Matt’s hands clenched around his cane. The magazine of the M249 slid open, the smell of gunpowder residue stronger as the remaining bullets fell on the table. “When she wakes up,” he said. “Who will she be?”
Matt could feel the other man’s hesitation. Copper stung his lungs as Bucky pulled off his bloody gloves, dropping them on the table next to the gun, and rounded the sofa to look down at the unconscious woman. Her breathing was even, shallow, and Bucky carefully plucked the blanket off the back of the couch to lay it across her. “She’ll be who she always was,” he said. “The beautiful, psychotic little bird we both made the mistake of falling in love with.”
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
There was very little that compared to running on the thin sheets of ice and snow covering the city streets. It stuck to your feet, little shards of winter that froze your skin and proposed a challenge to your escape. It would have been easier to climb onto the nearest building, just a short distance from the frozen reflecting pool between the theater and the city proper, but this was the only way you could guarantee a chase. He would follow you, certainly, and if you wanted to give the man in red a chanceof getting out of this alive, there was no other choice.
You knew this city. You navigated it very well in the dark, the way you knew your home. You could pinpoint where each stoplight cast a glow of red, yellow, or green overtop the snow from miles away, even knowing approximately whenthe light would change. You knew where the sidewalks ended and which alleys were dead ends, knew which street lights flickered from dying bulbs.
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
There was very little that compared to running on the thin sheets of ice and snow covering the city streets. It stuck to your feet, little shards of winter that froze your skin and proposed a challenge to your escape. It would have been easier to climb onto the nearest building, just a short distance from the frozen reflecting pool between the theater and the city proper, but this was the only way you could guarantee a chase. He would follow you, certainly, and if you wanted to give the man in red a chanceof getting out of this alive, there was no other choice.
You knew this city. You navigated it very well in the dark, the way you knew your home. You could pinpoint where each stoplight cast a glow of red, yellow, or green overtop the snow from miles away, even knowing approximately whenthe light would change. You knew where the sidewalks ended and which alleys were dead ends, knew which street lights flickered from dying bulbs.
He had three more knives, and one Glock 17 strapped to his back. Odds are it was a full clip, so that meant.. 33 opportunities to put a bullet in you. You also knew he was wearing military grade boots, which meant he had advantage over you in this terrain, and that also meant he could be faster.
Your only chance was to outsmart him. Which could be difficult, given that he was clearly an expert and you had no idea how clever he was. And you hated not knowing.
But you had to take the chance. You ran until your feet were numb, counting down the seconds that led you closer and closer to frostbite. Turning one corner at a time, you didn’t look back until you turned into an alleyway, cut off by a chain link fence. Your breath misted in front of your blued lips as your eyes fell on a misshapen lump of snow and you ran toward it, ripping more of the fabric at the bottom of your dress. The frayed edge was now only to the middle of your thigh, exposing your legs to the bitter cold as you used the fabric as a barrier between your hands and the snow.
The manhole cover under the snow had ice accumulated along the edge, and your fingers ached as you pried it open, sliding the heavy, frozen metal away from the opening. You cast a glance over your shoulder, taking only a moment to listen to the distant sound of gunfire and sirens. The sounds were close, and if the police interfered with the attacker, you would have just enough time to slip away without leaving a trail. You turned back toward the manhole, pushing away the hopes that the man in red had gotten away- there was no time for worrying or what-ifs- and made your escape.
***
Two of his ribs were broken.
He had heard them creak when his back hit the concrete, and when the heavy boot came down just under his shoulder blades, the cracks split. His scream had echoed through the balcony, and he was certain that the mammoth of a man towering over him was going to smash his head in before Matt could get his hands under him. But when Matt pushed against the ground, blood dripping from his nose and staining the snow a bright crimson, the attacker wasn’t even looking at him. He had started following Y/n, who had run through the ballroom straight to the fire stairs on the north side of the building.
Dizziness swarmed Matt’s senses as he clamored to his feet, not stopping as he swept up the two billy clubs and ran after them. He wasted no time with the stairs, jumping over the railing and rolling as he landed. He could smell the metal, taste the way it mixed with the copper on his tongue. His body ached, protested, begged him to slow down, but the man was following her, and even though she was far ahead of them, her footprints were leading them both right to her.
