#man without fear | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

filmholicrose · 2 months ago

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"Three Shades of Mercy"

Exploring the cost of believing in monsters.

Pairings: F! fbi agent x Matthew Murdock - F! fbi agent x Benjamin Poindexter

Summery: Framed by the man she’s hunting and betrayed by the agency she trusted, FBI profiler Avery Quinn goes rogue to expose Wilson Fisk’s hold over the city. But her investigation puts her on a collision course with Daredevil—a vigilante she believes is working for the enemy. Their alliance is tense, electric, and far more dangerous than anything in her case files. Then there’s Matt Murdock—quiet, principled, magnetic. A man who sees past her armor. As her loyalty is torn between two men with the same face, Avery refuses to abandon a third: Benjamin “Dex” Poindexter, the broken colleague-turned-killer whose darkness she still believes can be undone. Even after everything.

Important: Set during Daredevil Season 3 and stretching into Born Again, this series follows Avery—an original character, fully fleshed out and central to the narrative. This isn’t an x-reader fic. It’s a longform, character-driven story with canon rewrites, emotional chaos, and lots of pain. Buckle up.

Part One - Part Two - Part Three - Part Four.

The rain had started an hour ago—light at first, almost polite. Now it slammed against the pavement like a threat, soaking Avery Quinn through her trench coat and into the threads of her patience.

She stood just outside a diner in Hell’s Kitchen, watching the reflection of her own face in the glass. Her hair was pulled back, sharp and severe, the way she always wore it when everything else felt like it was unravelling. Inside, agents from the New York field office laughed over coffee. Three of them. All ones who used to nod at her in the hallway. All ones who now pretended she didn’t exist.

She didn’t go in. She didn’t need the performance. Not tonight.

The Bureau had quietly suspended her three days ago. No press, no hearings—just a whisper campaign and file sealed with administrative leave pending internal investigation. That’s what the letter had said. They'd tried to bury her while smiling to her face. And Avery had smiled right back. Because she knew Fisk was behind it.

And he’d made one mistake. He didn’t kill her.

Her phone buzzed in her pocket—She glanced down. Nadeem.

She sighed, thumbed the green icon, and brought the phone to her ear. “Don’t say it,” she said before he could speak.

There was a short pause. Then the quiet smile in his voice. “I wasn’t going to.”

“You were.”

“I was going to ask if you’ve eaten. But sure, let’s skip to the argument.”

She almost smiled. Almost. “I had coffee.”

“That’s not food, Avery. That’s anxiety in a cup.”

“Sounds appropriate.”

“Tell me you’re inside somewhere. Please.”

Avery exhaled, her breath fogging the inside of the collar she hadn’t pulled up. “Define inside.”

“A place with walls. A roof.”

She looked up at the grey sky and scrunching her nose. “Nope.”

“You shouldn’t be out,” he said, softer now. “Especially not like this. They’re still watching you.”

“I know.”

“Avery…” Ray sighed softly, a sound full of worry and too many long nights. “You need to stop. You need to breathe. Just for one day.”

“I’m breathing,” she said flatly.

More silence. More rain. She could tell he’s agitated.

“They’re not going to find a solution fast,” Ray said gently. “Internal investigations move slow. That’s the point. It gives people time to forget the headlines.”

She didn’t say anything. Just shifted her weight against the brick wall behind her, fingers tapping idly at her thigh.

Ray softened his tone further. “You’re not on trial. You’re on leave. That’s not the same thing.”

“They took my clearance,” she said quietly. “They locked my files. My notes. My name’s being whispered like a virus. Don’t tell me I’m not already guilty.”

“Come on,” he said. “You know how this works. They do this to buy time. To look clean when it hits the press. But they’ll clear you.”

“And if they don’t?” Her voice cracked—barely, but enough for Ray to hear it. “They did this to Ben and now I’m being framed we are going down one by one. If Fisk keeps tightening the screws? If they bury me completely for getting too close?”

There was a long pause. Then, softer: “Avery, we don’t even know it’s him yet.”

