Chapter Text
It began like a lot of these things began for Clint: with a beautiful lady knocking on his door and asking for help. Not something he could have ignored, right?
So he invited her in, introduced her to Lucky the one and only pizza dog, started a fresh pot of coffee (and yes, he’d washed the pot since the last time he’d drunk from it, he wasn’t a total slob. Not all the time, okay?), and only realized his mistake when, after setting pen and notepad on the kitchen counter, she asked, “Can I record our conversation?”
Shit. She was a journo. “I thought you needed help, Ms., uh.”
“Page. Karen Page. And I do, or rather our client does.” She slid a card to him. It read Nelson, Murdock & Page: Law & Investigation.
“You’re an attorney?”
“Nelson & Murdock are. I’m the investigation part.”
“What do you investigate?”
“Our client is accused of a murder that he claims he didn’t commit. We believe he was framed. There is pressure on the detective on the case to ignore all other avenues, and so we are trying to find proof that can’t be waved away.”
“What does any of this have to do with me? My delinquent days are far away; I’m one of the good guys now.” Mostly. Clint poured the coffee and put one of the mugs in front of her. It was, of course, purple. The color suited her; she had red lips and blue eyes and porcelain skin and – “Sorry, what were you saying?”
She raised her eyebrows. “You saved him from a mugging on the evening the murder was committed. You’re his only alibi, but Dude with a bow in the Upper West Side didn’t cut it as a believable lead to explore in the eyes of some.”
“Doesn’t seem like they’re doing a serious police investigation.”
She sighed. “No, it doesn’t.”
“When was that? I was there last week, and I did put an arrow through a guy’s bike tire. He was pointing a gun at someone’s face so I shot the tire as a warning, but when I got there he’d already ran away. Left his bike there, too.”
“Do you remember the day? Anything about the bike? Did you talk to the threatened party?”
Too many questions, not enough caffeine. Clint topped up his mug. “Last Friday, I guess? Yeah, Kate was here for the weekend. Bike was a bike, you know? It was, uh. Big. Your client thanked me, I hopped on the C line, and that was that.”
“With a bow. You took the subway with a bow.”
Clint scowled. Yeah, he did; so what? “I have a bow case.”
“But you’re an Avenger. Don’t you have other options?”
“The C line’s fine.”
She seemed to find this doubtful, but let it go. “Right. Can you confirm this is the guy?”
She showed him a photo from her file, and Clint nodded. Yep, that was the guy. “Sure can.”
“Good! So, do you think you can come by our office this week? We’re trying to build a good defense for our client; he could have motive and means but if he wasn’t there, then…”
Clint looked at the card. Hell’s Kitchen, uh. “Sure. This afternoon, if you’d like. Got to help Simone with some furniture this morning, but then I’m free.”
Once the Ikea shelves were up and not running, wobbling or crashing down, Clint changed from sweatpants to jeans, then to suit pants, then back to jeans. They wouldn't see the hole in his sock, sure, but what about everything else? He was going to see lawyers, but not fancy ones, but still lawyers, but in Hell’s Kitchen, but he had to look like a reliable witness one could trust. What was he supposed to wear? He’d looked them up once Ms. Blue Eyes was gone; they seemed like decent people. Going after Fisk, after corrupted agents… that was good. Clint settled on clean and tear-free jeans with a shirt that didn’t have too many creases, and he left for Manhattan.
Nelson & Murdock (& Page) had a little run-down office in a low building that had seen better days, sure, but had a kind of homey feel to it too. There was fresh paint on the door, a potted plant and some toys and magazines in the tiny waiting room. Ms. Blue Eyes’ desk was wedged behind a screen that could be opened or closed, and right now it was open. She nodded at him and pointed at a door to her left, and after Clint had finished looking around to see what windows he could jump out of in case a quick exit was needed he knocked on the open door.
“Hi?” The two guys inside looked up. “I’m Clint Barton, guy with a bow?”
“Oh!” They both stood up and the blond one made a beeline for him. “Hawkeye, right?”
“Yep, that’s me. Franklin Nelson, yes?” Never let it be said that he didn’t do his homework. Most of the time. Okay, so there was that one time when he couldn't read all the file before the mission but there had been circumstances, all right? Cap had said it was okay, just the once.
Nelson shook Clint’s hand with enthusiasm and led him around the table. “Call me Foggy, please. Come in and have a seat, I was just looking at that case with my partner, Matt Murdock.” The blind one, Clint remembered.
