The Red Thread - Chapter 159 - PastaFossa (2024)

Chapter Text

While you’d have loved to sit around and monitor what was likely to be one of the trials of the decade, you had business of your own to attend to.

For most of your work day, that business revolved around three vaguely suspicious Track and Photograph orders brought to you courtesy of one Benjamin Donovan. That in and of itself wasn’t that unusual. The nature of his business and yours occasionally brought you into contact, both professionally and at a few of the ritzier parties you’d both attended. Generally speaking, you’d gotten along just fine in the past. He was pleasant, as were you; he paid well, and you got the job done: the ideal business relationship. But you also weren’t an idiot. You knew what kind of man he was—an absolute shark of a lawyer for wealthy criminals left and right, representing everyone from the Stokes family in Harlem to Wilson Fisk himself. There was no way in hell a man like Donovan had come to you at the bidding of the Virgin Mary. At the same time, even criminals had mundane, perfectly legal reasons to hire you. The three cases he’d sent you out on might have been squeaky clean.

But when were you ever that lucky?

Ultimately, there wasn’t much you could do about it either way. He’d signed the standard contract and offered you the first half of your fee as was customary. There were no obvious red flags you could point to that might allow you to reasonably deny the case, and it wasn’t like Donovan wasn’t good for the money. Even the requests themselves didn’t stand out: a few pictures of a minivan running errands, some shots of a woman at her apartment, and a man in a corrections officer uniform sneaking into that same apartment later in the evening. You’d tracked down and photographed secret families before, so you were pretty sure you knew who’d hired you through Donovan: some spouse with just enough money to pay for evidence of an affair. Which was very much not your problem. You were paid to keep your mouth shut, and everyone knew how Jane Hind operated. If the money was good and no crime would be committed within eyesight, she took the job.

Besides, this would be the biggest paycheck you’d gotten since working for Fisk. That influx of cash would pad things out nicely, making up for the days off work you’d taken recently to heal. You might have given up on paying for a one-way trip to a tiny island, but more money for your nest egg never hurt, especially now that the District Attorney had scared off the vast majority of Nelson and Murdock’s other clients.

Those cases from Donovan wound up eating away most of your day, which was fine by you since what you had planned would work best beneath the cover of night. By the time you sent off the last of your photos to Donovan, the brilliant, scorching light of a late summer's day had begun to recede, giving way to the growing softness of quiet twilight, the humidity in the air dampening the glare of the streetlights into a hazy, rust orange glow.

A perfect night for a break-in in Queens, if you did say so yourself.

On another day, you’d have had to worry about Matt chasing after you, but with how busy he was, you were hoping this one would slip by him. He’d been in such a rush that morning that he’d even forgotten to check over your injuries. Instead, he’d gulped down the coffee you’d made for him as you’d adjusted his tie one last time. Then, with a quick kiss and an, “I love you, sweetheart,” he’d been out the door. Not that you’d needed all that much of an inspection. Today was the first day in a week you’d woken up without a headache, and thanks to some meditation—and that magical healing salve of Matt’s—your leg was doing a whole lot better than expected, sheared muscle and skin gradually knitting itself back together. And thank god for that, since according to the schedules of the building residents that Thompson had given you, your opening tonight wouldn’t come up again for a few weeks at the very least. You had no intention of waiting that long.

Finally.

It had been f*cking ages since you’d had an opportunity like this, a chance to turn things back around on Cyrus James. You might have failed in Miami, failed again at the culmination of your three months away, but you wouldn’t make that mistake again.

Find the orchid.

And then... well. You hadn’t quite decided on whether you would kill him after discovering the identity of Cyrus James’ mysterious military benefactor. But you’d burn that bridge, and potentially Anthony's corpse, when you came to it.

Unfortunately, you couldn’t entirely escape Matt’s notice. You’d parked yourself on an empty rooftop in Queens—tucked away between a few rumbling A.C. units and out of easy view of any of the buildings around you—when your phone buzzed with Matt’s ringtone. You reached up to tap your Bluetooth earpiece with your free hand before returning your attention to the small, lighted mirror you’d set up in front of you. “Hello, devilish love of my life.”

There was a quiet huff of amusem*nt in your ear. "Hello to you, too, my clever little alley cat."

