Michaela is, obviously, an idiot.

There're the usual reasons, of course – she's reckless when it comes to the valiant heroics she engages in daily, somewhat emotionally constipated despite the way things have turned out with Matt. She's coasting on a handful of Cs and the rare, glorified B in her classes. She's regularly schooled in modern slang by a fifteen-year-old. That maybe-mold-maybe-something-related-to-the-bubonic-plague spot in her apartment has yet to be dealt with because she'd rather face down a gaggle of gang members than ring up her super.

None of that has changed, but there have been some interesting additions in the last few months, the most startling of which is that she genuinely thought she could go till the end of the year without Hell's Kitchen hosting an impromptu Harry Potter LARPing session.

Why she thought her good luck would hold out for longer than a month at the most, she couldn't say. She's probably high on the euphoria brought on by her relationship with Matt, and also distracted by the visceral need not to fuck things up in that department. She might deserve a pass; frankly, she doesn't know, and it's a struggle to bring herself to care, especially when – regardless of how she got there – the outcome is her opening the door to her apartment, expecting Matt, and getting another fucking wizard instead.

What a downgrade.

Michaela glances over her shoulder, as if by some miracle this guy isn't here to see her specifically, and is in fact looking for the madman who's been squatting in the nonexistent hiding places in her apartment. But no such luck, she's all by herself in here, just like usual. No squatter to speak of, which means no one else to deal with the severely frowning cosplayer now standing in her doorway. Fantastic.

Huffing out a breath, she crosses her arms and leans her weight against the door frame. Normally, wizard = sparks flying, but Michaela is not here for this today, and anyway, dude hasn't so much as conjured up a flicker of the telltale magical bracelets, so. Call her optimistic, but she's not angling for a to-the-death duel right at this moment and would like to avoid one if at all possible.

"Can I help you?" she asks, stilted, squinting at him and all his green robes and general air of mystery. "Just FYI, if you're here to kill me, or otherwise inflict traumatic harm, my super lethal boyfriend should be here any second, and while I'm not the most capable hero on the block, he's another story entirely."

The man smiles, teeth bright against his dark skin, and it doesn't exactly soften any of his abrasive edges, but it does convince her that he's probably not planning on ripping out her entrails just yet. What can she say? It's a nice smile – not nearly as psychotic as The Hunger Games wannabe's.

"There's no killing on my agenda today" – which isn't at all reassuring, does he think that's reassuring? – "so be at ease, Ms. King."

Her shoulders slump. "Aw, fuck, why do you know my name?"

He raises both hands, placating. She catches the glint of something shiny and gold around his wrists, peeking out from under the hems of his sleeves – bracers, maybe? Not cuffs, not bracelets. But bracers, of all things? Well, she supposes it would go quite nicely with the rest of his get-up. "I've not learned it for any nefarious reason. It's only that you happen to be the one who's come up against Cato time and time again, and I need what information you might have about him."

"Cato?" Michaela blinks, then blinks again for good measure. She has to resist the urge to pull a cartoony move like sticking her finger in her ear to check for any blockages and only just manages it. "You're after Cato? Now? It's been months, where the fuck have you been all this time?"

Should she refrain from cursing out the undoubtedly masterful wizard dude who's shown up out of nowhere and likely knows creative ways to make a body disappear? Yeah, sure, but when has Michaela ever listened to common sense? She's a vigilante, for fuck's sake, common sense went out the window like a year ago and she hasn't seen it since.

His smile doesn't falter, though it seems to sharpen, the edge of an anger that isn't directed towards her but chills her all the same. "Yes, Cato is... crafty. He always has been. He's been evading me for months, masking his presence from even the Ancient One's eyes."

"The Ancient One," Michaela repeats, dubious. "Right, sure, let's just pretend that makes any sense to me. What's important is that you're a wizard, and you're here now looking to take this asshole down, right?"

"We aren't wizards. We prefer masters of the mystic arts."

"That's great. Doesn't answer my question, though."

Michaela hasn't been this done with a conversation since her last boyfriend broke up her, and he droned on for a solid fifteen minutes, describing in excruciating detail why they didn't fit as a couple. She's pretty sure he had a PowerPoint tucked away somewhere and it's only by the grace of whatever deity is watching out for her that he didn't sit her down in front of his laptop and go through it slide by slide.

