Summary: When a new threat turns into something much bigger, Matt Murdock finds help in the form of a woman with a very different moral code, and struggles to choose between himself and the Devil.
Matt Murdock x Reader //Past!Winter Soldier x Reader
The ballroom music flowed between the voices of a thousand strangers. It wasn’t Tchaikavsky, but something slow and simple. Matt wasn’t sure who wrote it, but the string quartet positioned on the small platform near the door had drawn the attention of several guests. They were all dressed in matching blacks, the pages of their sheet music turning every few minutes.
The calming tune was juxtaposed by Matt’s severe alertness. With so many people, their heels clicking and boots squeaking on the marble floor, dresses dragging against the ground, the sickly sweet scent of wine and champagne, jewelry clinging against glass, laughter echoing against the huge glass windows that faced the dark skies of New York, hushed whispers of gossip, conversations about who had performed in Prague or Versailles and who vacationed there or who was dating who or who had invested in the Lincoln and whether or not the wine was the right age or the champagne sweet enough or did they have something dry—
Summary: When a new threat turns into something much bigger, Matt Murdock finds help in the form of a woman with a very different moral code, and struggles to choose between himself and the Devil.
Matt Murdock x Reader //Past!Winter Soldier x Reader
The ballroom music flowed between the voices of a thousand strangers. It wasn’t Tchaikavsky, but something slow and simple. Matt wasn’t sure who wrote it, but the string quartet positioned on the small platform near the door had drawn the attention of several guests. They were all dressed in matching blacks, the pages of their sheet music turning every few minutes.
The calming tune was juxtaposed by Matt’s severe alertness. With so many people, their heels clicking and boots squeaking on the marble floor, dresses dragging against the ground, the sickly sweet scent of wine and champagne, jewelry clinging against glass, laughter echoing against the huge glass windows that faced the dark skies of New York, hushed whispers of gossip, conversations about who had performed in Prague or Versailles and who vacationed there or who was dating who or who had invested in the Lincoln and whether or not the wine was the right age or the champagne sweet enough or did they have something dry—
There was stimulus everywhere, most of which Matt filtered through and pushed aside, concentrating as he tried to listen for a sound he hoped not to hear. If the assassin came into the ballroom, he needed to be prepared. So he listened for knives hidden under clothes, or boots with steel toes, and kept tasting the air for hints of metal.
That, and he was waiting for Karen or Foggy to spot the ballerina. They had agreed, with little argument, that Matt should be the one to seek her out. Undoubtedly she would refuse Karen, who was doing a much better job at speaking to the fancy to-dos than either he or Foggy could. She was smiling, laughing at the right times, subtly trying to find out who was friends with the lead dancer, digging for information the way only a really good reporter could.
Foggy had acquired himself a drink, swiped up from a tray being carried by one of several trays being carried throughout the venue. He mingled, too, keeping his eyes open as he smiled and sipped at the too-weak alcohol.
Matt swiveled his head, listening for mention of the name or any sign that someone was not who they claimed to be. A bump on his shoulder got his attention, however, as Foggy moved in close.
“She’s at the bar,” he said, his eyes trained on the figure sitting at the bar. She had a martini, one she had yet to drink, her finger idly tracing the rim. “Third seat. She is… damn.”
He didn’t need an explanation. The woman was damnbeautiful- even from here he could smell the rich scent of her perfume, could make out the way her dress snaked over her form, leaving little to the imagination as she twisted sideways in her seat to speak to her costar. A laugh danced on her face, her eyes alight with alertness as she listened to his terrible jokes. Matt frowned, tilting his head as he caught the powdery, chemical smell of too much makeup. Her face was done up, of course, with red lipstick and mascara, but the smell was far more potent than her face would suggest.
“Got it,” he said, wrapping his hand more firmly around his cane. Foggy turned towards Karen, whispering in her ear, and her eyes flickered to watch Matt head towards the bar before turning her attention back to the well-suited man she was speaking to. Matt ignored them, blocking out any and all things that weren’t the woman sitting at the bar.
***
He was still talking. Minutes had ticked by as you did your best to be vaguely interested, letting yourself smile over the lip of your champagne glass as Danny- one of the other dancers, currently playing a prince- kept going, and going, and going, about the new boat he’d gotten just before the snow blew into New York. He’d been trying to convince you to take a trip to the Bahamas with him and his supermodel friends after the run of the show, but you weren’t interested in sunbathing on a deck in the ocean, or drinking wine coolers in your bikini– at least, not at the moment. There were sharper, more pressing things on your mind, and none of them involved getting on a boat with Danny.
