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Matt’s day is shit even before his teammate gets his brains blown out.
He wakes up late because he’d dislocated his shoulder the night before and subsequently reached his threshold of exhaustion since it had also coincidentally been night three with only as many hours of sleep put together. Being late means having to skip breakfast, which is relatively normal for him, but with his back tense as a brick wall and a huge bruise down the side of his face to boot, the hunger pangs are kind of agonizing.
And, finally, somehow, Foggy always knows. Matt sometimes considers asking him if he has any of his own superhuman abilities he hasn’t disclosed considering how often he can clock Matt’s every little change. He doesn’t think it would be well-received, though.
There might be an excuse this time since the evidence blares on his face. He had called Foggy in advance to tell him he would be late and he’s accordingly descended upon the second he opens the door, Foggy’s heartbeat ratcheting up into a panic even before the squawk of, “Matthew.”
“I’m fine,” Matt responds automatically, bee-lining it to his office. “Seriously, ignore me—“
Foggy doesn’t move to block him close to fast enough for Matt to not be able to dodge him, but Matt’s also not about to bodyslam his best friend before he’s so much as had his coffee.
“Foggy.”
“Don’t even. Let me see it.” He holds his hand out, snaps it open and shut insistently. “I’m holding my hand out for your glasses.”
Matt sighs. He takes them off, folding them one-handedly for Foggy to take. Matt can hear the rustle of him hooking them into his shirt pocket before he gets gentle fingers on Matt’s face. That’s one thing he can always count on. No matter how pissed Foggy is, his hands are gentle.
He turns Matt’s head to the side, hissing through his teeth, “Jesus. Who’d you fight, a brick wall?”
“A crowbar,” Matt supplies and suppresses a wince at how Foggy’s heart upticks. “Where’s Karen?”
“Getting coffee. And what about the person attached to this crowbar?” He carefully brushes his thumb over what Matt assumes is the darkest part of the bruise, right down his cheekbone. Matt has to fight tooth and nail not to lean into it.
He tries less hard to not sound so satisfied when he responds, “Got a lot more than bruises, I can tell you that much.”
Foggy makes a noise so drenched in distaste that Matt wants to cringe away. “Real alpha of you, Murdock. I’m sure you showed him,” he says and Matt hears the way his hair brushes against his collar when he does the full movement of an eye roll. “I just rolled my eyes. Idiot.”
Matt has told him before, haltingly, that he doesn’t have to narrate everything if he doesn’t want to. Matt hated having to say it, but he felt like he had taken enough advantages as it was with their friendship.
But even despite saying he understood, Foggy hasn’t stopped yet. Matt’s infinitely grateful for it.
Not so much when he catches a whiff of the arnica he’s started carrying in his pocket being produced. He groans, “Foggy—“
“Shut up,” he interrupts, at odds with how gently he tips Matt’s face back up.
“I’m going to be smelling that for at least a week now, man,” Matt complains. It’s not as strong as most other salves, he can at least tolerate it, which is why he guesses Foggy chose it, but that doesn’t mean it isn’t just a little dizzying. He feels like he has a pine-scented car freshener taped to his forehead.
“Fine, then next time catch the crowbar with your hand not your face,” Foggy responds. “We have a meeting with Dr. Rojas tomorrow and we have to get you down to a plausible silly me, I ran into an actual wall shade. Let me finish.”
“Yes, Mrs. Nelson.”
“Please. If my mom were the one seeing this thing on your face, she’d also be the one going out with a crowbar.” He caps the arnica again. “Anything else?”
Matt’s learned that lying to Foggy just doesn’t work anymore. It makes him worry more, but Matt wants to earn that trust back by at least giving him the peace of mind that he won’t walk into the office with a mortal wound one day.
“Dislocated my shoulder. Popped it back in, though.”
Foggy shakes his head, muttering a curse under his breath. He stands still for a second, then flicks at the offending shoulder. “It’s this one. Take off your shirt for a second, let me see it.”
“It’s nine in the morning, I’m not stripping for you,” Matt parries and that doesn’t get a reaction big enough to distract, but he can hear the one Foggy holds back, so it’s pretty much a victory anyway.
“Right, I forgot the whole BDSM leather thing was your night gig. What’re your rates again?”
“You can’t afford my rates.”
“If they’re anything like your current ones, you’d be giving lap dances pro bono. I’ll bake you a pie later. Off.”
Matt’s relationship with his abilities and how they individualize him has always been rocky. At the very least he can be glad Foggy can’t hear how his pulse hitches at that, though. So, fine, he complies.