The man – who hasn't even introduced himself yet, Christ, the manners on this guy – smiles again like she's just made a joke. She didn't, and it's a little condescending that he clearly sees her as amusing rather than rightfully pissed off, but oh fucking well, right? Not like there's much she can do about it. So he's smiling, and he lays a hand over his heart, solemn-like.

"I am indeed here to bring Cato to justice. He's overdue for a visit to the New York Sanctum, and if even half the tales I've heard about him of late are true, then the Ancient One will certainly be eager to talk with him."

"Oh, trust me, whatever you've heard? He's done worse."

"I feared as much," he says, sounding just the right amount of remorseful.

And maybe he genuinely is feeling guilty over letting Cato abide by his own evidently skewed moral code for this long, but Michaela... just doesn't care. She's wanted this bastard of a wizard gone for months and has been beating herself up about it for just as long because she hasn't been able to do anything. Grace is alive, yeah, but she's in hiding, holed up somewhere outside the city like she's in the witness protection program thanks to one of Matt's lawyer buddies. She can't come back until Cato is dealt with, forced to abandon the family she has here, her job, her life. And it's Michaela's fault, because against Cato, she's practically powerless. Hell, she's nearly died three separate times on his account! She promised to protect her little corner of the world and she's failing spectacularly at it, despite actually heeding her own damn advice and bringing Matt and everyone else in on her predicament.

So maybe this guy understands the ramifications of his own failings. Maybe he's here to make amends. Too bad Michaela's at the point where she can't even muster a facsimile of her customer-service façade for him. He's getting the full force of her bitter self-deprecation and residual anger at the injustices of the world and she's not even going to feel guilty about it tonight when she's trying to sleep.

"What's your name again?" she asks, narrowing her eyes at him, because fuck him for not having introduced himself from the get-go.

"Ah, yes, forgive my manners." Or lack thereof, whatever. "Karl Mordo."

"Karl?" she repeats, incredulous. Karl. Karl? Mordo, sure, very mysterious, very wizard-y. But Karl. She's not feeling it at all, and it's definitely showing on her face judging by the irritation she watches flit across his expression, there and gone again so fast she'd doubt herself if not for how intimately she's gotten to know that particular look over the years. "Sorry, sorry, that was rude. Okay, I'm not that sorry, you like apparated to my door without warning—"

"Apparated?"
"I said what I said, Karl. Now, you said you wanted to ask me some questions about our dear friend Cato? Fire away, because the faster we get this done the faster you can leave and I can reassure my very lethal boyfriend that I'm not at risk of being violently, magically murdered in my own home." Leaning out of the doorway a bit, Michaela cranes her next to see past Mordo and feels an unprecedented smile tugging at her mouth. "Hi, Matty. You're early, huh?"

Matt, who's probably been lingering in the shadows and eavesdropping on the conversation to see just what level of hell he'd have to drag Michaela out of, turns fully around the corner and smiles back at her (albeit tightly) as he makes his way to her apartment. Mordo watches him move, head cocked, and politely steps aside when Matt makes to go past him. The tension around the lines of his mouth relaxes a fraction once he's standing beside Michaela, their arms pressed firmly against each other, his familiar warmth a balm to her fraying nerves. The urge to smush her face into his shoulder and block out the rest of the world is nearly overwhelming, and she only just manages to beat it back when Matt slips his hand into hers, squeezes reassuringly and tangles their fingers together.

We're good, it says, don't worry, we're together, everything will work out.

And damn if that isn't exactly what she needs to hear right now.

"So who's this?" Matt asks conversationally, eyebrow quirked just the right amount to convey curiosity instead of the underlying threat Michaela recognizes in the way he's holding himself.

"Karl," Michaela says cheerily, with a smile that bares her teeth and isn't soft at all.

Mordo tilts his head and studies her, crossing his arms. She stares right on back, standing straighter with Matt beside her. It's more than that, though, and it isn't quite apathy, like she might have guessed. Karl Mordo came to her, not the other way around. Whatever he says, whatever he does past this point, that's just facts. He's on her doorstep, he's looking for information he doesn't have. Maybe he has more creative ways of squeezing what she knows out of her, but he's not using them as of right now, which means he can make with the fucking niceties and deal with her (very understandable) bitterness.

