Quietly.”
The man’s name is Sergei, information you didn’t get out of him. Instead, it was Brett Mahoney. The only officer you still trusted and thought could trust you back.
Plus he’s the reason you know where Wesley lives in the first place.
“I get that part,” Mahoney says after you explain Sergei, minus the Fisk-shaped holes in it. “But why are you here?”
His squad car smells much cleaner than others, or the station had them washed. Lemon soap.
“I tried to investigate James Wesley but didn’t find anything.” Your head slumps against the headrest, toward Wesley's building. “There’s no way for me to get in.”
“I see why,” he tosses his police hat onto the dash, its small golden badge shines into your eyes. “You look just as messed up as that guy.”
Through the glass, your blank stare reflects back at you with the discoloration on your cheekbones. “Thanks.”
Bus breaks squeak as they park in front of the car, people spill out onto the sidewalk, some glance at you and Mahoney who rubs his palms over the wheel. “How’d it happen? I never heard.”
The breath in your throat catches. “Uh,” Maybe if Sergei wasn’t cuffed in the backseat, you’d find admitting his mob kidnapped you easier. “It… it was the Russians.”
Thankfully, he fills in the context himself. “Oh. Sorry about that.” He says, your small ‘it’s fine’ barely heard over the bus’s engine starting up.
Mahoney doesn't speak again until it drives off. “You know, I think I got a way to get us in.”
“Really?” Your neck whirls to face him.
“Yeah,” he meets your eyes, his own are dark enough to be black, but there’s light in them. A faint one. He thinks you’re going to say no. “It does need you to be in the back, though.”
What he didn’t include later, was that it also included you being handcuffed in the backseat. Seated next to Sergei as co-conspirators with how you two looked.
“What,” Sergei coughs. “Are you two doing.”
Mahoney rolls down the window partition before you could answer. “Alright, you guys play nice back there.” The engine starts, and Mahoney weaves through afternoon traffic to the parking garage. “Or say something helpful.”
Beside the security booth, Mahoney tilts his head at the attendant. Even from the backseats, you read the name tag. Atticus, a young Asian man who reminds you of Officer Sullivan.
“Hey, good evening, sir.” Mahoney greets, a hand pushing his hat further on his forehead. “I found these perps skulking around out back.” He points behind him, “Think they were trying to get in here. Mind if I check?”
Both of Atticus’s brows shoot upward, his eyes skirting to you and Sergei, who’s staring bullets into your side profile. The attention has you press against your door
The things you do for intel.
“Ah, I’d have to call my manager, our security system auto-flags anyone I let in.”
“No, call him. It’s alright.” Mahoney’s elbow rests on the windowsill. “I’d like to talk after I drop them at the station.” Hand hanging out, he points it inside the garage. “Just want to check if anything’s busted in there. I don’t know if these guys were working alone.”
“Wait, wait, wait.” Your free hand picks at your jacket’s zipper. “What happened?”
“Karen cracked and told Matt everything,” Foggy explains, there’s a protest in the background from Karen.
That hand stops picking to pinch the bridge of your nose. Less than a day after Foggy joins, Matt already knows. “Right,” you inhale. “What entails ‘everything?’”
“Is there something else I should know?”
Foggy, Karen, and you all shout some variation of ‘No!’ A couple of heads turn. A mom tugging her kid along scowls. You duck lower on the bench, phone pressed to your ear while Karen assures Matt that everything meant everything.
“Look,” he starts, “You need to come back from wherever you’re investigating before you get hurt.”
Given how this stakeout has gone, returning to Nelson & Murdock is a good idea. Talk things over with Matt, make sure he isn’t too upset by everyone’s sleuthing.
“Yeah, I’m sorry,” you rub the side of your neck. Hand heavy on the skin. “I’ll head over soon.”
All three of them go quiet for a second, like they didn’t expect the relent. Karen speaks on it first. “Did… the investigation not go well?”
You don’t say it aloud—the day is wasted, a ledger of nothing gained. “Eh, no, but I mean, it's part of the job.”
“You know you’re supposed to be off-duty, right?” Foggy mentions. “‘Cause if not we might have to sue your station for breaching labor laws.”
A smile sneaks up on you, easing your posture against the bench. “Don’t worry, I do. Just call it pro bono, in lawyer-speak.”