But, bless his heart, he was trying very hard. He had that smug grin, standing too close as he leaned on one elbow and signaled the bartender for another round of drinks. You’d made the mistake of drinking your champagne just a hair too quickly in an attempt to still yourself, to stop yourself from telling Danny that no, you did not want to go on vacation and no,you were not going to sleep with him orhis supermodels.
You’d had enough. The perfectly poised mask you’d been wearing all night was starting to slip, and you could feel yourself moving toward another catastrophic failurethe longer you sat there. Clearing your throat, you excused yourself from Danny, ignoring the falter of his grin.
The glass windows overlooking the city were separated only by the double doors leading to the balcony. They pushed open soundlessly, the cold night air standing the hairs on your arm on end the moment you stepped outside. It was far too cold to be outside in only your dress, but for a moment, it was welcome. The snow melted the moment it landed on your bare shoulders, and the railing was iced over under your hands. You gripped it tightly, peering over the edge.
If you had stood there, alone in the cold as frost coated the city, for a few minutes longer, you might not have been there when it happened. You might have already gone to the green room, dug out your suit, and been on the roof of a high-rise downtown. You might have been getting on the elevator, or back at the bar with Danny. You might have had a drink or danced or found someone, anyone, to take home with you.
But you weren’t alone, and so you didn’t do any of those things, and it just might have saved your life.
Instead of doing any of those things, instead of spending some time alone, contemplating the things you mightdo, the double doors opened. You let go of the railing, flexing your fingers as the feeling returned to them. A stranger came through the ballroom doors, the light spilling over fresh snow between you.
Like everyone else, he was dressed in a suit, but it was different from the tailored numbers you’d been looking at all night. It wasn’t quite as expensive, and didn’t fit quite as perfectly. Confusion painted his brow, and the corner of his lip turned into a lopsided frown. His eyes were covered with glasses, and when he stepped onto the balcony, the light caught the red tint of them. It wasn’t until that moment your eyes slid down to the cane tapping lightly against the snow.
“Something tells me this isn’t the hallway,” he said.
“No,” you said, voice low as he moved closer. He started, presumably unaware of your presence before you spoke. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you.”
“That’s okay,” he said, the frown melting into a small smile. “I hope I wasn’t interrupting something.”
“Just needed some air,” you cleared your throat, looking at him curiously. “The, uh, the hallway is on the other side of the ballroom.”
“Guess I got disoriented.” He chuckled nervously, clutching the cane in both hands. “You alright? It’s pretty cold out here.”
“Yeah, yeah. I just got…”
“Overwhelmed? I know the feeling.”
You tilted your head, moving closer, getting a better look at the stranger. His face was soft, much softer than most men, even with the rugged beard kissing his jaw and the lines of stress over his forehead. He was handsome, well put together despite the small details that only someone like you would pick up: the fibers coming off of his suit, the scuff on his shoes. His watch wasn’t brand-name, neither were the glasses. He was out of place, and somehow… That put you at ease.
“Can I be candid, mister…”
“Murdock,” he said, sticking out his hand. You took it, letting his palm slide against your knuckles. For a fleeting moment, his hand remained in yours. The moment hovered in the air like static, more intimate than any handshake ever ought to. His calloused fingertips brushed over your wrist. You did the same, feeling the steady pulse of his heartbeat in his veins. You smirked, realizing what was at play. “Matthew Murdock. Please do. I think that would be a nice change of pace, maybe for the both of us.”
So, he felt it too. Knowing that he was out of place, that he was not somewhere he should be. Even if he couldn’t see the scuffs or wrinkles or the small, almost imperceptible tear near the collar of his shirt, he knew what it meant to be… different than everyone else.
You shook your head, clearing out the intrusive thoughts.
“This party,” you said, swallowing down the part of you that had leaked out, that had felt Matt’s pulse; that tiny sliver of you don’t have to wear a different face right now. Faces weren’t everything- your voice had to remain just as well-kept as the rest of you. “It’s a reception for a ballet.”
Matt’s lips twitched into a smile. “You’re wondering why a blind man went to the ballet.”
“Well, frankly, Mr. Murdock-”
“It’s uh, you can call me Matt,” he said. “You didn’t give your name.”
“Matt. Yes, I am wondering that.” You fidgeted with your necklace, sliding the chain between your fingers.
He seemed to think it over, his head tilting back and forth for a moment. “Uh, well… I grew up in a church.”
“A church?”
“Orphanage,” he clarified. “Lots of kids, we only had one TV. But we had plenty of records, mostly Gospel, you know? But we had lots of classical ones, too. Vivaldi, Handel. Tchaikovsky, he was my favorite.”