“I can’t believe you missed the chance to call her your Hellhound,” Karen said innocently from somewhere on Matt’s end. “I’m disappointed in you considering your theme, Matt.”

You could have heard a pin drop on the other end, and you almost snorted over the way Karen had decided to play with her food.

Matt cleared his throat awkwardly. “I…I don’t know what you—”

“You know. Your theme of helping Hell’s Kitchen, where you both live. Isn’t that obvious?” Karen’s voice grew wicked, and you had a feeling she was enjoying this. “Why? Is there another reason that pun would make sense, Matt?”

“Anyway!” Foggy said desperately, in a blatant attempt to change the subject. “Locational puns are always great. Matt, do better, buddy. Also, hi Jane.”

“Excellent segue on Foggy’s part.” You leaned in towards the mirror, pulling your eyelids open a bit wider. “Tell them I said hi.”

“She says hi and is hoping we can move this conversation along,” Matt told them dryly as you popped the first of your colored contacts in. “Speaking of which, I was calling to check in and see if you’d made it home yet. Based on the sounds I’m hearing though, I’m assuming you’re still out.”

“You’re correct. I have a case that’s going to keep me out of the penguin nest for a bit longer, unfortunately.” Which was technically true, you thought as you closed your one eye, massaging gently until the contact settled into place. One could even argue you were being charitable, helping S.H.I.E.L.D. with their ‘case’ for free. The fact that said case might lead to you being able to bash Cyrus James’ skull in was just a happy little coincidence. “The Queens one I’ve been working on. I won’t be home until late.”

“That’s fine,” Matt hummed. “We’ll be at the office for a while longer, which is one reason I wanted to call. We finally finished picking the jury today, so opening statements are tomorrow and we need to make sure we’re ready. Hang on, I’m going into my office.”

“I expect to be told of any puns you make in there, Matthew!” Foggy called after him. “Here, Karen, can you take a look at this line for my opening? I'm thinking I start with—”

There was a quiet click, as if Matt had just closed a door. He paused for a beat, and when he spoke again his voice came softer, pitched low so only you could hear him. “I also talked to Elektra a little while ago. She found a man who might be able to translate more of the Roxxon ledger. When I’m done here, I’m going home to grab the suit before heading back out. Will you be alright without me tonight?”

“When am I ever not alright?” You popped the second contact in with a practiced hand, rubbing gently at your eyelid again. You couldn’t help but grimace at the feel of it. You definitely hadn’t missed this part of your past identities and their disguises, and you were once again thankful that your random feature selection had landed on your natural eye color for Jane Hind. Once you were done, you reached for your makeup bag. You had no interest in wasting one of the faces programmed into your static veil, which meant you were doing things the old-fashioned way tonight. “Besides, I won’t even be in the Kitchen tonight. Statistically, it’s you I should be worried about considering the crime rate back there, and with the way you’re probably going to wind up fighting the Yakuza again when you only got, what? Three hours of sleep last night? And with an early case tomorrow. You're living dangerously.”

“I can handle the case, lack of sleep, and the Yakuza. What I can’t handle is knowing you might tear your stitches again.”

“You realize how absolutely insane that priority list is, right?” You snorted fondly, digging out your bottle of primer. There was gonna be a lot of makeup on your face tonight and you needed to make sure it didn’t all melt off in the heat. “Tell me you understand the Yakuza taking over the Kitchen should be a bigger concern than me busting my stitches.”

“The Yakuza are going to be a lot less of a concern when I take them down like I did Fisk,” he said, just a touch smug and predictably co*cky. You rolled your eyes. “And besides, you’ll always be my prior—”

You popped the cap off the bottle of primer. The loud clack of it was a fair bit noisier than expected, loud enough that Matt paused.

“What was that?”

“What, you don’t recognize the sound of me opening some makeup over the phone? Your hearing is going. You need more sleep.”

“I don’t need sleep to know you’re trying to distract me.” He sounded sounded equal parts amused and frustrated. “What are you up to?”

“Same as I was before—working a case in the Forest Hills area. That’s all you get, though,” you said dryly, adjusting the mirror for a better angle. He might have had better luck getting the details out of you if he were here in person, but doing this over the phone gave you a little more leeway. You’d agreed to tell him where you were going, and where you were if he asked, but that didn’t mean you needed to give him enough to easily track you down tonight. You had no intention of drawing him away when other people needed him more.

