Chapter Text
Matt’s shoulders slump with exhaustion when he finally steps out of his office, trying not to dwell on the idea that it’s the last time he’ll ever work there again. It’s not really, they still have to finish Zhou’s case, but Foggy’s words settle over him like a bag of bricks, not allowing him to see this as a bright side. It’s more like an ever present reminder of what he has to give up to protect his city.
Matt let’s himself become lost in his own thoughts, cane tapping idly in front of him as he makes his way back to his apartment, in no hurry to have to deal with the Russian he’s chained to his radiator.
So involved in his own muddled cogitation he almost doesn’t register the squeal and pull of thick tires as a car pulls up beside him until a window rolls down, that is until the click of a gun makes his head jerk up.
“You know, for a blind guy you’re pretty brutal. Not like any of those crack heads working for Gao,” comes the snarky voice of, surprisingly enough, Owsley.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Matt replies evenly.
“Cut the crap, I know you’re the - what are they calling you now? Daredevil? Whatever, I think it’d be in your best interest for you to get into the car now, son.”
“And why exactly would I do that?”
The car door pops open and Matt can hear the older man’s breathing. “Because if you don’t, you’re sure going to have a hard time taking down that snake of a bitch Gao and that little weasel Wesley.”
Matt still doesn’t get into the car, instead he holds his ground, standing tall with his cane propped out in front of him. The man in the car lets out of huff of frustration. “Okay, how about this for motivation, tough guy. I know your name is Matthew Murdock, best friend of Franklin ‘Foggy’ Nelson who hired the lovely Ms. Page. Now, I don’t think you need me to spell it out for you what me knowing your secret identity means, Mr. Murdock. Now, if you would, please get in the fucking car. You’re letting in all the city stench slink into my car.”
Matt weighs his options, but if anyone else notice the gun, or even just glances in his direction, they’ll most likely notice if a blind man disarms an elderly man in a car and makes a run for it. The gun waving towards his head spikes his adrenaline the same as it always does, but his mind is so exhausted that he barely translates it into anything more than an annoyance.
“Lord forbid allowing a blind man to be able to walk home safe,” he sighs, but nods once, turning and taking a step towards the car. His hand hovering for a moment as he searches for the door before his fingers close around the sharp metal edge, and he swings inside carefully, finding himself sitting face-to-face with the man in the car.
The gun is still pointed on him, but it wavers slightly, and Matt realizes that Owsley has little interest in actually shooting the hero, not now that he’s in the car.
“What do you want from me?” He asks casually, leaning back and balancing his cane across his knees, though his hands remain tight around the middle of his walking stick, preparing to use it as a weapon in case the man suddenly changes his interest in using the gun.
“I don’t like getting my hands my hands dirty.”
“Says the man holding a gun.”
Owsley sighs, and Matt gets the feeling the old man is rolling his eyes, though it’s a little harder to pick up on that small of a movement.
“You people are all the same, assholes who think they’re kings and princes and gods because they rule a little portion of Hell’s Kitchen. Do you know how many people consider themselves in charge of this shit hole? It’s absurd.”
Matt smiles dimly, entirely not in the mood to listen to small talk about his city.
“Maybe you didn’t hear me,” Matt repeats himself, “What do you want from me?”
“I don’t need anything from you, I want to help you.” Owsley says, and this time it’s Matt who fights the urge to roll his eyes. Instead he makes a noncommittal humming sound, which the scumbag takes as a good reason to continue.
“I have information on Gao’s little band of weirdo’s and Fisk’s lap dog - I thought I’d pass it onto you.”
Matt’s ears prick slightly, paying more attention, but he remains still, still suspecting a trap.
“Wesley is still in Hell’s Kitchen, of course. But the stupid boy really does despise the city, so, naturally he’s made arrangements to leave. I had to sift through the numbers for hours before I could make anything out for sure, but he seems to be funding an off-the-record pick up from some helicopter in two days.”
The car turns, and Matt makes a mental note from the way his knees sway slightly when they drive around a corner. Wherever their destination is might not end up being helpful, but if Matt could foresee the location before they get there, he may be slightly more prepared.
“Now, obviously you can’t have an illegal helicopter landing just anywhere, but I’ve had some... Information reported back to me from an upright source; told me that he’d be going out to use an old abandoned pad down in the slums.”
“An upright source in Hell’s Kitchen?” Matt can’t hide the sarcasm in his tone - it’s not really what he questions most out of Owsley’s story, but he can’t contain his skepticism any longer. For all he knows, this is a meeting point between Owsley and Wesley for Matt to get killed.
“I’m not asking your opinion, am I?” Owsley taps his finger against the side of the trigger on his gun, and Matt purses his lips.
“If I have to ask you what you want from me again, I trust you will understand when I also break your kneecap while I’m at it.”