“Yes, we do.” Her words were sharper now, biting the air.

“I won't just sit in my apartment pretending I don’t know what’s happening. Fisk’s people are moving.”

There was silence for a beat. Just static and the soft thrum of rain against metal on his side of the line.

“You’re not on active duty,” he said finally. “You’re not cleared to follow any of this.”

“I’m not doing it as an agent.”

“Avery—”

“I’m doing it as someone who gives a damn.”

His voice dropped low—gentle, careful. “You’re doing it as someone who's reckless stubborn and trying to get themselves killed.”

That one hit. She looked away from the streetlamp, blinking the water from her lashes. “If he’s behind this… if he’s building something again, quietly, slowly—I have to move now. Before people start getting hurt.”

“Again, we don’t even know if it’s him.”

“You really believe that?” she asked, voice barely audible.

Ray didn’t answer right away. And the hesitation was everything.

“I don’t know what to believe anymore,” he admitted.

She closed her eyes. There it was—the thing she was most afraid of. The creeping doubt in even the most solid people. If Ray Nadeem was losing his footing, then what the hell was she standing on?

“I know how it feels,” she said, eyes locked on raindrops falling on her shoes one by one. “When something’s rotting and everyone pretends it smells like roses. I know how it feels when no one listens.”

“I’m listening,” he said softly.

She smiled, the kind that didn’t reach her eyes.

“Then tell me to keep going.”

He was quiet again. So quiet, she could hear the rain through his end of the line too. Probably standing on his own back porch, phone pressed to his temple, guilt coiling in his ribs.

“I can’t tell you that,” he said finally.

She didn’t expect him to.

“Just… check in,” he added. “Don’t ghost me, alright? Not tonight.”

“I won’t.”

“Promise?”

“I promise.”

He sighed again, resigned but tethered to her all the same.

“Go home, Avery.”

She hung up.

But she didn’t go home.

Instead, she chased another lead.

The stench hit first—salt, rot, gasoline—seeping through the gaps in the wooden planks and clinging to Avery’s skin like sweat. The kind of smell that reminded her of evidence rooms and wet alleyways, of blood that had already dried before anyone found it.

The docks stretched out in silence, broken only by the distant hum of the city and the soft slap of water against rusted steel. Somewhere behind her, a ship creaked, moaning like it was tired of being forgotten. Avery didn’t flinch. Her body was taut, her muscles burning from hours of motion, but she didn’t stop. She couldn’t.

Her boots moved slow and precise across the gravel, her breath steady even as her mind cracked beneath the surface. Twenty-four hours of no sleep. Three days since the Bureau pulled her badge. One week since her name started appearing in whispers—evidence tampering, questionable judgment, emotional compromise.

They hadn’t arrested her. Not yet. But they’d done worse.

They told her to stay home. To rest. To let them handle it.

So naturally, she found herself breaking into a shipping dock on the edge of Hell’s Kitchen with nothing but a 9mm and the bitter taste of betrayal still on her tongue.

Fisk was moving something tonight. She didn’t have the details—no paperwork, no surveillance footage. Just a breadcrumb trail of encrypted burner texts, a half-corrupted shipping manifest, and a gut feeling she hadn’t learned how to ignore.

She reached the edge of the warehouse and froze.

Movement.

Not loud. Not clumsy. But there. Just enough to make the hair at the back of her neck rise.

Avery didn’t speak. She moved instead, gun already in hand, safety already off. The door creaked open an inch, and that was all she needed. She slipped inside, the darkness swallowing her whole.

Then—he moved.

She pivoted hard, arms steady, and aimed dead center his scarf covered forehead.

“Move a muscle,” she said coldly, “and I swear to God, I’ll put a bullet in your skull.”

Daredevil didn’t speak. He didn’t raise his hands. Just stood there, motionless.

His head tilted, almost curious. Like he was listening to something only he could hear.

That made her stomach knot.