Foggy has to help ease off Matt’s suit jacket and unbutton his shirt after he winces at having to move his shoulder for it, complaining without heat the entire time. Matt had wrapped it tightly in bandages all across his chest to compensate for not having a sling to ease off some of the pressure, but dislocation was dislocation. Or, well, relocation.
“You’ve got bruising all the way up your collar,” Foggy mutters with a very helpful tactile path to demonstrate. Matt doesn’t shiver but it’s a close thing. “Did you ice it?”
Matt nods. “And used the heat pad you got me. Thanks again.”
Foggy makes a noise. Matt pretends he can’t feel the pleased flush in his face. He doesn’t stop himself from grinning a little at it.
Matt hadn’t realized just how… intimate everything felt until the door opens and shatters the illusion, startling them both. It speaks to something that even Matt is distracted enough.
“Hey, they had blueberry muffins half off— Crap, Matt,” Karen gasps, heels clicking as she strides over. His mouth practically waters as the smell of coffee and pastries come with her.
“Just a dislocation. I fixed it.”
“Just a dislocation,” Foggy mocks, still carefully prodding.
“Your face,” Karen continues quietly, not touching but lifting one hand to hover over the bruise. Her heart’s calming down already. The air moves as she tilts her head toward Foggy, “No wonder you didn’t even let him get in his office.”
“The strippings at Nelson and Murdock are open to the public,” Matt intones in his best courtroom voice.
Karen laughs, swishing away toward her desk, “I’d contact HR if they weren’t the ones doing the stripping.”
“It’s called team building,” Foggy says then starts buttoning Matt’s shirt again. Once Matt’s completely redressed, he steps away. “I’m done. For now. Go get a muffin, I don’t need super hearing to know your stomach’s revolting against you.”
As disappointing as it is to lose the feeling of Foggy so close, that makes Matt smile again, even faintly. “Thanks, Foggy.”
He’s not sure what he misses in that second, but Foggy’s heart does a little jump. Before he can question it though, he’s being handed back his glasses with the simple statement of, “Idiot,” as Foggy moves back to his desk.
“Love you too, buddy,” Matt says. He finally walks into his office, setting his stuff down.
“Idiot,” Foggy repeats, louder through the glass.
“You know you don’t have to yell for me to hear you.” That’s not even a super hearing thing. It’s a small office.
There’s the sound of Foggy organizing everything on his desk. He repeats himself at a normal volume. “Idiot.”
“Thank you.”
Karen comes in and sets down his muffin and his coffee before he can tell her she doesn’t have to. She complains, “It’s like working with preschoolers, I swear.”
“He started it,” Matt says then cringes.
That’s definitely a raised eyebrow silence.
He picks up the muffin. “Thanks, Karen.”
“No problem, Rocky.”
Matt’s sure that’s the end of it. He’s not sure why, in hindsight, since that’s never the end of it, but he thinks maybe God could throw him a bone or something.
Foggy’s chair pushes back the second the front door closes behind Karen when the day’s done. Matt’s up and packing, taking a few of the Rojas folders to read over at home, but that does nothing to deter from the purposeful steps Foggy’s taking toward his office.
“You need to slow down,” he says and Matt’s heard that phrase in every single iteration of pissed off in the time Foggy’s known, but this is different. His voice is level. Tired.
Matt stops his packing to face in his direction. “I’ve had worse.”
Foggy’s heart picks up with the first licks of familiar anger, “You don’t think I know that, Matt? You don’t think I lay awake sometimes thinking of just how much worse can be happening, right then, and I can’t do shit about it?” Matt tries not to look too stricken at that. Foggy steps in closer, flapping his hand around, “No, put away the kicked puppy face. It’s not about how bad it is. It’s that it’s happening at all and you don’t care and it scares the shit out of me.”
Truth, truth, truth.
They’ve had the same conversation on and off at least a dozen times now. Matt thinks it might never end, but if it’s the price to pay for keeping Foggy, he’ll pay it gladly.
Matt pressed his mouth into a thin line, “I’m not going to stop.”
“I’m not asking you to. Not right now anyway,” he tacks on quickly. He moves to be standing right in front of Matt across his desk, the fake wood creaking as he pokes at it for emphasis, “Slow down. That’s it. Just for a little.”
Matt shifts his feet. “I don’t know what you mean by that.”