There’s a shift in the air when Matt’s words settle in, and he’s left with a smug feeling when the smell of sweat enters through the air again. He better be nervous, Matt thinks grimly.
“I want you to kill James Wesley, and get rid of as many of Gao’s circus freaks as you can.”
Matt almost gives the old man credit - Owsley’s voice doesn’t tremor in the slightest, despite the way his heart begins beating at an unhealthy rate.
“I’m not a mercenary looking for cash,” Matt huffs indignantly.
“And I’m not looking to solicit a murder. I’m just giving you what you need to make the city a better place… Think of me as your sponsor.”
Matt listens to the shift and crinkle of Owsley’s suit creasing when the old man leans forward, and Matt echoes his movements, matching the over-practiced posture shoulder to shoulder, refusing to back down from the challenge. The hero will be damned if he lets this scumbag out maneuver him.
There’s an unnervingly long stretch of silence before Owsley breaks it.
“Oh for the love of god,” Owsley sounds exasperated. “Hold your hand out.”
Matt lips crease downwards into a small frown, not liking the prospect of extending any limb towards the book keeper. It takes him a second before he slowly lifts his arm, thumb up and holding it out in front of him. He’s rewarded not with a handshake like he guessed, but with the cool, heavy weight of a handgun. It reeks of oil and from the weight of it, Matt can tell it’s fully loaded. His fingers curl around the cruel weapon, not quite sure what to do with it.
The car shifts to a halt, and Matt straightens up, realizing he’s lost track of exactly where they were. The driver announces that they are ‘here’, and Owsley immediately seems more relaxed. It doesn’t comfort Matt to know the little snake suddenly feels that they are on an even playing field.
“We are parked outside your apartment, where you will no doubt have a little while to mull things over. As an incentive, I’m giving my men instructions to keep watch on your friends Nelson and Page until you have completed my terms. When you’re done, I’ll leave you, and your friends, alone.”
Matt’s still frowning, but Owsley opens the door nearest to Matt pointedly. He doesn’t know what to do besides tuck the gun into his waistband underneath his suit jacket and slip out of the vehicle. He steps outside and bumps his cane against the curb before heading onto the sidewalk.
The car door shuts behind him without another word, and Matt is left in relative silence.
---
“You know, I think I like suit on you.”
That’s the first thing Matt hears when he steps inside his apartment. His mind’s so bogged down by thoughts of his friends and the cool metal pressed against his back that he almost jumps when he hears it, having somehow almost forgotten the Russian he had saved and then promptly kidnapped. When did life get so complicated?
“Gee,” Matt manages, though his tone doesn’t have the hard, uncaring undercurrent that he wants it to convey, “do you really mean it?”
Vladimir snorts, and Matt toes off his shoes, shedding his suit jacket and loosening his tie as he makes his way into the living room. He sits down heavily on one of his chairs, not really giving his house guest much attention. Vladimir has pulled the table towards him a few inches, and Matt assumes the Russian has been inspecting it for anything to pick the padlock with.
Vladimir opens his mouth to retort something, no-doubt either something shallow about Matt’s appearance that will make his skin crawl or a complaint about his current living space, but Matt interrupts the Russian with one fluid movement.
He pulls the gun out of his waistband and leans forward in his chair to place it with a thud on the tabletop, listening to the way Vladimir shifts and sits up, both interested and unsure of the connotations behind Matt’s movement.
“You bought gun?” Vladimir asks, his Russian accent thick with complacency.
“Not exactly,” Matt says slowly, unsure of whether or not he should have shown it to the Russian at all. If push comes to shove, he’s certain Vladimir would shoot him. But Matt’s counting on Vladimir being smart, on Vladimir not killing him before he at least becomes free from the radiator.
“I want you to show me how to use it,” Matt states, leaning his cane against the chair beside him and running his hands through his hair. Vladimir’s interest and confusion turns into a focused reaction: excitement.
“What do I get out of it?” Vladimir asks.
“Don’t ask what I’m willing to give, that’s sloppy. Give me your terms, and I’ll counter them if necessary,” Matt responds without thinking, all but quoting one of his old law professors in the process.
“I don’t want to be chained to кусок дерьма(1) radiator,” Vladimir says instantly, and Matt raises an eyebrow. He isn’t sure how to say that he was expecting more without prompting Vladimir to ask for something ridiculous… Like his measurements or something equally disturbing.
“Or to anything else in your sranyy(2) apartment.”
“Can I trust that you will stay in my apartment if you aren’t chained?” Matt counters, and Vladimir pauses, obviously considering his options.
“How can you trust anything I say?” Vladimir asks, and Matt hates the way he sounds genuinely curious.
“I can tell if you’re lying,” Matt responds evenly, trying to keep his words vague.