“I know who you are,” she said. “You hang bodies from rooftops and call it justice. You show up where you’re not supposed to and pretend, you’re different from the filth you chase.”

Finally, he spoke.

“You don’t belong here.”

His voice was quiet, rough. Not threatening—just... weighted.

She stepped closer, pressing the barrel of the gun against his chest now. No fear. Just fury.

“Neither do you.”

There was a pause. And then, gently—too gently:

“I’ve heard about you, Agent Quinn.”

Her jaw clenched.

“You were,” he said. “Until someone decided you were too close to the truth.”

The words hit like glass beneath her ribs.

She hated that he knew. Hated that everyone knew. Her downfall had become a public chew toy, passed around like gossip, dissected by men in suits who didn’t care how much she'd bled for that fucking badge.

Behind her, deeper in the warehouse, someone clicked the safety off a gun.

Avery heard it the same moment he did—but Matt’s head had already tilted a fraction toward the sound.

They had seconds.

“This isn’t the fight you need to be having right now,” he murmured.

Avery didn’t move. Didn’t even blink. She didn’t trust him—but she trusted the sound of a safety being cocked in the shadows. That was universal. And it was closing in.

She could feel the twitch in her palm, the familiar tremor of adrenaline building in her spine.

“Walk away,” he said, low and deliberate.

She hated that he sounded calm. Like he’d already figured her out. Like he knew she’d stay.

“I’m not walking away,” she said.

Daredevil took another step forward. His voice dropped an octave, smooth steel wrapped in warning.

“Then put the gun down, Agent Quinn. And I’ll make sure you don’t end up in a body bag tonight.”

Avery exhaled sharply through her nose, frustration flaring in her eyes. She hated ultimatums. Hated that he was right. Hated that, deep down, part of her didn’t want him to leave either.

If she were doing this the dirty way—if she ever let go of the rules the Bureau drilled into her bones—these were the kinds of people she’d be working with. Or against. Masked men with fists like sermons and voices full of war. Ghosts in the system. Vigilantes with blood on their hands and just enough righteousness to sleep at night. She wasn’t like them. Not yet. But standing in a dark warehouse, tracking shadows and lies with no badge on her hip and no backup in her ear—she wasn’t sure how far off she really was

“I’m not putting the gun down,” she said finally, voice low. Controlled. “But I’m also not dying tonight.”

And she moved—fluid, trained. A step back, pivoting behind the nearest stack of crates. Not full concealment, but enough to take cover and reposition. Her body tensed in a defensive stance, shoulder to the wall, gun aimed between the masked man and the dark mouth of the warehouse corridor.

She didn’t trust either of them.

Her finger rested on the trigger like it belonged there. A breath in. Hold. Out.

Daredevil didn’t stop her. Just turned, mirroring the shift in her stance.

Five men burst from the shadows—fast, tactical, armed to kill. Their guns rose in unison, aimed with practiced precision.

Daredevil didn’t wait. He moved like lightning striking pavement—sudden, violent, beautiful in a way Avery refused to acknowledge. His arm lashed out, knocking the first weapon sideways just as it fired. The gunshot shattered the stillness, burying itself harmlessly into the steel of a nearby crate.

In one fluid motion, he twisted the man’s wrist, disarming him with surgical ease, then drove an elbow hard into his ribs. The man folded with a wheeze, crumpling to the ground.

Avery stayed frozen for half a breath, eyes narrowing. These men weren’t waiting on a ship. They were here for this.

That realization clicked into place just as her gun slid back into its holster. Instinct. Clarity. She didn’t even think—she moved.

One of the attackers raised a crowbar, swinging for Daredevil’s head. Before he was about to duck, Avery intercepted without hesitation, her hand snapping out to seize his wrist mid-swing. She yanked him off balance, her body already turning with the force.

A knee to the gut—sharp, brutal.

An elbow to the head—clean and final.

He stumbled, weapon clattering to the ground. But the second Avery entered the fight, something shifted—and not the way it should have.

It wasn’t just tactical. It wasn’t just instinct.

It was intentional.