Foggy groans, throwing his hands up, “God, Matt, a dislocated shoulder’s no joke! You don’t slap a band-aid on it and go!” He takes a second to calm down and Matt hates that he’s the reason for how familie that sound has been lately. “All I’m saying is for you to cut down on your nighttime activities by a few hours so it can have some semblance of time to heal. We have a good amount of work to do right now, thank whatever saint looks after our lawyerly asses—“
“There are multiple.”
“—and half of it we might even get paid for. I know I can’t stop you but just…” Matt expects the hand Foggy wraps around his forearm, but that doesn’t make the warmth of it any less disarming. “I need my partner, okay? I told you already, I don’t want to do this without you.”
The contact makes the fact the statement’s true that much more staggering. Matt can feel Foggy’s sincerity to his bones. Deeper than that.
Matt places his free hand over Foggy’s hoping he can feel his too. “Okay. Fine. I’ll take it easy these next few days.”
“A month.”
“A week.”
“Two weeks. Dislocated shoulders take twelve to sixteen days to heal completely, and that’s with complete bed rest.”
Which makes Matt think he probably looked that up and wanted that timeline from the start. His mouth twitches. “I forget we’re lawyers sometimes, you know that?”
“Don’t I ever,” Foggy responds flatly, but Matt can hear the victorious smile in it. “So you agree? This is a legally binding verbal agreement. Cross your heart or I’ll drag Karen back here as witness if I have to.”
“Yes,” Matt makes an X over his own sternum, “I agree to your terms. I’ll start them tomorrow.”
Foggy groans, hand falling away, “Matt—“
Matt catches his wrist, squeezing quickly, “I already agreed to something with Spider-Man and Deadpool. That’s the only reason. We have good info that there’s gonna be a trade off for that human trafficking ring we’ve been landscaping.”
“Jesus, you make my life so weird,” Foggy says. “And don’t start spiraling because I said that.”
“I wasn’t spiraling,” Matt lies.
“Okay, liar.” He finally takes his hand back, clothes rustling as he crosses his arms. Matt finishes packing his stuff and Foggy continues as they head out to grab his own. “How come you can’t ask them to pick up some of the slack for you? Call in a favor, vigilante to vigilante.”
Matt makes a face as he retrieves his cane from where it’s leaning in the doorway. They’ve had this same conversation about the Defenders and at least then Matt could argue that they didn’t really do patrols. What he can say is that it sure speaks to how seriously Foggy means this since he isn’t exactly Deadpool’s biggest fan, even after his reformation. “I can’t make them do that. This is my home. No one’s protecting it better than me.”
Foggy gives an exasperated noise, “Very territorial of you. You asked for their help on this in the first place, didn’t you?”
“Out of necessity. It’s not the same as me needing them on daily patrols.”
“Matt, I’m not saying you give them your costume or hold them at nunchuck-point or something. I’m just saying it might help you actually chill out when you adhere to our deal.” The strap of his bag creaks as he hoists it up higher on his shoulder, shutting his office door behind them. “Might even end up enjoying it or something. Who knows? Not me, evidently.”
He offers his elbow out to Matt as they squeeze out the door to head down. Matt takes it, nodding at someone who greets them as they pass.
They’re on the street when Foggy asks, “Hey, if you can’t even trust these guys for a favor, why are you still teaming up with them?”
“I never said I don’t trust them. Not wanting to ask for a favor doesn’t imply a lack of trust.”
“Oh, really? Then what is it?”
Matt presses closer to him to avoid a dog walker, “Since when have you been their biggest fan? The first time I told you we worked together you warned me against becoming buddy-buddy with a couple of crazy people.”
“No, no, don’t do that. Quote me directly. I said: ‘Matt, are you sure you want to start teaming up with a couple of crazy people that run around beating other people up at night in red fetish gear?’. Clearly sarcastic. As you are also that crazy person.”
“Really? That’s not how I remember it,” Matt responds and grips his cane at an angle so he can wack at Foggy’s shins.
“Whatever—ow, quit it!—I’m just saying: help’s not a four-letter-word, Murdock. You won’t drop dead if you ask a close acquaintance, dare I say a friend,” he tugs at Matt’s hand in the crook of his elbow pointedly amid Matt’s eye roll, “for some assistance. Trust me.” He steps back into their regular positions again, not too far. Matt wants him that close again anyway.
He pushes the thought away and lets out a long stream of breath. Squeezes Foggy’s forearm briefly. “I can think about it.“ At the snap of Foggy’s head toward him, positively dripping with satisfaction, he then adds a, “Maybe.”