"Karl Mordo," is what he settles on saying after a beat, offering his hand to Matt, which Matt ignores beautifully. Mordo narrows his eyes, probably not buying the he's-blind-and-obviously-can't-see-your-hand-dumbass schtick, but he says nothing of it, just retracts his hand. "You're the lawyer, then? Matt Murdock. You've earned yourself quite the reputation in your little borough."

Matt shrugs and grins, in that aw shucks, you shouldn't have way that Michaela's seen more than once from Steve Rogers during interviews and charity gala highlights. Mordo's not complimenting him and Matt's perfectly aware of that, but hell if he's going to let Mordo's words even nick him. Her smile widens, looking at him; Matt Murdock could charm just about anyone when he wants to, has probably gotten people off based on his "good Catholic boy" act alone, and wow, okay, he and Rogers are pretty similar. What the fuck? Has she had a type all this time? Is she attracted to may-or-may-not-be lapsed Catholics with hearts of gold and bloody knuckles?

"Lawyer by day, anyway," Matt says, sliding his free hand into the pocket of his slacks, his cane collapsed and tucked out of sight. There's a fading bruise just under his jaw that his scruff usually covers, but Michaela notices that he angles his head in such a way that it's clearly visible. "What can we do for you, Mr. Mordo? I doubt you're in need of my legal expertise..."

"No, and I'm not sure I need the Devil's expertise, either. But I can see that you and Ms. King are something of a package deal. May I come in?"

"Nope," Michaela says, still infuriatingly pleasant judging by the way Mordo clenches his jaw briefly before smoothing out his expression and nodding.

"Of course. Your own space is sacred. Shall I ask my questions out here then?"

He definitely wants her to offer up an alternative location for their chat, but, well. Michaela doesn't feel like taking this anywhere else – a café or something would feel too open, too exposed, and she's not changing her mind about her apartment. Mordo's not getting inside, at least not with her permission. She's... not exactly thrilled to be airing her heroic laundry in the hallway of her apartment complex, but it's not the worst place they could be talking. The other residents here aren't the types to sell each other out, seeing as most everyone here has some sort of criminal record, or at the very least has a lot to lose if the police came snooping around. So it's not the most private place in the world, but it'll do for her. And Matt trusts her, she knows that. He'll follow her lead with this.

"Ask away," she agrees, very much enjoying the exasperated look Mordo shoots her in response.

He doesn't have that many questions, it turns out.

Where did she last encounter Cato? In a burning library that disappeared along with him.

Did he seem erratic? He seemed like he was fucking insane and hellbent on making himself into a god, despite being a hardcore atheist, apparently.

A god? Oh yeah, is that not something he bragged about in magic shit-heel academy? He gave her the whole spiel. Plus, he's been busy possibly siphoning the energy-slash-life force from a race of people known as Inhumans and putting that energy to use for unspecified nefarious purposes. Definitely has a god complex, whatever he says otherwise.

(He has a lot to say otherwise, she's learned)

Have you spoken to any Inhumans who have undergone his experiments?

That's where Michaela hits a snag. Grace underwent something, though Michaela's never gotten the whole story from her, not that they've talked much since she's been in Matt Murdock's Witness Protection Program. Grace might be able to shed some light on exactly how Cato is going about the whole villain thing, what magic he's using, what artifacts. But. She's traumatized, Michaela isn't about to let Mordo grill her when it's only been a couple months since the shitshow went down.

Michaela darts a look at Matt even knowing it's a little suspicious of her; he doesn't return it, obviously, but his grip on her hand tightens, and she can feel the steady pulse against her wrist, and it helps, it does. She swallows, shakes her head a bit, and brings her attention back to Mordo.

"Afraid to say that's where my well runs dry. I only know about the other Inhumans because he monologued at me about them. And not everyone took to the Inhuman thing like I did, ya know? Not everyone's running around in spandex, so I can't really point you in any sort of specific direction. Sorry, Karl."

"Well, what you've told me will certainly be useful, once I've checked in with a few of my contacts in the city." He nods, more to himself then them, she figures, then straightens, clasping his hands at the small of his back. "Cato will be stopped, I can assure you of that, Ms. King, Mr. Murdock. He won't trouble either of you for much longer."