The moment she moved into view, one of the men locked eyes with her—and for half a second, his expression cracked. Recognition. Not surprise. Not confusion. Recognition.

And then all three of them adjusted. Not just repositioned—recalibrated.

They moved with the kind of purpose you don’t waste on backup. Their lines of fire shifted with brutal precision, their formation tightening around one new objective: her.

Avery didn’t understand it yet—didn’t know her face had been passed down through back channels, that Fisk had quietly labelled her a problem that needed to disappear. But her instincts screamed it anyway. Something about the way they moved. The way they wanted her.

She wasn’t a complication to neutralize. She was the mark.

And that realization hit her harder than any bullet.

Her pulse kicked, but her movements stayed sharp. Feet planted, heart steady.

This was a trap and they had come here to kill her.

And she still had no intention of dying.

The first two men broke off from Daredevil without hesitation, making a beeline for her like a pack executing a plan. The remaining three stayed on him—not to kill, but to slow. Hold him down long enough to finish her off.

Fisk didn’t send amateurs.

A sharp jab landed clean against her ribs, knocking the air from her lungs. She barely had time to process the pain before the next strike came for her side. She twisted just in time to dodge, but another blow caught her hip, throwing her balance off for a second too long.

She didn’t fall.

She planted her foot, gritted her teeth, and retaliated.

Her fist cracked hard against a jaw, sending one of them stumbling back. Another attacker lunged. She ducked beneath the swing meant to take her out and caught the first man’s punch mid-air, twisting his arm until his knees buckled—only, he recovered faster than expected, surging back up before she could finish him.

Her breath came sharp and focused, pain pulsing at her ribs, but her form held. Her body moved on muscle memory. Her training was second nature. She could hold her own.

She would.

But they weren’t trying to subdue her.

They were trying to end her.

Daredevil heard it. The sharp intake of breath, the shift in boot weight, the ugly thud of a punch landing too close to the sound of her heartbeat. He heard her recover, adjust, keep fighting—but the pace of it, the way they converged on her like hounds closing in.

Not tonight.

One of the attackers lunged with a knife, the blade singing through air. He caught his wrist mid-swing, yanking it wide. With a hard twist and a calculated pull, he flipped the man sideways, cracking him against the edge of a shipping crate. The man choked, stunned—and Daredevil drove a final knee into his throat.

One down.

The second came faster, heavier. Tried to overwhelm with brute force.

He let him.

He dropped low, anchored himself, and at the last second pivoted, throwing the man over his shoulder. The landing sounded like a car wreck. He didn’t wait—he slammed an elbow into his skull before he could recover.

Two.

Avery’s ribs screamed with every breath, but she moved through the pain like a switch had flipped—like the world narrowed into combat geometry and target priority. She didn’t fight pretty. She fought smart.

One of the men came at her fast—too fast. But she ducked low, sweeping his legs out from under him in one brutal arc. As he hit the ground, she didn’t hesitate—drove her knee into his throat and silenced him. jammed her elbow back into his solar plexus. He doubled over, and she followed up with a sharp, calculated strike to the side of his head. He dropped like a marionette with its strings cut.

Three Down.

Another lunged without warning, swinging wide. Sloppy. Rushed. She sidestepped fast, let his weight carry him past her, then drove the heel of her boot into the back of his knee with pinpoint force. He dropped with a curse, off balance and disoriented—but not out.

She didn't give him time to get up.

Avery grabbed him by the collar, yanked him forward, and slammed his head into the edge of the crate hard enough to rattle her knuckles. He went limp.

Then—click.

Daredevil turned toward the sound.

A gun cocked. Not aimed at him.

At her.

The world narrowed to that one heartbeat. Hers.

He moved faster than thought.

The shot rang out—but the bullet never met its mark. Daredevil was already there, his arm knocking the shooter’s wrist off target. The shot whined wide, embedding itself in metal. The gun hit the ground a second later, followed by its wielder.

Five.

Then—silence.

Just the ragged breathing of unconscious men.