“Darn it,” he snaps his fingers. “That would’ve been a major cash check.”
Laughter spills from both ends of the phone, but Matt cuts through it. “We’ll see you soon.”
The other two add in similar words before ending the call. Without their chatter, everything feels lonelier, especially under today’s failure. You stand, bones aching from the metal bench.
At least it’s over, the words repeat themselves as you study Wesley’s building one last time. It joins the neighboring structures with its height, paneled in glass that reflects to your side of the street, making it warmer.
Something, you’re still waiting for something to make this day count.
Across the street, crowds of people make their way past Wesley’s building. In that fast gait only New Yorkers can maintain. Then one of them stops with a limp.
The man is either seriously drunk or hurt, your foot steps closer but stops mid-air.
Oval cheeks, thinning brown hair, a face stamped into memory by fear. His features root in your gut, Claire’s kidnapper.
There’s bandages yellowing over his head. Burn marks on his jaw. Must’ve survived the bombings.
If he’s here. How many others survived?
With renewed purpose, you speed to the crosswalk before the timer ends. Once you’re on the other side, a chill hits, colder here from the high-rises blocking the sun.
Claire’s attacker is still up ahead beside the alley to Wesley’s building. He lingers, then hobbles into the crevice.
On your back, the undershirt holster digs in the skin. Not leaving home without that anymore. Reaching for the firearm, you round the corner inside the alley.
Traffic fades behind you, replaced by the drip of water off a rusted fire escape and the sour smell of garbage. A muffled Russian curse fills the silence, yet you don’t see him.
“Hello?” You load the gun with a harsh click that announces you’re armed too. Even if he’s hurt, he can have a weapon.
“Who’s there!” The Russian tries to bark, but it becomes a wheeze. His voice leads you beside a dumpster, where he’s weakly holding a knife pointed at nothing till he sees your frame.
“You,” he glowers. It’s rare that someone's more beat up than you. He knows it too, shrinking into the shadow of the dumpster. “Bitch cop.”
Actual strangers have called the police much worse, it rolls off by now. “You remember me, huh?”
He attempts to stand, but you pointing the gun forces him to freeze. “From the alley,” his free hand wipes grime off his mouth. “With that masked dog.”
Simba is the dog you think of, but no, the venom in his eyes is for the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen. Your eyes squint. “You were there?”
“I run when Vladimir was shooting.” He spits. The saliva lands a few inches away from your boot.
Unmoving, you nudge your head to Wesley’s building. “And why are you here? You know James Wesley?”
“You’re getting arrested no matter what happens.” A hand goes to your phone. To call someone you haven't decided, trust is sparse in the 15th precinct lately. “So you can answer my questions, get a plea deal. Or we can drop you in a cell and force out where your other buddies are hiding.”
The Russian is quiet, not due to him thinking, at least not about your offer. He sinks back on the floor, his knife going slack. “I’m the only left.”
Wind rustles through the alley, muffling the distant car horns and other city noise. You wanted to demand all sorts of things. Jessie, Wesley, Fisk, the Yakuza. So much that you forgot what higher-ups praised you for back home: Patience.
“Then help me bring down Wilson Fisk.” His eyes widen when you say the name. Perfect, your gun comes down to your side, finger still on the trigger.
“Because it’s him you should want. He almost had me arrested. He’s trying to kill the masked man with the press. And he has the most to gain by cutting out your people, the middlemen.”
The man slurs the vowels together, leaning his head back to meet your eyes. He flashes his knife once, a reminder. You resist rolling your eyes, knife to a gunfight here.
“You don’t have to trust me. Just hate Fisk more than we hate each other.” Against your better judgment, you crouch to his level, gun angled so he can’t forget who has more power. “You’re already going to prison. Make it mean something.”
He holds your gaze for one long moment. “Fine, but I tell no other officers about Fisk.” The man coughs trying to work out a glare. “I go to prison. Quietly.”
The man’s name is Sergei, information you didn’t get out of him. Instead, it was Brett Mahoney. The only officer you still trusted and thought could trust you back.
Plus he’s the reason you know where Wesley lives in the first place.
“I get that part,” Mahoney says after you explain Sergei, minus the Fisk-shaped holes in it. “But why are you here?”
His squad car smells much cleaner than others, or the station had them washed. Lemon soap.