“Does your lack of detail have to do with a contract?”

“Are you asking as my lawyer, my boyfriend, or the Devil I have a scandalously massive crush on?”

“Which one is more likely to get a straight answer?”

“Honestly? None of them. I'm in that kind of mood.”

“In other words, it’s either the S.HI.E.L.D. case you were working on before with the map—the one you still haven’t given me details on, don’t think I haven’t noticed that—or you’re working on something on your own that you don’t want me to know about." You could almost hear his jaw clench from miles away, his words tight and edged with something burning and restless. The sound of creaking floorboards came next. He'd started to pace if you had to guess. “Is it Ciro? Does he have you on something?”

Yes… and no.

“I promise I’ll tell you when I can,” you grumbled. Matt went quiet at that, his breathing slowing in your ear. Hopefully, that meant he believed you, and that he was soothed by your promise, which you fully intended to keep. You pressed out a pea-sized amount of primer on your fingers before starting to apply it. “Trust me, Matt. I’ll be fine tonight.”

Abruptly there was a clumsy, stuttered wave of heat against your back, so sudden you let out a grunt, your nose filling with the scent-memory of cinnamon, copper, and salt.

Was he…

Was he really trying to figure out what you were doing through the thread?

Even aside from the unsettling realization that Matt might actually be able to do that now that the thread seemed to hang open at all hours—how the f*ck are we doing this?—this was the last thing you needed tonight. So instead of welcoming him like you usually would, you gently swatted his presence away as best you could psychically, the feeling paired with the distant sensation of shadows dodging your hand. “Stop spying on me, D. Don’t you have ninjas to fight, or a legal case to work on?”

“I wasn’t trying to—I just wanted…” He cleared his throat, his tone growing just a bit sheepish. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have done that. But I wasn’t trying to spy on you. I just forgot to check your injuries this morning, and I thought maybe I could do it this way.”

Oh.

That you… understood, just a little, since you’d checked in on him like that more than once.

“Well, did it work at least?”

You picked up soft rasping noise, as if he’d just run his hand through his hair. Something about the worry in his voice when he spoke again softened the edges of your lingering irritation. “Not really. I mostly just got your emotions, maybe a little of your voice. Same as before. I keep trying to… to get to that place in the thread, to see if I can’t at least sense it somehow so I can help you down there when you need it, but there’s this wall I can’t seem to get past no matter what I try. I can tell you’re not… hurting as bad tonight, at least, but…”

"But what, Matt?" you asked gently. "Talk to me.”

“Your stitches won’t hold if something happens, and you’ve still got a concussion and the fractures in your nose and wrist,” he said softly. Yet there was a familiar fervency lingering beneath it, a rippling shadow just barely stirring the water above into ripples. “And even before that-that thing down in the thread came after you, you were hurt by Frank, and by our fight, and by… reaching for me, when our thread burned you. You’ve been hurt so much lately, and I haven’t done enough, anywhere near enough to stop it. I’ve been so busy, but I-I just..." Another pause, this one far heavier, and thick with guilt. "I have to do better. I promised myself I would. That’s why I wanted to check if you were hurting, to see if I needed to come over to help.”

So that was what that familiar shadow was: the twisting, coiling tendrils of Guilt. It was a shade of his that you’d both fought off more than once, and apparently it was back again tonight.

Oh, Matt.

There was no way you could tell him exactly what you were up to, not without him dropping something more important just so he could come and help you. What you were doing was vital, of that you had no doubt, and on a night when Matt was free, you’d have asked for his help in a heartbeat. But your plan tonight wasn’t life or death. Not yet, anyway. You were sure of it, even without the cold, calculating mantle of the Hound over your thoughts. But it wouldn’t sit right with you if you didn’t find a way to reassure him at least a little.