Lucky for Matt, he didn’t need them. He had gotten enough of the rich scent of her perfume, the heavy smell of too-much foundation, the slightest bit of sweat. He followed the quickest path to the end of your trail, his ribs and legs and lungs protesting as he leapt through the air between buildings, his back aching with each roll as he landed all too hard on the rooftops. He had to get ahead, had to find her before her would-be assassin could get close enough to put a bullet between her eyes or a knife in her throat. Whatever manner of death he had planned for the ballerina, he had to prevent it.
If he couldn’t, what was the point?
His feet slid on the ice, his boots not quite gripping the sleek sheets that coated every inch of the city. He was careful, calculating each step as he raced toward her.
He stopped at the edge of a movie theatre roof, his feet skidding and sending flurries of ice in the air. Frowning, Matt crouched, catching his breath. His head tilted toward the rich scent of her, tongue tasting perfume and snow and the heavy, metal manhole cover as she hefted it off the hole. She glanced back, the wind swiping her hair over cold, chapping lips. He could hear the gunfire starting, the police shouting at the assassin to stop.
She had met a dead end, and he wasn’t surprised that she had decided the best course of action was to flee to a new level of the city. It would be warmer in the sewers, without the wind and still falling snow on her skin, but it was dark and damp and not everyone had the advantages Matt had in an environment like that.
She dropped the silk in her hands, letting it fall into the snow near the manhole. Matt shifted his weight to the balls of his feet, ready to jump down and follow her, when she did something even he didn’t see coming.
Her hands gripped the nearby fire escape on the other side of the alley. How she had jumped from her point in the middle of the alley to the building so gracefully without taking a running start surprised him, and he nearly fell forward in his rush to go down. He hadn’t considered she would in fact go up.
She moved quickly, climbing the side of the fire escape to the roof without setting foot on the landings at each floor. Matt moved away from the edge of the movie theater as she reached the top and disappeared behind the roof ledge. The gunfire had stopped, but the sirens still pierced his ears as he took a running leap over the expanse of the alley.
***
You only had minutes. The cold had started climbing up your legs, leaving your feet near-numb. Behind the wall surrounding the edge of the roof, you were safe from the wind, but as you brushed the snow off your feet, you could feel the tips of your fingers tingle.
At this rate, the frostbite would set in before you could make it home. There was nowhere familiar close enough to slip into unseen, but at this rate, breaking into somewhere for warmth, just enough to get the feeling back in your limbs, wasn’t off the table. But you had to wait another minute, at least, to make sure he took the bait. There was no telling if he’d fall for it, or if he had some way of seeing you crouched down against the wall. If he followed you, found you, it was over.
Your eyes closed, the snow on your lashes sticking to your eyelids. Running this far, in the cold, in not at all the right clothes, had taken its toll. Your body was well-trained for each of those things, but there was no way a person could stave it off for long. Exhaustion had begun to creep in your bones alongside the chill, and you only had moments to catch your breath and wait for the assassin before you had to move again.
A soft, rolling thud jerked you away from your moment of peace, and you were back on your feet before the other figure had a chance to roll to his. Your hands were up, ready for a knife or a bullet aimed for your head or heart, feet poised to dive past him— but the man in red stood up slowly, his own hands up, not in fists like yours, but the open hands of surrender.
“I’m not gonna hurt you,” he said, his voice low and gruff. He kept his hands up, maybe for your benefit, but more likely for his own. You were a cornered animal, and there was no way of knowing whether you believed him.
“Who the hell are you?”
He lowered his hands, cautious, and took a few steps closer. The stark red of his suit was rich against the snow surrounding you both, even in the dark, and as he stopped just a few feet away, you knew the answer before he spoke.
“I’m Daredevil.”
Your arms dropped to your sides, fingers flexing, trying to get the feeling to come back as you eyed him carefully. “Daredevil’s been gone for years,” you said.
His lips pulled into a thin line. “I was…” he searched for the right words, his head tilting back and forth. “Taken. We don’t have much time-“
His head snapped toward the alley below. You followed his line of sight over the ledge, ducking down as the white cape came swirling into view. Daredevil crouched beside you, chin pointed at the ground as the two of you listened. The crunching of snow was loud, even from this high up, as he neared the place you had last left signs of yourself.