“How?”
Matt exhales, frowning slightly. “Heartbeat,” he says after a moment of silence, and smirks slightly when Vladimir scoffs.
“Izhets(3)...” Vladimir mumbles, and Matt listens to the Russian duck his head, rubbing his neck.
“Are you going to agree to my terms, or are you going to sleep on the floor tonight?”
“I have slept in much worse.” Vladimir sounds annoyingly proud.
“..And it doesn’t sound like you’re gonna do better,” Matt sighs and stands up, grabbing the gun off the table and making his way back towards his bedroom. He makes it too the doorway before Vladimir finally speaks up.
“I’ll teach you how to use gun if you get chain off my ankle,” he says and Matt smiles crookedly, not bothering to turn around.
“Deal,” Matt says fluidly, and takes another step forward before he’s stopped again by Vladimir’s voice.
“And one more thing.”
Matt inhales, realizing he should have waited for the other shoe to drop before agreeing.
“Liquor store, on forty-eighth and ninth. You owe me two bottles of their Sibirskaya vodka.”
Matt lets out a shaky laugh, not expecting that. “Is that all?”
Vladimir hums in thought. “Come here,” he demands.
“No games, crime lord. What else do you want?”
“Take off the chain then I tell you,” he tries.
Matt stands there, giving the captive an unbelieving look. “Stop being a child and just tell me. This isn’t going to work out for you if you try to play games with me, Vladimir.”
“The thing I want is not harmful, simply… a question I need answered,” he sounds a little too confident, as if he knows Matt wants to partake in this game of risk.
He listens to the Russian’s heartbeat; steady, not wavering in the slightest as he vows no harm will come out of this arrangement. The vigilante nods once, not truly worried about freeing the man - mainly because what can he honestly do? He needs help to even stand up straight, let alone leave the apartment or attack somebody.
Matt goes and grabs the key to the padlock, but while he’s scouring through the old chest his hands graze past something better. A lockpick. It’ll be easier to just take the entire chain off Vladimir’s foot instead of having to drag the thing around for the next few… days? Weeks? He isn’t quite sure how long the fugitive will be staying here, but it’ll take time to at least heal the major wounds.
The hero walks back into the living room, heading over to the radiator. Without saying a word, he crouches down and takes hold of Vladimir’s foot, knocking him off balance a bit.
“Hey, be careful would you, Mudak.”
Matt pays the words no mind as he focuses on the sound of tumblers being shifted from the clasp around his ankles lock. Lockpicking has always been easy for the blind man, Stick had taught him early on that there are many ways to use his hearing to his advantage. Breaking and entering had been one of them. It doesn’t take long before there’s a click and the lock pops open.
Matt straightens up, and he can feel Vladimir’s calculating eyes on him, most likely trying to decide whether the blind man’s actually going to let him be free.
“What’s your question?”
He hears him shuffle, coming closer to Matt. “What kind of man are you?” He mutters, grabbing his captor by the shirt.
Matt rocks forward, honestly not expecting Vladimir to attack him so stupidly. He tenses his muscles, preparing to block the Russian’s attempt when dry lips press against his own. A grunt escapes his mouth, confused and surprised at being kissed, but that doesn’t stop Vladimir from sliding his tongue into the befuddled man’s mouth.
“What -” he tries, but Vlad leans in, tilting his head just the right way to keep Matt’s mouth occupied. Matt isn’t sure whether to hate the fact that he’s letting it happen, or to lean into the crime lord’s warm mouth.
Vladimir’s hands find the front of his suit, warm palms pressing into his chest, and Matt almost reciprocates, almost managing to truly embarrass himself. But before he can, Vladimir pulls away. Without meaning to the hero follows after him, his body deciding that it wants to continue the kiss.
Matt can just feel the smugness radiating off the Russian.
“Shut up,” he grunts, pushing himself off the criminal.
“You look even prettier flustered,” Vlad purrs, licking his slightly bruised lips. The hero can bite, it seems.
Matt wishes he can control the flush that tints his cheeks at Vladimir’s voice, the sultry tone that makes him want to continue… whatever that just was. His brain tries to get him to snap and pull away, but a foolishly convincing part of his brain feeds him almost thoughtless reasons why he shouldn’t. Foggy isn’t his friend anymore, Matt doesn’t have the other man’s voice in his conscience, and he’s already killed for the Russian.
“You’re a dick.” Matt says bluntly.
“And you are killer.”
Matt thinks the words should sting, but they don’t even register as an insult… simply a statement of facts. Vlad is a dick and Matt is a killer, though the roles can easily be interchanged.
“So did that answer your question? Seemed more like an excuse to kiss me.”
“Yes. You are no hero. Just devil. The kiss was just plus.”