“So you came to listen,” you finished, nodding despite the fact that he couldn’t see you.
“Yeah, more or less,” he said. “And my friend, Foggy, helikes the dancers. Not sure he cares much for the dancing itself.”
You laughed, all too aware of that sentiment. “That tends to be a popular motivation,” you told him. “Though I’m glad to hear there’s people out there who still appreciate art for what it is.”
“Music is the only art people like me canappreciate,” he said, switching the cane to his other hand. “So I have to appreciate it twice as much.”
“I don’t think that’s necessarily true. You just have to appreciate things like dancing in a different way.”
“Really?” Matt’s brows rose, like he was waiting for an explanation. You pulled your lip between your teeth, eyes narrowed as you looked him over. “How do you propose that, miss-?”
You stepped into his personal space, gently wrapping one hand around the cane. “May I?”
His head tilted, ever so slightly, the gleam of his glasses blurring the image of you in the lenses. His grip on the cane relaxed as you carefully pulled it out of his hand, leaning it against the wall beside the door. The music from inside was muffled by the windows separating you, Matthew Murdock, and everyone else. But you could still pick out the notes, and could recognize Pachelbel’s Canon in D tapping on the glass.
You reached for Matt’s hands. They were cold, his palm icy as you placed one on the small of your back, keeping a hold of the other. Your left hand rested on Matt’s shoulder, feeling the smooth wool between your hand and his muscles. The confusion on his brow smoothed over as you swayed.
The snow fell around you in whispers, tiny flurries dotting his hair and shoulders. He let you move him, the space between you so tight, you could feel the warmth of his breath. His heart beat just a hair faster under your hand on his shoulder, and the hand in yours wrapped carefully around your palm.
“The thing about dancing is,” you said, keeping your voice as quiet as the falling snow. “You can feel it, too.”
Matt pressed his fingertips against the silk of your dress, settling into the dip of your back as the two of you turned in tight, perfect circles. You were figures in a jewelry box, locked away from the rest of the world. Closed off from the party and the city, pressed closely into the arms of a man you’d just met, a man who couldn’t see the way your eyes ticked over his face as you read him.
There was so little and so much to see in the slight upturn of his lopsided, suppressed smile. As though he was trying to hide it, the muscles around his mouth strained to keep the smile from stretching into a wide grin.
“I don’t know what I expected,” he said, his resolve slipping as his lips cracked into a toothy smile. “Hope I don’t step on your feet.”
You hummed quietly, letting your body guide you. “You’re doing well,” you said. “You don’t need to see to trust your body.”
Matt didn’t tell you that he couldsee, that the outline of your form burned red with each slight movement. This close, he could make out the flush of your cheeks from the cold, the way you shivered as the snowflakes dotted your skin and melted against your warmth. He could see that, too, the warmth radiating from your skin in little waves of flame. Every hair that caught in the slightest breeze was a spark, every tilt of your head burned like coal. His world was on fire, and you were glowing embers pressed against the front of his body.
You, on the other hand, were tracing your eyes over his face. You’d been looking at him from the moment he stepped onto the balcony, but he had been so reserved, before, with his shoulders squared and his head held high. But now, with the two of you confined to the balcony as though trapped in a snowglobe, inklings of Matt Murdock- not the lawyer, not the vigilante- had begun to seep through the cracks. It was true you didn’t knowabout his other life, but pieces of the man he was when no one else was looking had started to shine through.
Your eyes lingered over the small, long-healed scars along the edge of his hairline; the rough grain of his skin beneath his beard; the crooked shape of where his nose had been broken at least once; the thin scars from where his lip had split open morethan once. These were the details of a man who had been scarred by something that left marks on more than just his skin. It was strange, to see them on someone who seemed so innocent on the surface. Even through his glasses, you could make out the slow, dripping molasses of his eyes, his lashes barely missing the lenses when he blinked. His lips were soft, despite the split running through them, and he smelled distinctly of sandalwood cologne; under that, though, was a touch of smoke and sweat.
You’d flirted before. It was part of the job,something you had learned much sooner than most girls. You learned it in tandem with your ABCs and mathematics, at a school that had very little in mind in terms of actual education. It was a go-to, for men like Danny, to flirt your way through a conversation to get exactly what you wanted, be it information or to lure someone into a false sense of safety.
Flirting with Matt Murdock had come as naturally as breathing. It was slightlymore difficult when looking up at him through your lashes or licking your lips wouldn’t work, but being pressed against the front of his body like this was effective.
What you weren’tcounting on was for the flirting to feel so… real. It was easy to separate flirting from your real feelings toward someone. You were never going to get on a boat with Danny, but it hadn’t stopped you from laughing at his jokes or placing a hand on his thigh.