"Look." You blew out a heavy breath, trying to line your thoughts up. “I get it, sweetheart. I do, ok? I won’t lie and say I haven’t been beat to sh*t a lot lately. And I know how much you hate seeing me hurt, even if it’s not your fault—stop it,” you cut in firmly, at the little shiver of objection you felt through the thread. “It’s not your fault, Matt, and I’ll die on that hill.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“I can feel your guilt disagreeing with me. I also understand it’s driving you up a wall that I’m out of the Kitchen and off doing… a case like this before I’m back at one hundred percent. I wouldn’t be doing it if I didn’t have to.” You tried to keep your tone as gentle as his had been, trusting the open thread between you both to carry your truth, your affection to him. “So I promise I’ll be careful. I’ll tug on our thread the second something goes sideways. And…” You grimaced, only just stopping yourself from rubbing at the bridge of your nose. “When you’ve got time, I’ll tell you about what S.H.I.E.L.D. has me working on. I’d planned to tell you eventually, but you just have… so f*cking much to worry about right now. I don’t want you to have to worry about me, too.”

“I’ll always worry when a part of my heart goes wandering off,” he murmured. “Don’t you know that by now?”

You let out a shaky breath, smiling at the brush of him through the thread, all tender warmth and the soft brush of his lips against your temple. “I feel the same way about you, you ridiculous, wonderful man. But you’ve gotta give me some trust here, D. I’m not the Hound at the moment, so I don’t have tunnel vision. I’m doing something I’ve done many, many times before. And we have our system so I can reach for you if there’s trouble. What’s the point of all that if we can’t rely on it?”

You gave Matt some time to think that over, going back to your makeup. It took a little while, but you were happy to wait, starting on your foundation. Ironically, Matt’s own late-night activities meant you understood at least part of what he was feeling. But much like he usually did, you’d decided that tonight it was worth it. Neither of you were strangers to fighting through pain to get done what needed to be done, no matter how much you might prefer to rest.

“I… You’re right. You’re…” He groaned, the sound muffled as if he’d scrubbed his hand down his face. “I do trust you, and what we have. So… just be careful. And call me when you get home if I’m not there? I need to know you're ok.”

You tapped your earpiece off, his affection washing over you one last time through the thread. Then, it was gone, and you were alone.

Time to get to work.

-x-

If you were to tell the average person they needed to disguise themselves, the vast majority would be spotted within thirty seconds. You’d know, since you’d been hired to find them often enough.

Cheap wigs, shirts with bold print, massive glasses with bright frames—it was as if some people thought that the only way to camouflage themselves was to throw their style into reverse and gun it, ‘look how flashy I am, nothing like before!’In reality, that was never the goal. The most successful disguises were ones that allowed you to slip through crowds unnoticed, a bland little chameleon that faded into the background. And if that didn’t work? A few subtle, false features were useful, minor points of interest that witnesses would inevitably focus on over your actual features.

Your face had come first, layers of makeup and contouring that just slightly altered the angles of your face and hid the bruising around your broken nose. That fracture was also something that wound up playing to your benefit since it allowed you to use the swelling to shake up the usual lines and shadows the slope of your nose created. The temporary, incredibly boring hair dye you’d applied at home, colored contacts, and small false scar you’d applied to your chin finished things up with your face. Throw a ballcap on, and you were ready to move on.

The temporary tattoo came next, creeping up just beyond the collar of your generic brown button-down that could have belonged to any number of 24-7 delivery companies operating in New York City. The key wasn’t drawing a mountain of attention to the tattoo—the edges of it, the mere insinuation was enough that witnesses would be likely to remember it if they were taking a more thorough look at you.

Your final touch as you strode confidently down the street towards Derek’s apartment building was a medium-sized cardboard box, a bored expression on your face, and a slight alteration to your walk created by your bad leg, because hey, if you had to do this with your injuries, you may as well use them. You’d even swapped out your wrist splint for one in another color. You just hoped no one noticed that the box you were holding occasionally made some odd scratching noises.

You’d done this enough times that you knew the game: stay calm, walk like you belonged, and don’t do anything to attract any unnecessary notice. And your first test was standing right outside the building’s entryway.

“Haven’t seen you here before,” rasped the tiny, elderly woman, taking a drag off her cigarette. She tapped it once, though fortunately just once—he always taps twice. Her dark eyes considered you curiously. “New?”

Mrs. Zhou, according to the S.H.I.E.L.D. files and Peter.

Smoker.

Three kids, nine grandkids.

PhD in paleontology, retired, discovered one new species of dinosaur in Argentina circa 1972.