“I tried to investigate James Wesley but didn’t find anything.” Your head slumps against the headrest, toward Wesley's building. “There’s no way for me to get in.”
“I see why,” he tosses his police hat onto the dash, its small golden badge shines into your eyes. “You look just as messed up as that guy.”
Through the glass, your blank stare reflects back at you with the discoloration on your cheekbones. “Thanks.”
Bus breaks squeak as they park in front of the car, people spill out onto the sidewalk, some glance at you and Mahoney who rubs his palms over the wheel. “How’d it happen? I never heard.”
The breath in your throat catches. “Uh,” Maybe if Sergei wasn’t cuffed in the backseat, you’d find admitting his mob kidnapped you easier. “It… it was the Russians.”
Thankfully, he fills in the context himself. “Oh. Sorry about that.” He says, your small ‘it’s fine’ barely heard over the bus’s engine starting up.
Mahoney doesn't speak again until it drives off. “You know, I think I got a way to get us in.”
“Really?” Your neck whirls to face him.
“Yeah.” He meets your eyes, his own are dark enough to be black, but there’s light in them. A faint one. He thinks you’re going to say no. “It does need you to be in the back, though.”
What he didn’t include later, was that it also included you being handcuffed in the backseat. Seated next to Sergei as co-conspirators with how you two looked.
“What,” Sergei coughs, “are you two doing.”
Mahoney rolls down the window partition before you could answer. “Alright, you guys play nice back there.” The engine starts, and Mahoney weaves through afternoon traffic to the parking garage. “Or say something helpful.”
Beside the security booth, Mahoney tilts his head at the attendant. Even from the backseats, you read the name tag. Atticus, a young Asian man who reminds you of Officer Sullivan.
“Hey, good evening, sir.” Mahoney greets, a hand pushing his hat further on his forehead. “I found these perps skulking around out back.” He points behind him, “Think they were trying to get in here. Mind if I check?”
Both of Atticus’s brows shoot upward, his eyes skirting to you and Sergei, who’s staring bullets into your side profile. The attention has you press against your door
The things you do for intel.
“Ah, I’d have to call my manager, our security system auto-flags anyone I let in.”
“No, call him. It’s alright.” Mahoney’s elbow rests on the windowsill. “I’d like to talk after I drop them at the station.” Hand hanging out, he points it inside the garage. “Just want to check if anything’s busted in there. I don’t know if these guys were working alone.”
It looks so easy, Mahoney’s lie, one you wonder if you could pull off if your face didn’t look so beaten. He adds the perfect mix of details and vagueness, it’s impressive, and it works. Atticus lets him in.
As Mahoney drives for an open space, you’re scanning each car for Wesley’s Cadillac, doubt he’d leave anything important in it but you want to see it.
“Hey, so I’ll go inside and see what I can find on Wesley.” Mahoney palms the wheel into a spot next to a white Lexus. He powers off the car then turns to look at the backseat. “And you’ll…”
Talk. “I hope so.” Your gaze wanders to Sergei, he mutters a few words in Russian—really hope so. Sighing, you face Mahoney. “Thank you, Mahoney. Really. You didn’t have to do this.”
He gives a rue smile that falls into a small line. “Don’t thank me. I had to see my city get blown up two days ago. I’ve been waiting for a chance like this.”
Moments after Mahoney leaves inside the apartment, you and Sergei are silent. Surrounded by luxury cars that echo when a tenant starts up the engine.
“So,” the word rasps on your throat. It resets the silence between you. Interrogation is different when the playing field is level. Both handcuffed, both hurt, both would rather be anywhere else.
“I don’t know that name.”
Great, that’s how he’s going to do this.
“I know you worked with him. I’ve seen his car next to your taxi company. Just tell me who he is, what he does, and how he’s related to Fisk.”
The burn marks stretch on his skin as he bites his cheek. It stays bitten till he puffs a weak raspberry. “He is Fisk’s man.” Sergei starts, “Does all the work so he can hide behind shitty name ‘employer.’”
“He’s the right hand, then.” He nods. Doesn’t expand on it. “Okay, if Fisk is an employer, what’s the company called?”
“There are many company.” Sergei leans his head back, his adam’s apple visible. “Never same. Easier to hide in many small business."