Dancing was something intimate. Something so much a part of you, it was impossible for you to go about your day to day life without it showing through- like the cracks in Matt’s smile. You walked on the balls of your feet everywhere you went, moved gracefully in things as small as reaching for dishes or cleaning your apartment, getting coffee or putting groceries away. Even driving your motorcycle was a feat of precise elegance.
And here you were, using a part of the real you to flirt with the lawyer. Part of you longed to rest your head on his shoulder and close your eyes, or find out for yourself exactly how soft those split lips were. But that- that was toofar, too intimate. That would more than cross the line- that would blur the line between flirting for a distinct purpose and flirting because you just wanted to.
“Well,” he said, his tongue poking out over his lips. He drew his lower lip in slow, like he was tasting something sweet, wanting to relish the flavor of it between his teeth. “I have the best dancer in New York as my partner.”
And, just like that, the snowglobe cracked. Your fingers curled against the wool of Matt’s jacket, and the genuine smile on your lips felt like plastic. He didn’t notice, or if he somehow did, he was unchanged. Reflexively, you looked up at him through your lashes as you sighed.
“Here’s where you’ve made your mistake, Matthew.”
The corners of his mouth twitched into a slight frown. You stopped turning in circles, suddenly becoming all too aware that you were freezing. The snow had moistened your skin, and the cold had begun to settle in your bones. Your lungs swallowed the steam from Matt’s lips, indiscernible as to whose breath was whose.
“What do you mean?”
“You weren’t looking for the hallway,” you pointed out, focusing on the warm wool under your hand and the even warmer expression on Matt’s face. “You were looking for me.”
“You never told me your name-“
“Exactly.” Your fingers dragged over the lapel of his jacket, remorseful for letting go of his heat as you stepped away. “But you knew who I was anyway. I’m guessing because your assistant-“
“Office manager.” Matt’s face hardened, knowing he was caught, his shoulders settling back into their upright, squared position. “Karen’s the office manager.”
“-sent you because she knew I wouldn’t talk to her. And for what, to convince me I need lawyersto babysit me? Or has your questioning come to a dead end?”
“Another woman is dead.”
“People die all the time-“
“Another Russian. Someone I’m betting you knew. Tatiana Klashnik?”
Matt’s eyes flickered back and forth behind his glasses, trying to discern whether this surprised you. Your heart remained steady. The wind howled, snow flurrying around your heels. “You can’t help me.”
“If you tell the police-“
“They won’t help me either.”
Matt bit the inside of his cheek. “Does this have anything to do with why you left Russia? You, and Anastasia Petrova and Tatiana Kalishnik?”
Your eyes narrowed. You shouldn’t have been surprised that he and the other half of Nelson and Murdock had done their research. There wasn’t much for them to find, thankfully, but it didn’t bode well that they had been able to connect you to Ana and Tatiana.
“It’s a short leap from you to them. How long before this… murderer comes for you next?”
“I can handle myself.”
“So could Ana,” Matt said, his voice low. “So I’m told. Did you know about the guns?”
The cold air pierced your lungs. The wind dragged the skirts of your dress with the snow, a rush of silk and ice sliding against the concrete. “Yes.”
“So it’s not a coincidence you took Karen to where the Night Wolves hang out.”
Flakes of snow landed heavily on your eyelashes. “I wouldn’t have taken her there if I thought she’d be in danger.”
“I need you to tell me. Just- tell me why, so I can help you.”
You swallow down the cold air, shaking your head with a dry chuckle. “I know the sort of criminals you defend, Mr. Murdock. I’m not one of them.”
You stepped around him, pushing towards the door, but he moved, quickly, catching you by surprise when his hand gently caught you by the wrist. His hand was still warm from being tucked against your back. His grip was tight enough to freeze you in place, but not enough to cause any amount of pain.
“Criminal or not, you don’t deserve to die.”
“And what if I do?”
Matt’s hair ruffled in the cold wind. His lips remained parted, clouds of breath circling around his face. “Whatever you did, whoever you used to be, this man is hunting you down and he doesn’t care-“
He stopped, his head snapping towards the windows. You looked past him, at the blurred shapes beyond the frosted panes. His back and shoulders tensed under the wool jacket.
“Do you hear that?”
You focused, hard, hearing only the distant sounds of the city, and the eerie howling winds from the east. “Hear… what?”
His hand still holding your wrist tightened as he tugged you backwards, the snow crunching under his feet as he moved so that he was between you and the doors. He let go of your wrist, but his free hand gripped your shoulder to keep you placed behind him.