The acrid scent of cigarette smoke hung in the air, and the very scent of it made you nauseous, your heart skipping in your chest. Still, you held it together, your expression bland as you started up the steps. “Eh, ya know how it is,” you said casually, faint traces of a Boston accent creeping into your voice as you strolled past her. “Not my route, but my buddy forgot to drop this off earlier, so I gotta save his ass.”

Obstacle One: dodged.

Thanks to S.H.I.E.L.D. and their eerily accurate maps, you knew exactly where the elevator was. You cut quickly across the darkened courtyard like everyone else had when you’d been watching them a few days ago, wet grass squelching under your boots, nice and quick, but not too quick; too busy to talk, but not unfriendly. There were only a few people still out, sitting and enjoying the cooler air of the evening. You even got a few waves and head nods as you passed them all by, which you returned like most would.

In truth you’d have preferred the back stairwell—far fewer eyes and cameras there—but there was no way your leg would hold out for that kind of climb. So instead, you simply dipped your head a little as you stepped into the elevator, your face mostly hidden by your ballcap. What little of your face the camera in the upper corner would be able to see had been altered just enough by your makeup that it would be hard to recognize you later, especially when displayed on cheap, grainy CCTV footage filmed by a camera that hadn’t been updated since the mid 90s.

Stingy landlords made your job so much easier.

You hit the button for the top floor. Then you waited, shifting from foot to foot, resisting to urge to fidget further.

The box cooed.

“Be quiet,” you muttered to the box, talking out of the side of your mouth not in view of the camera. “Just chill, friends. I promise it’ll be fine.”

Come on, elevator.

Finally, finally, after what felt like an eternity, the rickety doors rattled and began to close.

“Hold the door, please!”

Of course.

You shoved one foot out to catch the doors, even if you’d much rather have let them close instead. Unfortunately, people were far more liable to gossip and chatter about someone who’d been rude over someone who’d been polite, and you were hoping to slip out of everyone’s minds here just as quickly as you’d come.

Whoever’d called for the door came closer, huffing and puffing, until at last your fellow passenger appeared, holding the leash of a sleepy, ancient-looking basset hound.

sh*t.

sh*t-sh*t-sh*t.

Oriana, one of the three elderly women you’d met a few days ago, was practically wheezing as she shuffled gratefully into the elevator with you. She tiredly pushed up her bright pink glasses, readjusting them as the wrinkled sausage of a dog proceeded to park his ass directly on your foot for reasons known only to him. “Thank—hoo—thank you. Don’t mind me. We tried power walking tonight, and I’m thinking it’s-it's not our thing.”

You made an agreeable noise.

You both waited.

You cleared your throat, jutting your chin towards the elevator buttons in a silent question.

The elevator groaned and then lurched upwards, beginning its torturously slow climb.

You kept your expression calm, though you didn’t dare look in her direction just in case it drew her attention. In general, elevator riders could be divided into two categories: the friendly chatterboxes who were eager to engage, and the people who’d rather throw themselves into a pit of rabid coyotes than make small talk. If you were lucky, she’d assume you were the latter.

Don’t be friendly, don’t be friendly, for the love of f*ck, don’t be—

“So, you’re new,” she chirped. “Is this a different route for you?”

Goddamn friendly senior citizens.

In buildings like this, gossip spread like wildfire. Consistency was key. “Nah, but a friend’a mine forgot to drop this off earlier. I’m doin’ it as a favor.” You kept your accent subtle, pairing it with a slightly lower register that would hopefully throw her off. You'd used a much softer, higher register with her a few days ago. “This place was on my way home anyway.”

She nodded, adjusting her glasses again as she peered up at you. Then she co*cked her head curiously.

Eye contact time.

You shifted your gaze to her in acknowledgement.

Your disguise was good. You knew that, logically.

You’d changed your face, your hair, and your eye color.

Your clothes were just a touch baggier, altering your silhouette.

You’d fooled people just fine before. You had. And yet damned if you didn’t want to start sweating anyway.

You were done if she recognized you.

“Remember, mia cara: people will see what they want to see.”

She blinked at you, her eyes massive and owlish behind the thick lenses of her glasses.

You were going to kill the man who’d designed the elevator to be this slower than a dead mule.

“Anyone ever tell you you have one of those faces?” she asked you brightly.

There was a quiet, wet plop as the basset hound drooled a great, sticky glob of saliva onto your shoe.