More handshaking, chairs scraping on linoleum, and then they were all sitting down. “So you need me to testify, is that it?”
“Yes. Our client, Josh Sheppard, is accused of the murder of one Rod Stryder.” Murdock’s fingers were lightly resting on thick paper where Braille letters had been… printed? Punched in? What was the word? Clint assumed that was their client’s file. “Stryder was Vanessa Fisk’s bodyguard, and given the connections the DA wants this closed up as quickly and neatly as possible. Josh is a perfect candidate: former drug addict and ex-con shoots his ex-wife’s boyfriend… no need to tie this with anything embarrassing or complicated.”
“But Josh didn’t do it.”
“No. He’s been claiming his innocence since day one.”
“And you believe him?”
Murdock’s smile was disturbingly sharp. “Why wouldn’t we?”
“Well, uh, people lie.”
“But you saw him right around the time forensics said Stryder was killed,” Nelson – Foggy, said. “And in an entirely different neighborhood.”
Well, fine. But forensics gave you a time window, not a precise minute. “Are there any other suspects?”
“Not officially, but…” Murdock’s lips pursed a little, and Clint noticed there was a mostly healed cut there, like he’d split his lip a couple weeks ago. Huh. Must have walked into a door or something.
“But?”
“But,” And Foggy Nelson was glaring at his partner (not that said partner would see it, hah), “we’re focused on saving our client from spending the rest of his days in a prison. We’re not doing the job of the police here, Matt.”
“Brett said – ”
“Brett can’t take all the NYPD cases, Matt.” Foggy turned back to Clint. “Detective Brett Mahoney is a friend of ours who’s a detective in the department. It’s not his case, but Matt here likes to pretend Brett’s the only detective in the entire force.”
“He’s the one we know for sure is not corrupted or an idiot.”
“Well I’m sure he’d be overjoyed to hear you say so, but as it stands he’s just one guy.”
Murdock frowned, but didn’t say anything.
“Maybe I can help,” Clint said. What the fuck are you doing, Clint? That voice in his head sounded suspiciously like Kate’s. Shit.
“An Avenger investigating random murders will raise eyebrows,” Murdock said.
“Eh, most people don’t really recognize me. At worst, they'll think I’m the Iron Fist.”
“What?” Murdock snickered and Nelson looked like he was aiming for dignified but achieving only constipated, until he admitted defeat and joined his partner in cackling. “How can they confuse you?” Murdock asked.
“Well, they both have blond hair, I guess?” Nelson tilted his head. “Kinda lean, too?”
Murdock’s lips quirked. “Hair color aside, the Iron Fist tells everyone he’s the Iron Fist. That's a pretty easy tell.”
“I’m the Iron Fist,” Clint said.
“Oh no, you’re not saying it right… you have to be more earnest, Mr. Barton.”
“Matt’s right, you’ll have to work on it.”
“Ugh. Call me Clint, please. You’ve met the guy?”
Clint was treated to some weird faces, then Nelson shrugged. “Our professional paths have crossed, yeah.”
Okay, so there was history there. Maybe he could ask Natasha if she knew anything. “Look, I’ll try and see if I can find anything, all right?” Ah, shit. Maybe he should tone it down with the looks and the sees, right? Blind guy right here.
“You do that,” Murdock said. “I’m not good at the seeing part.”
Ah, fuck. “Yeah, sorry, I meant, uh.” Fuck fuck fuck, rude, Barton.
“Don’t mind him, he’s being a jerk.” Nelson elbowed his partner and winked at Clint. “Just winked at Hawkeye, Matty. Bit soon for blind jokes, all right?”
“Fine, side with an Avenger against me, see if I care.”
Nelson looked at his partner with an expression somewhere between exasperation and affection. Maybe he was Murdock’s Kate? The way he said, “Matt,” was sure Kate-ish.
Still, terrible jokes. Who didn't like terrible jokes? “So uh, I’ll call you, you call me?”
Nelson and Murdock's heads swiveled to look (or not-look, as it were) at him. “All right, will do, Mr. – Clint.”
They all stood up; Nelson gently steered Murdock as they walked him out after a few words with Ms. Blue Eyes, and Clint knew he’d look into that case. He was already involved anyway, right? Only good sense to get in deeper.
He could already picture Kate’s narrowed eyes and Nat’s frown.
It was going to be great.
