Chapter Text
"To the well-organized mind, death is but the next great adventure."
Your eyes track the lettering on the book in your hands. You'd rather be ringing them around your neck, though the thought quickly fades when you digest it would be quite counter-productive.
The city's skyline still feels like an unfamiliar backdrop. New York, New York. If you listen close enough, you think you can hear Frank Sinatra's voice somewhere in the distance taunting you.
The weight of the book feels heavy when you opt to launch it across your bed, falling with a small thud against porcelain white sheets. Set against your porcelain white walls in your porcelain white apartment. Dull. Messy. You really should clean, you briefly think, but you don't own a vacuum.
You don't own anything. You never have.
Sitting up, you sigh at the sound of The Winter Soldier's voice on the end of the line.
"Didn't think you'd pick up." His voice is rough, like the war torn thing he is. Half of a laugh slips out from you, that seems more like a tired scoff.
"Wasn't going too," You murmur, "But I've got nothing better to do."
You lean over, quickly grabbing your remote to switch on the small flat-screen of your television.
The news broadcast flashes bright and stark against the plain setting of your studio apartment. You can hear something shifting on his end- likely his boots against the pristine floors of the newly refurbished Avengers Tower. What a fucking joke.
“Look,” he starts again, quieter now. “I’m...not calling to check in. Not this time.”
The dry laugh you've been holding in finally decides to escape out of you. "Could’ve fooled me."
You’ve been dodging his calls ever since the last one turned into him hovering over you like a paranoid mother bird- checking in every five seconds like you were about to drop dead if he stopped.
You hear him swallow on the line, directing your focus back to your television. The New Avengers. There is something poetically hollow about the group of unfamiliar faces posed heroically together. You make a mental note to thank Sam Wilson if you ever see him again for refusing to endorse this mess.
"You should hate this." You sigh, switching between channels before he gets the chance to grimace.
"I do," He says quickly, almost defensively- voice rising before it softens- "But I'm doing it anyway."
The silence stretches.
"Why?"
There’s a faint exhale on the other end, like he’s already tired of the answer.
"Because walking away didn’t fix anything," he says. “Tried that. Didn’t stick.”
You snort softly, eyes still on the flickering TV. "Yeah? Retirement not treating you well, Barnes?"
"Don’t start," he mutters, but there’s no bite to it. Just habit. "I’m serious. I’m just… there," he says. “Keeping an eye on things.”
More clattering sounds from the other end, a group of loud voices raising at each other, the distinct yell of the name "Bob." You bite your tongue when you realize the peaceful, quiet atmosphere of the natural conversation has dissipated. Of course, he's not alone. He's got his new team right behind him.
He clears his throat, obviously strained. Moving closer to the speaker, his voice lowers into something more private, though no less awkward.
"You coming back would help," he says, more quietly this time. Not pushing. Just putting it out there. "We could...we could use an Angel around this place."
Angel. That moniker has haunted you for as long as you could remember. From the dirty mouths of HYDRA's handlers, to the front-page headlines of The Daily Bugle, to the soft sound on an old friends lips.
You don’t answer right away. The suggestion is the same one he's attempted to ask a million times before.
You flip the channel again and let the buzz settle into white noise. Static. Some late-night rerun, laugh track echoing too loudly in your too quiet apartment.
Your gaze briefly flickers to the discarded book, pages now bent. The suffocating colorlessness of your studio apartment. The increasingly loud shouts on the line that start to sound more warm than cold.
"I-" You cut yourself off. What do you even say? Send me the details? Where do I sign up? Please, get me out of here?
"Um-"
BANG.
You instantly flinch at the loud noise ripping through your apartment like a bullet. Your head snaps towards the door.
BANG. BANG. BANG.
Another round. Sharper. Impatient.
“...Is...is someone there with you?” Bucky asks immediately, voice tightening- the rapid fire knocks sounding more like muffled scuffling on his end.
“No,” you say, already standing. “No, I-”
BANG.
“Hey!” you snap, moving toward it. "Door’s still attached, you know-”
“Open it. Now. Please.”
You freeze for half a second. You know that voice.
"You've got to be kidding me-" You huff, cutting yourself off, "I'll call you back, Bucky-"
"Wait-" The line goes dead when you hang up sharply, yanking the door open with a force.
And there he is, Matt Murdock. Just barely holding it together, one arm slung tight around a body that’s very clearly not standing on its own.
Blood. A lot of it.