You tilted your head, forcing out a soft laugh that sounded a lot calmer than you felt. “I get that a lot.”

“I can believe it,” she tittered back. The basset hound got up and waddled sedately around your legs. “I feel like I’ve seen someone like you somewhere. A movie, maybe. Or a theatre show? Or—Watson! Leave her pants alone! Oh my god, I’m so sorry, he’s—”

“It’s fine!” you grit out, biting your tongue so hard you were surprised you didn’t taste copper as the basset hound mashed his nose roughly up against your leg again, directly over your sutures. Then he took a great big snorting sniff, as if he were trying to vaccuum up the scent of your wound directly into his overdeveloped doggy sinuses. The pain that rocketed up your leg was, predictably, sharp enough to make you see stars, and it took everything in you to hold your grin. You did, however, allow yourself one small step back. Matt would never let you live it down if you tore a stitch thanks to a dog snorting up the scent of your injury like a line of co*ke. “I probably smell like cool packages. Maybe I was carryin' some dog food earlier, huh?”

The basset hound, apparently put off by your refusal to allow him access to The Interesting Bloody Smells You Were Hiding, drew in a deep breath and threw his head back.

"You know," Oriana said conversationally, "you really seem fami—”

A-wooooooooo!

“What? Sorry, I didn’t catch that,” you said innocently, over the sound of dramatic, hoarse howls that would have put a grown cow to shame.

The elevator car lurched to a stop.

She blinked a few times but then shuffled out anyway, though Watson wasn't as eager to leave. Apparently the only thing more offensive than you not allowing him to sniff your leg again was Oriana trying to get him to leave the elevator entirely. He even threw himself down in what you could only describe as a doggy tantrum, a soft slapping noise as his mountain of wrinkles and floppy ears hit the floor, forcing Oriana to drag him out of the elevator by his harness. His nails dragged audibly across the carpet as he continued to howl and wail at this injustice.

“Sorry about that. Anyway, have a wonderf—”

Aw-woooOOoOOoo!

“—ul night. Hope to see you again!”

WooOooooo!

You gave her a polite smile and a nod as the door finally slid shut. The second the doors were shut, you let the grin fall away and blew out a heavy breath through your nose.

God, that had been way too close.

Fortunately, the top floor was blessedly empty of other residents. You listened for a moment, but when no one called out, you started quickly down the hall. There were no cameras here, but that didn’t mean you could let your guard down. Your usual method of, Audacity: Party of One worked best in buildings where there was a regular flow of new, unfamiliar faces for you to blend in with. Apartment buildings like this, on the other hand, tended to look out for one another, and new people stuck out. Even if they didn’t suspect anything was up, they tried to be welcoming. But you didn’t want a welcome. Not tonight. All you wanted was to get in, get your f*cking orchid, and get out.

Doorways flew by as you hurried down the winding corridors, making your way past apartments full of chatter and the occasional resident, nodding your head at them when they nodded at you. Your quick stride deterred them from stopping you to chat—you were clearly someone in a rush to deliver your box and be on your way, which was just how you liked it.

Based on S.H.I.E.L.D.’s map, Mr. and Mrs. Hrairoo’s apartment was situated on the southeastern corner of this floor, two floors directly above Derek Anderson’s apartment. Mr. Hrairoo wasn’t due home for another hour at the very least, having joined his friends for their weekly game night, so that hopefully wasn’t something you’d have to worry about tonight. Still, you were cautious as you finally found the apartment, a large wreath of silk sunflowers hanging cheerily on the front door.

You knocked quietly. Less for Mr. Hrairoo, who you’d watched leave, and more for anyone else that might be listening in the other apartments.

You counted to ten.

A second knock, just a hair louder.

Nothing. And the neighbors didn’t come to their doors, either.

Perfect.

You set the box down gently, glancing around before quickly yanking a pair of gloves out of your pocket and slipping them on. Then you fished your lockpicks out of your sock and set to work on the door’s lock. It wouldn’t take you long—the lock was an older one, a style you’d picked before—but that was no reason not to work fast. The average successful break in, from start to finish, usually lasted around five minutes, and every second you spent out here ate into that time.

The elevator dinged somewhere nearby. That noise was followed shortly after by the sounds of drunken laughter. And they were heading your way.