Nat, of course, told him to stay the fuck away from everything Fisk-related. He was in prison again, but rumor had it his wife had taken up the slack and that she was even more ruthless. Nothing could be pinned on her; she had reopened her art gallery and everything was all legit and aboveboard, except racketeering and drugs and illegal gambling and other assorted Bad Things were on the rise, especially around Hell’s Kitchen.
But if her bodyguard had been killed, then that might mean a new player was here and threatening her rule… from what Nelson & Murdock had said the DA preferred to ignore that, maybe because they didn’t have the means to fight it or maybe because of corruption.
“You shouldn’t dig into this mess, Clint.” Work-wife was advising prudence and reason, as predicted.
Fuck that. “What about the kids they get addicted to all kinds of shit, Nat? What about the dog-fighting rings, huh?” Lucky whined pitifully: good dog.
“Don’t you have enough on your plate right here?”
“Eh, tracksuit Draculas are out, you know? Gotta find something to fill my days.”
“I guess it’s better than drinking beer on your couch while feeling sorry for yourself.”
“Hey!” He hadn’t done that in… a while. So.
“Fine. I’ll give you two names: Jessica Jones, and Daredevil. Local vigilantes, and she’s also a PI.”
“That’s actually three names. Uh, does Daredevil count as a name?” Because if it didn’t then it was two names, right? Work-wife did the cool, unimpressed, cut-your-bullshit-right-now stare at him, and Clint looked away. “Right. I’ll, uh. Look them up.”
“I’m not encouraging you to get involved, but if you’re going to anyway…”
“Thanks, Nat.”
“Don’t mention it.”
When she left Clint looked at the pile of arrows he still hadn’t sorted, then at his laptop, then at Lucky, and the hopefully wagging tail won.
“Time for a walk, buddy.”
Looking up those two (or three, look, the jury was still out) names could wait until later.
It was early evening when Clint left Bed-Stuy again, but this time he’d left the good jeans home. From what he’d gathered, Jones and the Devil guy both were the kind to attract trouble and get into fights or even seek them out. It was a knife-strapped-to-the-ankle kind of situation, he decided. The bow stayed home; he wasn’t out to look for trouble but trouble might find him, so: knife. Trouble would absolutely find him, his inner Kate said.
Inner Kate really didn’t have to be such a downer, really.
Hell’s Kitchen after sundown was not that different from Clint’s own neighborhood. Shady deals and a couple mom-and-pop diners, meth heads and people going out for drinks, nothing he wasn’t already familiar with. He found a little rundown bar, got himself a beer, cranked up his hearing aids and settled to listen in to the chatter around him, pretending to look at his phone.
Josie’s looked like the kind of place he’d get some intel from, if not about Fisk & Co then about the Jones lady PI or the guy running around rooftops. The beer was shitty, the glasses he could see behind the counter were of dubious cleanliness, and the woman serving the patrons was about as welcoming as a warden at Ryker’s, but the crowd sure was interesting. Clint caught snippets from the tables around him – Lost my rent money in that game, Guy tried to steal my bike so we beat him up, Jan left me… things that didn’t really tell him anything yet.
Then, “Heard the devil fucked up Ricardo’s lab last night, boss wants his head.” Getting somewhere, finally.
“Yeah. After the new guy killed her bodyguard…”
“Shh!”
“Right.”
There was nothing interesting after that; the two guys had caught on this wasn’t the place to be too open about their business. Clint finished his beer and walked out of Josie’s, keeping an eye on the rooftops and his thoughts on what he’d heard. Daredevil was active at the moment and going after, presumably, that Vanessa Fisk… and there was a new guy, whoever that was. Certainly not the Sheppard dude Nelson and Murdock were defending.
The Kitchen was bustling even at night, cars honking and people laughing and TVs blaring and – shit, that was a gunshot, and then someone’s scream. No one seemed to react around him, but even if Clint’s hearing wasn’t great that was unmistakable. He ran in the direction of the screaming, the crowd opening and closing around him as if people running towards danger was a normal, everyday thing here. Maybe it was.
Clint ducked around a few dumpsters behind a couple restaurants and a dry cleaner, and there it was: a guy moaning on the ground, and Daredevil himself kneeling over him and putting pressure on his stomach.
His head twitched in Clint’s direction. “You got a phone?” Hey, press articles hadn’t mentioned the raspy, slightly silly voice.
“Yeah?”
“Call 911. GSW to the gut, going into shock, temperature dropping, tachycardia. Shooter’s away, it’s safe.”
Clint blinked, then got his phone out and dialed. He relayed questions and answers, and soon enough he could hear the sirens getting closer. “They’re here,” he said.