Your shoulders sink into the seat. Classic move. Create a whole bunch of subsidiaries to spread out the money, discourage investigation, and hard to pin down.
“Last thing.” A dark something coils inside you, and it shows in your voice, Sergei goes rigid. “Jessie McNair, shot in an alley outside a bar by your people.” You needed to breathe, to stop your voice from shaking. “Who killed him?”
Sergei thinks about that one longer than any others. It causes you to strain against the cuffs. Just say anything, lie if you need to.
What if he says it was him? He killed Jessie. The thought makes you glad you’re handcuffed.
Because you’d punch him. Keep punching him. With no one to restrain you from your own pain.
“Anatoly.” The name is a punch, but the fist never moves. “Said he found the boy your detective warn us about.”
Vladimir’s brother. Dead from what Aaron said. Jessie’s killer is dead, you repeat that thought to try and feel something.
This should be amazing, it’s all you’ve ever wanted. It’s why you’re here. Answers, something to tell Jessie’s family at his funeral, whenever that is. It’s one less thing to think about at night.
But nothing changes. Still here, beside a Russian mobster, feeling the exact way you did when he died.
The truth isn’t setting you free, and now you’re getting worried nothing will.
Once Mahoney returns, he hightails out the parking garage, and you get back in the passenger seat. Free from the cuffs, but not the hollowness seeping deeper inside your chest.
On the way to the station, he tells you he got shipping records. By telling the front desk possible harmful items are being mailed throughout Hell’s Kitchen. He glosses over that part.
Three bottles of Marcel ’75 Brunello di Montalcino were shipped to a woman from James Wesley. Paperwork redacted. All there is, a sticky note with the woman’s name.
“Look her up,” Mahoney’s chin juts to the MDT on the dash. “See how many Vanessa Mariannas live in Hell’s Kitchen.”
Shifting to power on the computer, you type in her name. There were multiple Vanessas, each spelled different. Though looking back and forth on the sticky note, only one spelled Marianna with two consecutive n’s.
“Think I found her.” As you read through the hit, her car is insured by a Scene Contempo Gallery. Place of work. That’s… something. “Got where she works.”
He glances at the screen. “You’re gonna go after Wesley’s girlfriend?”
The word girlfriend makes you laugh, just imagining Fisk’s right hand has time to date is insane. He must be busy with whatever Fisk makes him do. Assignments, meetings, deliveries.
Your smile drops. “I don’t know if it’s his girlfriend.”
That’s assuming she’s dating Fisk at all, she could be anyone. Cool it down. It’s just three bottles of wine. The last thing you need to process is Fisk having a girlfriend.
“I dunno, it’s nothing.” You stammer out, pushing away from the MDT. “Or, it might be nothing. I’ll find out later.”
Mahoney keeps driving, but throws you a few looks. Waiting for elaboration. When it doesn’t happen, he waits until the car is next in line for the stoplight. “And what’re you going to do in the meantime?”
“Uhm,” your gaze flicks to your phone. Foggy texted, asking where you are. It’s been half an hour, and you didn’t want to lie to them. Not again.
‘I’m sorry I got caught up in something
I’ll tell you guys about it soon I’m omw’
“I gotta go visit some friends.”
The light stays red, Mahoney drops his hand from the wheel. “That’s probably for the best. I’ll give you credit in the report when I write it though.”
Half of you wonders if he’s saying that because of what happened with you, Meghan, and Mia. Or he has a point, you shouldn’t go to the station.
“How are things over there, actually?” You ask.
His head rolls to the side. “Depends. If you’re asking about your two friends, they’re fine, but everyone’s calling you the girl that lost her shit.” A pained noise escapes you at that, Mahoney hears it, looking your way. “Sorry, you didn’t need to know that.”
“You’re fine, it doesn’t matter.”
In two weeks it won’t, unless you succeed with Fisk, then they’ll have new things to talk about.
After Mahoney drops you off at the front of the 15th precinct, you stand on the sidewalk to watch the sunset behind the building. Yellows and oranges creating a special warm rainbow in the sky.
Other officers come in or come out, some give a sideways glance. Doesn’t matter.
What does, is that Mia’s in there, hurt by what you said. You’re hurt by what she said too, what she hid with Meghan. And you don’t know how to fix it, only that Nelson & Murdock is waiting. That you can fix.