"That's..." Michaela frowns. "I like the confidence, honestly, it's totally refreshing. But, uh. What you're saying... You sound like you're kicking us off the case, so to speak."
Mordo's mouth curls into a slight smile at that, his eyes bright. He's itching to move, she guesses, ready to go out on the hunt again now that he's armed with the info she's given him. "So to speak, yes. This is a matter that should have been dealt with by Cato's peers months ago. I take full responsibility for not having this done sooner, and I will see to it that he is brought to justice myself."

"Right. Sure, sounds great. Except for the part where you're kicking us off the case."

"Ms. King, this should never have been your problem to begin with—"

"Oh, fuck off," she cuts in, teeth gritted. "So what if it wasn't supposed to be my problem? It fucking is now. He's hurt people in my city, he's gone after my people. He's pissed me off, alright? And you want me to just... what? Let all of that go because you promise he'll be dealt with properly?"

"Ms. King."

"Karl."

He sighs, spreading his hands in a placating gesture that only succeeds in ratcheting up her stress levels. Fuck him and his condescension, she's not a fucking child throwing a tantrum. Her points are valid! Cato may be a wizard or whatever, and Mordo might have a claim to him because of that, but she deserves her pound of flesh for all of Cato's bullshit.

"Ms. King," he tries again, eyeing her steadily and only continuing when juts her chin at him, "I mean no offense, but from what you've told me, Cato has outwitted you, overpowered you, at every turn. Your skills are formidable, yes, and more than capable of protecting Hell's Kitchen, but Cato is beyond your capabilities, I'm afraid. If he wanted you dead, he could have accomplished that at any time. He's playing with you, Ms. King, and when he's had his fun, you won't be a match for him."

She wants to deny that, wants to let the electricity zipping down her spine and prickling the tips of her fingers do the talking for her. She wants to prove him wrong in every possible way. Only – only he's not exactly wrong, is he? Fuck. When has Michaela ever come out on top against Cato? Maybe once, if you count saving Grace, but she barely left on a scratch on him then and he nearly killed her. And that's him just toying with her. He hasn't even taken her seriously all this time.

Michaela swallows again, the fingers of her free hand twitching against her thigh. Sparks skitter down the length of her jeans harmlessly, fizzling out against the worn wooden flooring of the hallway. Matt presses tighter to her side but doesn't say a word, letting her handle this herself. And she's grateful for that, for him, but god, does she wish she didn't have to be the one to say this.

"...you're right. You're right. I'm not a match for Cato. You're another wizard, you know all his tricks, I get it. It's just..." She trails off, unsure how to proceed now that she's been thoroughly knocked off the high ground.

Matt, as usual, picks up the slack for her.

"Wouldn't a partnership make sense still?" he asks. "Michaela and I know this city. Better than you, better than this Cato. If you want to take on the bulk of the fighting, I won't stop you, but a guide or two couldn't hurt, right?"

"Your offer is generous," Mordo says, grinning again, probably on surer footing with Michaela scrambling to find her own. "Truly. But I would not want to put you at risk any more than you've already endured. Cato will be brought to justice. You've nothing more to worry about."

With that, he nods to both of them and turns on his heel, striding down the hall and—

Magic-circles himself the hell out of there, before either of them can so much as take a step towards him.

Michaela sags against Matt the moment it registers that this is over, tucking her face into his neck like she's wanted to do since he got here. The sharp scent of his cologne tickles her nose, has her making a face into his skin, and she feels him laugh more than hears it, rumbling beneath the hand she's slid up to rest over his heart. The tension doesn't leave her shoulders or her jaw, not instantly, but it lessons, especially when Matt slings an arm around her and tucks her neatly into his side.

"That was... interesting," he murmurs, nosing aside the flyaway hairs at her temple, which always makes her smile and giggle like an idiot and now's no different.

"That's the polite description, sure."

"I'd say we at least got one good thing from it, but I know you, and I doubt you'll let the Cato issue resolve itself without interfering."

"You say that like you're not on the same damn page, Murdock."
"You have me there, King. Still, it's not something we can tackle right now. And I remember something about a date tonight...?"

That perks Michaela right up. "Shit, date night! Yes, yeah, let's do that, I made actual food for you and nothing burned, we've gotta like, savor that."

Matt huffs another laugh and gestures towards the inside of her apartment. "Lead the way."

Michaela, making a split-second decision to let herself have tonight with her boyfriend, to leave the superhero shit at the door, grins up at him and does just that.