“I know.” And then Mr. Batman Voice jumped up, caught the bottom of the creaky fire escape above them, and disappeared like he’d never been there.
Got to hand it to him, Clint wouldn’t have done it any better.
After a few minutes explaining that no, he didn’t know anything and yes, he would be available for further questioning, he finally managed to leave the stinky alley. He got in the first door he could see, ran up the stairs and got his cardio in for the day, found the trapdoor, and finally got on the roof. This was supposed to be Daredevil’s playing field, but it was his, too. He was a sniper, after all, and an acrobat. Among other things. High places were Hawkeye’s as much as Cheapo Batman’s. Seriously, wasn’t this guy wearing some Kevlar on some of the pictures he’d found? The Daredevil he’d just seen had sure been rocking cargo pants and a tight shirt, but that was no protection.
“Looking for me?”
Clint jumped. Shit, Bruce Wayne Wannabe had managed to sneak up on him. “I thought you’d have been elsewhere by now.”
“Figured you’d want to find me. Didn’t want you to try and track me.”
“Oh man, I wouldn't try and track you, I’d just track you.”
Wow, most of his face was hidden but that only made the super cocky smile more obvious. “Dream on, Hawkeye.”
Hey, he recognized him! Didn’t even mistake him for the Iron Fist, although maybe that was because they actually worked together from time to time. Clint preened a little, because you had to take what you could, right? “You a fan?”
The smile turned into a smirk. “I’m not the one looking for some private you-and-me time.”
“Aw, man, you’re making me sound like a stalker. You’re the one hiding your face, not me.”
“Part of my charm.” Batdevil sat on the low ledge that ran around the roof, and Clint spotted a tear in the black shirt.
“Hey, you hurt?”
Clint took a step closer but Fake Batman threw a hand up to stop him. “I’m fine.” Right, yes. Hence the sitting, probably. Now Clint was paying attention, it looked like the black shirt was soaked with blood. It was hard to say in the dim light, but it was definitely wet. “Thought you were based in Brooklyn.”
“Are we being territorial now?”
Bargain Basement Batman shrugged and absolutely didn’t suppress a wince. “Heard you’re involved in a Fisk-adjacent case.”
“News travel fast around here.”
“Small neighborhood.”
“Right. Well, yeah, I am. Thought I’d look around.”
“What did you find?”
“That you busted a drug lab yesterday, apparently.” Oh, the smirk was back. “And that there’s a new player in town that they think is the actual bodyguard killer.”
Asshole tilted his head like the jerkiest of birds. “Uh. You’re not lying.”
“Well no, I’m not – hey!” Discount Batman was already on the next building’s roof before Clint reacted but hah, the game was on; Clint jumped after him anyway. He wasn’t going to be outdone by a guy wearing that thing on his head. Was he that ugly? He had a decent jaw and mouth so the rest couldn't be that bad, right? It took a few minutes, but he finally managed to catch up to Bandana Batman. He was panting hard and his hand kept wanting to cover his wound; could be he’d lost more blood than was safe to go parkouring from roof to roof in the dark. Few people had eyes as sharp as Clint, after all, and that guy’s eyes were covered with fabric. Even if it was really thin there, it had to impair his vision. “You done running?”
“Chat’s over. Leave me alone.”
“Look, we’re interested in the same stuff, right? Can I give you my number? You can tell me if you find anything, okay?”
“No. This is not your fight.”
Was this how people felt when Clint told them he didn’t need help? Holy shit. “Well it is now. Come on, man!”
“You’re a pain, you know that?”
“Yep.”
“Just… talk to Nelson, Murdock, and Page. We’re in touch.”
“What do you mean, you’re in touch? How often?”
“Often.” Cape-less Batman crossed his arms and leaned against a chimney stack. He tried to play it cool, but Clint could see he needed the support. He recognized the move very well. “Look, if this is who I’m starting to think it is…”
“Who do you think it is?”
“Bad news.”
And with that, Pretend Batman turned and took a running leap over the gap between this roof and the next. Bit dramatic, that guy, but would have been great in the circus. People loved showy stuff like that.
Clint shrugged and didn’t follow; if he was Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon-ing his way all over Hell’s Kitchen, he probably wasn’t that badly hurt. Or he was suicidal, and in that case he really shouldn’t – ah, fuck. Clint would try and find him again the next day, make sure he was still alive.
Maybe the Daredevil name actually suited him, after all.