Daredevil stood still; his knuckles ached. Blood—someone else’s—spattered his clothed forearm.

Across from him, Avery straightened, chest heaving, hand still near her weapon. Her lip was bleeding. One of her sleeves torn. Eyes locked on him.

He exhaled through his nose. Around them, the city fell eerily still. Just the hum of distant traffic and the slow lap of water against the docks. But underneath all of it, he could still hear it—her heartbeat. Steady. Fierce. Not panicked.

Not afraid.

Still standing. That was something.

He turned toward her, head tilting slightly as he tracked her breath.

“That was sloppy,” he said, voice calm and laced with quiet smugness. Not out of breath. Not even close.

There was no tension in his body now. No urgency. Just that maddening composure she’d already learned to hate.

“I’ve gotta say,” he went on, tone dipping into something smoother, like he was enjoying this more than he should, “for someone with FBI credentials, I expected a little more strategy. Maybe some restraint.”

He feigned consideration, lips curving ever so slightly.

“Then again… you’re on leave, right? No badge. No team.” He let that hang. “No backup.”

Another step. Close enough for her to see the faint cut along his jaw. Fresh. Probably from shielding her.

“That why you’re out here alone?” he asked, voice softer now, threaded with something more pointed. “Trying to prove something?”

The breeze rolled in off the bay, cold and sharp, catching her coat and the loose ends of his voice.

“You’re lucky,” he said, finally. “Fisk is underestimating you.”

Her gaze sharpened.

“They weren’t just moving cargo tonight,” he continued. “They were waiting for you. Watching. If you’d walked in five minutes earlier, I’d be dragging your body out instead of your ego.”

He let it hang in the air like a verdict. Heavy. Undeniable.

“Tell me,”He said, the smirk finally curling at the edge of his mouth, “is this the part where you claim you had it under control?”

Mocking. Curious. Challenging.

Avery rolled her shoulders, wincing as a dull throb bloomed beneath her ribs. One of them had landed a solid hit. She’d feel it tomorrow. But he didn’t need to know that.

Her breath stayed even. Her face didn’t flinch. Everything about her posture screamed neutral. Detached. Like she hadn’t just gone toe-to-toe with trained killers and come out limping.

Inside, though, her mind was already moving—fast. Cataloging movements. Faces. She might’ve ended up another cold case buried under a redacted report.

Her gaze swept the unconscious men scattered across the dock, then shifted to the man still standing. Unshaken. He hadn't even bled.

Her lips thinned, and she exhaled through her nose like a pressure valve easing off just enough.

“You talk a lot for someone who hides behind a mask,” she said coolly, her voice lined with dry dismissal. Not biting. Not rattled. Just unimpressed. "For a coward"

He took a step forward, casual. Like this was a conversation and not a debriefing over six unconscious bodies.

She stepped back.

The motion was instinctual, practiced which stopped him.

“So what now?” she asked, voice clipped, all business. “You prove I’m in over my head, throw some cryptic warning my way, and then what? I’m supposed to be desperate enough to grab whatever lifeline you dangle next?” She stared him down.

He huffed a quiet laugh, low and disarming. He shook his head like she’d just told him something ridiculous. Maybe she had.

“You really think that’s what this is?” he asked, voice steady and unshaken. There was no bite to it—just that maddening calm, like nothing she threw at him could scratch the surface.

He didn’t bristle at her pushback. Didn’t meet her defiance with his own. He just stood there—relaxed, unreadable, like he had all night to watch her try and spin this into something it wasn’t.

“Believe it or not, I’m not here to teach you humility.” He tilted his head, that same tilt she was starting to recognize. A tell. Something just shy of amusement. “That’s just a bonus.”

“Well,” she said, voice flat as glass, “you’re not very good at it.”

The words landed clean, sharp. She watched the flicker of amusement in his expression falter just slightly. Not enough for most people to notice. But she did.

“And for what it’s worth,” she added, her tone measured, almost bored, “you were in over your head too—before I stepped in.”