“Of course you’re coming over here,” you muttered. You adjusted the tension wrench you’d slid into the lock, dragging carefully along the pins with your rake. You hated having a brace on your wrist for this, but you had no time to slip it off. “Come on, you little sh*t.”

The sounds grew closer...

Another pin settled into place.

Closer...

You needed to get this lock open now, or get the f*ck out of here.

Just go. You can come back.

No. You were so f*cking sick of doing nothing, and all you needed were a few more seconds.

The lock let out a soft click as the final pins fell into place. You pulled out your rake as fast as you could without breaking anything, using the tension wrench to turn the lock. You darted in before anyone could see you, reaching back to snatch up the box at the last second. Then you quietly shut the door behind you and locked it, just as the voices you’d heard turned the corner into the hallway.

You gave yourself a five second grace period to slow your breathing and heart rate. Then you were on the move.

You withdrew a small flashlight from your pocket, flicking it on before starting down the entry hall, nudging along the box with your foot. The air around you was rich with the scent of sweet incense and fresh florals, detectable even with your busted nose, and it wasn’t long until you figured out why.

You swore a blue streak, before letting out a groan.

A witch definitely lived here. And what was worse? She was one of the plant-obsessed varieties.

Everywhere you looked around the small apartment, there were plants: plants in colorful pots and novelty vases and hanging from woven nets; green vines and bright leaves and rainbows of blooming flowers; plants big and small and everything in between, woven and twined and happily settled between fake skulls and mysterious glass jars and massive candles set beside crystals and Jesus f*cking Christ, how the f*ck were you supposed to find a single plant in here?

Or avoid a curse?

You warily considered the large Evil Eye talisman hanging on a wall off to your left. Thr wooden shelf it was hanging over was even more concerning, since it was occupied by a pristine, strangely ominous statue of Persephone, surrounded by offerings of flower petals both fresh and dead.

You had no interest in pissing off another mythological figure considering your fight with the psychic version of the Calydonian boar had left you vomiting birthday cake blood. Sure, maybe the Greek gods weren’t real. But considering the fact that Thor now regularly popped over to Earth for poptarts…

“If you’re really there, I’m just, uh, passing through. Your Highness.” You cleared your throat and gestured carefully at the plants. “I’m trying to track down a bad guy, and I need a plant here to find him. I won’t, uh, disturb anything. So, you know, if we could avoid smiting either here or down in the thread, that’d be great.”

The statue said nothing, predictably, which was just fine with you.

In front of you and to your right lay a small living area full of cozy, dark fabrics, the kitchen and dining area ahead and on your left. There were only two doors you could see: one straight ahead on the far wall that led to the balcony, and one off to your right near the living area. A quick pop of your head through the doorway attached to the living area revealed only a bedroom and the bathroom. There were no orchids in sight there, which meant you could rule out that room, at least. If your reading was right, the orchid was likely to be in one of the south or eastern windows. That would narrow your search a bit further—a few of those windows were even pushed open, allowing a warm, damp breeze to flow gently through the apartment, stirring the sheer curtains along the windows and gifting you the scent of the rain that had just begun to tap against the glass.

Speaking of which, it was time to release your scapegoats.

“Hi, little friends,” you said softly, popping the box open. “Sorry for catching you on that rooftop, but I swear it’s for a good cause.”

Or that was what the file had said, anyway. It had taken you time—and a request for help sent to Thompson—to find both a matching pot and a near identical looking plant, one bare of blossoms. Based on a search of the pictures on Mrs. Hrairoo’s social media, the move from Derek’s apartment to the Hrairoo's had stressed his orchid enough that it didn’t look like it would flower this year. That made things a bit easier, since you didn’t need to match the blossoms, just the spikes and leaves. It wouldn’t be an exact match, but between the pigeons and a little setup, you were hoping that could be explained away. Now you just needed to find Derek’s orchid.

“Near a south window, bright indirect light,” you muttered, starting at one end of the southern wall and rapidly working your way down. It seemed like the entire southern wall was a maze of plants, each of them grouped into sections based on lighting, but with no other organization system you could see. One of the pigeons fluttered past you, landing on one of the top shelves, peering down at you as if in sympathy.

Lilies.

Aloe plants.

Pink Princesses.

“Come on. Come on, f*cking orchids, I don’t have time for this.”