You listened carefully, but your companion seemed to have something else on his mind as he reached for your shivering hands. You tried to pull them back, but he carefully clutched your wrist, wrapping his gloved hands around yours. “You’re going to freeze,” he whispered, frowning. “We need to go.”
“Not yet,” you hissed back, this time successfully prying your hands out of his. He didn’t speak again, only waited until you both heard the dull thud of boots landing in the sewer far below.
Satisfied by the distant sounds of retreating footfalls, you pushed yourself up, ready to run. If he realized he’d been fooled, you needed to be as far away from here as possible. But your legs shook, and the moment you took a step you were falling. You lurched forward, ready to catch yourself on the ice, but he was faster, catching you in his arms before you hit the frozen concrete.
“Slow down,” he said, pulling you to your feet. He kept his hand on your arm, steadying you. Even through his gloves he could feel the goosebumps on your skin, the dusting of ice settling in, and wasted no time in bending down to grab you under the knees.
In any other circumstances, you’d have batted him away, determined to make your way inside on your own. But your head spun as he lifted you in his arms, tucking you against his chest, and your body had begun to shake. He was warm, anyway, and you burried your face against his chest and jammed your hands into your armpits as he started walking. His steps were uneven, his chest heaving with uneven breaths, and he moved impossibly slow.
“You’re hurt,” you breathed, your eyes closing again. This stranger could be taking you anywhere, but you didn’t have a choice. He’d come to your aid and that didn’t mean you trusted him, but it was enough to know that he probablywanted you alive.
“It’s a fracture,” he said, inhaling sharply as he approached the other side of the roof. “I’m fine.”
“Whatever you say, horns.”
***
You didn’t remember falling asleep. It couldn’t have been for very long- your body still ached from the cold, and sitting up sent a torrent of pain through your head and back. Blinking against fluorescent lights, you glanced around enough to recognize the cluttered industrial kitchen of the coffee shop.
You were warm, though, wrapped in an old blanket and covered in a thin layer of sweat. Your fingers and toes had regained feeling, and your head was pounding. Your injuries were catching up to you, but that was better than going numb. You had been dangerously close to hypothermia, but Daredevil had gotten there just on time.
“Don’t move too much.”
He was sitting a few feet away, legs outstretched in front of him with his back pressed against the heavy door that separated you from outside.
Pushing yourself up, you mimicked his position, resting your back against the prep counter. “How long was I out?”
“Twenty minutes,” he said. “Who was that?”
You grimaced, rubbing the back of your neck. It popped as you carefully turned it side to side, pinching your eyes closed against the pain. “I have no idea.”
He stood up, crossing the space between you in one stride, and crouched at your feet. “I’m gonna need a lot better than ‘no idea.’”
“I’ve never seen him bef-”
“Why’s he trying to kill you?”
You caught your tongue between your teeth, halfway through a snippy remark, but it slipped out anyway. “Maybe he doesn’t like my dancing.”
He huffed a sigh, unamused, and his foot adjusted under him. “He’s already killed two people-“
“Three.”
His lips parted, head shaking slightly with confusion. “Anastasia Petrova and Tatiana Kalashnik.”
“And Nina Drugova. Albany. Found her in a dumpster- well, most of her.”
The leather of his gloves creaked as his hands curled into fists. His jaw tightened, chin dropping so that he was staring at the floor between his feet before he looked back up at you. “All people you knew.”
“All my friends,asshole.”
He hesitated. “I’m sorry,” he said. “Truly. But he’s after younow, and you can’t take him on your own. So I need a really good reason why.”
“You mean you need a reason why you should help me,” you snorted, pushing the blanket off. You grabbed at the counter, using it to pull yourself to your feet. He rose with you, his shoulders tense. Like he expected you to attack him or take off running.
“I help people who need helped,” he said. “But if we’re going to stop him-“
“Almost being the keyword. You don’t know what you’re getting yourself into, pal.”
“I’ve handled worse.”