She let that settle. Didn’t blink.

“You’re fast, sure. But even you can’t be everywhere at once.”

She barely took a step when she saw it—that sudden stillness in him. A tilt of the head, just slight, like he’d caught something in the wind. A vibration she couldn’t hear, but he could.

His expression shifted instantly; the smirk gone.

“Get down,” he muttered.

Avery’s instincts flared. She turned, and a half-second later, the faint rumble of approaching boots echoed from deeper down the dock. Not one or two. More.

Lots more.

Already backing toward the warehouse wall as she glanced back trying to see.

“Six. Maybe seven,” He whispered. His voice was clipped, already calculating. “Different cadence. Heavier steps. Military pattern.”

She didn’t argue. She was already moving.

They slipped deep into the warehouse like shadows, disappearing into the rows of crates and forgotten machinery. The smell of oil and dust was heavier here, but the silence was worse—too still, too waiting.

Avery crouched behind a metal support beam, eyes scanning the dark. Daredevil crouched beside her, close enough that she could feel the shift in the air when he moved. “No shipment, no stash, no deal. It’s a trap” she whispered

He didn’t look towards her when he answered. “They’re here to kill you.”

“Who tipped you off?” he asked, his voice low but steady.

She didn’t answer right away. Her mind flipped back, “Son of a bitch,” she muttered, more to herself than to him. “We need to get the fuck out of here,” she said finally, her voice calm but edged with urgency. “There’s too many.”

He nodded once.

The footsteps were moving inside now. Closing in.

She exhaled through her nose, steadying herself. “Let’s move.”

Avery took point, her sidearm drawn low as she moved between stacked shipping crates and rusted shelving. Her steps were fast but silent, every movement deliberate. She didn’t hesitate—she couldn’t. The footsteps behind them weren’t just searching. They were coordinated. Daredevil stayed close, a half-step behind, listening. He tilted his head, catching the rhythm of boots against concrete, the subtle scrape of a rifle brushing metal. “Two by the north entrance. One on the catwalk above us. More coming in from the loading dock.” Every time she started to veer left, he’d stop her with a quiet, “Two that way. Wait,” then motion her toward a different path—always one step ahead. She hadn’t seen anyone. Hadn’t heard a damn thing. But he had. Somehow. Her eyes flicked to him; breath tight in her throat. She didn’t really have a choice but to listen. Avery glanced at the layout ahead—an old gantry ladder, a shadowed access corridor, and at the far end, a cracked emergency exit sign glowing faintly red. “That door lead anywhere?”

“Alley. Then rooftops,” he said.

“Then that’s our shot.”

They moved. Quick, precise. Avery kept her gun up, her breath steady, eyes scanning corners, reflections, movement. She paused at the base of the ladder.

“Catwalk guy?”

“Left side. Thirty feet. Watching the main floor.”

Avery moved without hesitation.

Like a shadow she moved fast behind the man—too close. Avery raised her gun—but didn’t shoot. Instead, she struck out, the butt of her weapon slamming hard into the side of the man’s head repeatedly as her arm wrapped around his neck.

He dropped like a stone.

She caught him mid-collapse, arms straining as she tried to lower his weight without a sound. But he was heavier than he looked—dead weight, and her balance was beat from earlier. Her breath hitched as his body started to slip—

Then another pair of hands was there.

Daredevil moved in silently, smoothly, catching the man from her grip. He eased him the rest of the way down with practiced ease, laying him on the cold floor without so much as a scuff. One breath, two—quiet. No one else seemed to have noticed.

They moved in sync now, neither speaking, just shadows slipping between crates and broken-down pallets. Every step calculated. Every breath held just long enough.

The exit loomed ahead—a rusted side door, half-swallowed by ivy and grime. Avery reached it first, checking the angle, the alley beyond. Clear.

She looked over her shoulder. Daredevil was already slowing to a stop, just a few paces behind her. He didn’t move to follow.

Then she slipped out the door, gone into the night without looking back.

By the time she hit the street, he was already gone.