Christ, there were plants you didn’t even know the name of, though you recognized at least a few as common to herbal remedies and tea ingredients. But while those pots were labeled, they were marked only with what you assumed to be either the planting date or the last harvest date. Unhelpful.

It was like they wanted to make plant-napping difficult.

The pigeon that had landed on the shelf pecked curiously at a small plastic skull, over and over until finally, it fell over the edge with a softclunk.

Finally, finally you spotted a few orchids by the window closest to the bedroom, the large shelving unit they were on also holding a sturdy humidifier, humming merrily away. You darted over, your heart in your throat as you looked them all over, hunting for Derek’s. You were almost willing to open your third eye by that point, but that only risked giving you a headache—you had a feeling Mrs. Hrairoo was very fond of her plants. Fortunately, you didn’t need to use your second sight. While Derek’s orchid had lost its flowers, it was still the largest, healthiest looking orchid of the bunch, its leaves a healthy emerald green, the spikes absolutely massive.

“Bingo,” you muttered, reaching up to the top shelf to carefully pull it down. Just like that, Derek's orchid went back into your box. As for the decoy orchid, you managed to push it halfway up onto the top shelf, letting it teeter precariously as you retrieved one of the pigeons who'd decided that the dining room table was an excellent place to chill.

The plant pot wobbled once.

Twice.

You returned, co*cked your head, and nudged the shelving unit with your foot.

The pot came crashing down just like you'd wanted, the pot shattering across the hardwood, soil slopping out, a few of its leaves and spikes bent by the fall.

You were glad the neighboring apartments both next door and below were empty at the moment, their occupants off at work.

As a final touch, you knelt, live pigeon in hand, and gently pressed the pigeon’s feet into the soil a few times. Then you dabbed the cooing pigeon around, ensuring there was an obvious trail of little muddy bird tracks wandering in and out of the potting soil. Once that was done, you let him go, allowing him to wander back over to his mate where she was pecking at the living room rug. He didn't even bother to fly, seemingly unperturbed by the way you'd just framed him for destruction of property. "Just remember: it was you that did this, not me.”

Now to make your escape.

You gathered up your box, Derek’s orchid now safely inside. And as you did, your heart began to race, your hands shaking in excitement as you headed back towards the front door.

God, you’d really done it. You’d gotten it, the key that would lead you right to Derek, and from there, to Anthony. Once Anthony gave you the military contact’s name, S.H.I.E.L.D. could cut off the money flowing into Project Beagle. It would be the first time in your life you’d managed to swing at Cyrus and actually hit, ripping away what he needed. It would leave him floundering, f*cking clumsy. All you'd had to do was steal a flower.

“Yeah, well, a couple of ‘em weren’t feeling good so we decided to call it. Figured I’d come back and watch some TV, maybe re—”

Time… slowed.

Options.

Bedroom?

No.

Closed off, only one entry that connected directly to the living area.

And there were no obvious hiding places where you were.

Which left only one option.

You were across the living area before you could blink, quietly sliding open the balcony door, the sound of the rain helping mask the sound. You slid the door shut behind you just as quietly once you were outside, stepping over pots and back behind a wall of greenery, moving out of sight just as the front door to the apartment swung open.

You forced yourself to breathe evenly as you slowly lowered yourself into a crouch, your back to the wall, a mere three inches away from the sliding door. There were enough plants out here, fortunately, to keep you hidden for now, as long as he didn’t come out here for a long look. But that wasn’t sustainable.

“Oh, you poor things. What are you two doing in here? That's what I get for leaving the windows open.” There was a heavy sigh, and the creak of floorboards, followed by a groan. “And you’ve knocked over one of the pots. I suppose I don’t blame you, and I don’t think she will either. Come here. Let’s find a towel so I can get you out the window.”

You could wait until he was asleep. That was likely the safest option. It was either that, or try to climb down balcony by balcony. That second option was doable, but only technically. You’d managed it once or twice in the past, but back then, you hadn’t been sporting a fractured wrist and fifteen stitches in your calf.

“Psst. Hey. Ms. Hind,” came a whisper.

You slowly turned your head in disbelief, already knowing who you’d find.

Peter may have had his mask on, but somehow, you got the sense he was grinning behind all that red fabric.

“Do you maybe wanna team up now?”