And...a man. Hanging limp against him, head lolled, soaked through. A blue tactical gear torn, red spreading faster than it should. Completely unfamiliar, though something tells you that you wouldn't recognize him regardless with his face beat in like this.
"Move," Matt says, already pushing past you.
"Who the hell is that?" You gawk, closing the door behind the three of you as Matt, or rather Daredevil, rushes to your bed.
"Who is that?" you demand, sharper now. "What did you do?"
"Nothing I didn’t have to," Matt shoots back, already straining. "He needs help."
"And you thought of me," you say, eyebrows pulled together. "Gee, thanks."
"He’s dying."
“Yeah, I can see that...Matty, you've got to take him to a hospital-”
"No time."
"There’s always time for a hospital-"
“Not for him.”
That finally gives you pause, though it's less about what he says and more about how he says it.
Your gaze lingers on the slow, uneven rise of the man’s chest.
One breath.
Another.
Barely.
"…You’re tracking blood through my apartment," you mutter. The man is thrown in a similar fashion you threw that damn book onto your bedspread.
"I’ll clean it."
"You won’t."
"No," he admits. "Probably not. Please, Angel."
Angel. Fuck you, Murdock. Fuck you, and your catholic guilt. Thinking I'm a damn miracle worker.
"...Do you have something sharp?"
Without question, Matt leans forward to feel around to swipe a throwing knife from the now unconscious man. He flinches when he hears you take it to your own palm, slicing through the delicate flesh. The small gash bleeds in a slow drip, which you hover over the mysterious dying man.
Matt watches in frantic unease as you use the same knife to cut through the mans suit, exposing the bullet wound. You focus in, pressing your now sliced palm to the bloodied, injured skin.
"It went through?"
"...Clean shot." Matt struggles to acknowledge anything past watching your power work. If his mask wasn't on, you're sure his face would be taut with a strict mix of judgement and reverence for you and your power.
You nod, letting out a sigh.
"Is it...Is it working?" He asks, and you clench your jaw. Matt helicopters over you and the man, leaning in and pacing. He finally takes off his mask with chagrin, sweaty and tired.
"...Who is he?" You ignore the question. "What did he do?"
The distant sounds of sirens outside seem to eclipse whatever answer Matt could possibly give you.
"…I’ll tell you later," he says.
You stare at him for a second.
"…That bad?"
He doesn’t answer.
Yeah.
That’s all you needed.
The man violently convulses underneath your touch, body twitching as he strains. As if on instinct, Matt holds him down for you. Something passes between the two of you. An understanding perhaps. It's definitely working.
As Matt works on restraining him to your bed post with cut, bloodied sheets. You begin to feel the familiar, swallowing flatness of your own skin repairing itself.
Then- you hear it. And so does Matt, his head tilting in the direction of your TV.
"Breaking news tonight out of Manhattan: Vanessa Fisk, wife of New York Mayor Wilson Fisk, is in critical condition following what officials are calling a targeted attack at a secured boxing match earlier this evening. Emergency services responded to reports of chaos inside the venue, with multiple injuries confirmed and the scene now under active federal investigation."
You stare slack jawed at the TV you forgot to turn off. The TV you've been previously tuning out since the moment you turned it on.
"Law enforcement sources have identified two suspects in connection with the incident: the vigilante known as 'Daredevil' and the individual Benjamin Poindexter, also known as 'Bullseye'. Authorities are urging civilians to remain indoors as the situation develops, while officials describe the case as ‘highly volatile and ongoing'."
A heavy beat of silence before Matt takes matters into his own hands, breathing heavily, and reaching to turn off the television completely.
Your eyes flash when you direct them between the now black screen and the man...'Bullseye', still twitching underneath your palm. You slowly move to back away, hand completely healed.
The bullet wound looks as though it was never there to begin with.
You turn to Matt in the tense silence. You don't comment on the situation, noting the severity of the pleading, desperate look on his face. You try to process the information. Wilson Fisk. Vanessa Fisk.
"...If she's dead-"
"I know."
"He did this?"
"I know." Matt struggles out, voice raising. A plea for understanding, a show of his own.
You swallow, eyes darting between the man, the mask, your phone left on your nightstand.
"He'll be up in eight hours. We'll...we'll go from there." You whisper.
Matt nods, finally relaxing, taking a much needed seat on the edge of your bed, running his hands over his face.
Your room suddenly seems a lot more colorful with all the blood.