You stared at him for a long moment. You had heard stories of Daredevil. Though he was gone by the time you were in New York, whispers of the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen had become something of an urban legend; he was a ghost story, a warning meant to scare criminals as they passed dark shadows. He was the boogeyman of the West Side. He had taken down Wilson Fisk, had fought criminal organizations damn near single handed. He was toughandscary— at least, that’s how the stories made him sound. But looking at him was different. He was just a man in a suit, and as far as you could tell, he didn’t have super powers like Captain America, didn’t have metal to protect him like Iron Man. He was just some guy, with some training, who beat the daylights out of men who were the realboogeymen.
“I don’t know who he is,” you repeated, letting the blanket fall on the ground between you. “But I know someone who might.”
“Black Swan?” He tilted his head at you, a smile playing on his lips. “You keep your feathers somewhere else?”
You willed your heart to remain steady, refusing to break eye contact. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
He huffed a dry laugh. “The aerobics, scaling the fire escape like that. The whole… ballerina thing.”
You shrugged. “Not everyone is a superhero.”
“No,” he agreed, but the smile on his lips didn’t waver. He didn’t need to point out that he had seen you fight too. He knew- he knew who you were, and even if you wouldn’t admit it, it was one less mystery to solve. “If not her,then who?”
You sighed, wrapping the blanket around your shoulders. “An old friend,” you said. “A veryold friend.”
***
The sun was coming up. It peered lazily over the horizon, seeping through the cracks between the towering skyscrapers in the distance. The snow had stopped falling, leaving a thick blanket of white over the streets below. Any other day, you’d have already crawled back into the warmth of your apartment, pulling the blankets up over your head and falling asleep to the sounds of cars outside the window. The blackout curtains would keep out the sun, but instead you were watching as it crawled slowly into the sky. Most of the wind had been blocked out by the surrounding buildings, and the coffee in your gloved hand sent gentle curls of heat into the air. Bundled up at the edge of the building, you counted the passing cars as you waited.
“Your friend is taking his time.” Daredevil was beside you, pacing along the edge of the roof. He was on edge- no one had ever seen Daredevil in the daylight, and being out in the early morning hours ran the risk of being caught. It was a risk just to be here, with you. But the assassin had yet to attack during the day, and as long as he was at your side, he felt better knowing that you were protected, even if you didn’t necessarily need it.
“He’ll be here,” you said, bringing the cup close to your lips. “We just have to be patient.”
He stopped pacing, coming to stand next to you. “This had better be worth it,” he said, lips drawing into a fine line. “It’s dangerous for us to be up here.”
“More or less dangerous than being tracked down by an assassin?”
Daredevil stiffened, his head snapping toward the door of the roof-access. “Someone’s coming.”
“How the hell-”
“Not the assassin,” he said, frowning. “Someone else.”
“-do you know that?”
The door of the roof swung open, the seldom-used hinges groaning. His boots were heavy as he stepped out, ice crunching under heavy footsteps. He paused in the doorway, eyebrow raised as the door closed behind him. His hair fluttered around his tightened jaw, blue eyes flickering over Daredevil’s form before they landed on you. They softened, and a crooked half-smile painted over his lips as he strode forward, adjusting the M249 slung over his back. He crossed the expanse of the roof in slow, confident steps, and reached for you just as you stepped into his arms, wrapping them around his shoulders.
“Long time, no see, pretty bird.” He laughed into the side of your neck as you hugged him. His metal hand pressed delicately into the small of your back even as you stepped away, eyes trailing back over to the Devil, who was watching you with curious caution. “Who’s the suit?”
“Bucky,” you said, gesturing toward Matt, who, unbeknownst to his companions, had been reading the other man’s body language, vitals, and voice from even before he had stepped on the roof. “Meet the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen.”
Matt’s hands clenched around his cane. The magazine of the M249 slid open, the smell of gunpowder residue stronger as the remaining bullets fell on the table. “When she wakes up,” he said. “Who will she be?”
Matt could feel the other man’s hesitation. Copper stung his lungs as Bucky pulled off his bloody gloves, dropping them on the table next to the gun, and rounded the sofa to look down at the unconscious woman. Her breathing was even, shallow, and Bucky carefully plucked the blanket off the back of the couch to lay it across her. “She’ll be who she always was,” he said. “The beautiful, psychotic little bird we both made the mistake of falling in love with.”
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—
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.