“I can take a maybe,” Foggy responds immediately, suit jacket swishing where it’s thrown over his arm as he gestures with it. “Sold for maybe!”
“Just a maybe, Foggy,” Matt warns.
“Yeah, yeah. Right. Just walk me home. I don’t want to know if Mr. Crowbar had any close acquaintances of his own.”
Matt drops Foggy off without any kind of incident, crowbar-related or otherwise. They part ways, but not before Foggy gives him a last meaningful pat to his shoulder that Matt shakes off exaggeratedly.
That does nothing to deter him from still feeling it all the way home. Foggy doesn’t use any particularly strong detergents or anything as a whole but Matt knowing him for an entire decade means he’s unwittingly able to pick out his scent better than he can with pretty much anybody else. Being with him for most of the waking day also means that Matt always carries the scent back with him, like Foggy’s still right there over his shoulder.
The only exception to that rule is his body armor.
It adds another layer of separation in his head between himself and the Devil. Matt’s the one with the job and the glasses and the cheap suits that smell like his friends. Daredevil doesn’t have any of that. Can’t have friends, super-powered or no, because he’d only end up pulling them under when he inevitably does the same.
That’s not how he frames it for Foggy. It’s not like he wants to die or burn out or whatever comes first, but there will always be a part of him that thinks it. Especially since he knows he’s the only one that will fight for Hell’s Kitchen like he does. No one else should be put through what he puts himself through if they don’t care half as much.
He picks his mask up last. Runs a thumb over one of the horns.
Putting it on is a morbid comfort. Daredevil leaves his apartment.
Matt stops a mugging and a bodega robbery on his way over to no (new) injuries, so he considers that a win. Wade’s at their meet up spot by the time he arrives. Something about his healing factor makes it so that he’s overheated constantly. He’s practically a beacon for Matt to find.
“Dev Dev!” Wade crows, muffled, as he lands. Matt’s already taking it a lot easier by not doing so much as one barrel roll leaping over the roofs on his way over. You’re welcome, Foggy. “Hey, buddy! Give me a second.”
“We’re not doing Dev Dev,” Matt says automatically, walking over. “Call me that again and I’ll break a finger.”
“That’s what they all say,” Wade says with the same cheer. He’s perched on the edge of the roof, heels kicking against the brick. Closer, Matt can tell his voice is muffled because he has one of his gloves trapped between his teeth, texting rapidly with the ungloved hand. He can also already tell he won’t be as, for lack of a better word, erratic today. Matt used to call it crazy until he caught on that as purposefully over the top as Wade is, applying that word to the actual issues he can’t help would make him falter. Matt has never been able to fully understand it and he’s not sure if it’s his place to really ask, so he doesn’t. He just knows some days Wade comes along with a thrumming air of freneticism that has him talking more to something in his head than to Matt or Spider-Man.
Speaking of. Matt drops down to sit against the chimney beside Wade, one leg drawn up. “Any word on when the Spider’s coming?”
“Ooh,” Wade wiggles his fingers in the air, “the Spider. It always sounds so cool and edgy when people call him that.” He spits the glove out onto his lap, pulling his mask back down and going back to typing. “If he weren’t unhealthily codependent with the hyphen, I might legally change his name to that while he sleeps. Mail the papers to Jameson via the brick through window method.”
Matt wants to say he would be opposed to that idea, and maybe he would be if he hadn’t told Foggy to read what the Bugle’s printed about Daredevil before. Still, legally, he can’t support that.
Wade’s phone blaring suddenly makes them both jump. It’s that one Dua Lipa song Karen and Foggy won’t stop playing and for a second Matt feels a weird sense of vertigo of being in the mask while he listens to it. That’s another thing about Wade. He rarely keeps a burner phone.
“Great reminder to put my shit on vibrate, Webs,” Wade mutters as he answers. “Yoo hoo? Earth to Webhead. We’re here waiting for you all prepped and ready, snookums.”
Spider-Man sounds about as exasperated as Matt feels, “Three nicknames in one greeting, I get it, you’re with Daredevil. Hey, Red.”
“Spider-Man,” Matt greets back. He’s almost one hundred percent sure they know each other’s identities. Well, practically everybody knows Wade’s, it’s on his Wikipedia page, but it’s more than that with them. Comments with that kind of easy familiarity always solidify the theory. He’s never thought it super important to ask.
He’s thought about telling them his, he can’t say he hasn’t. But it circles back to the lines of separation he has drawn whether he likes it or not. How far can he push the divide before he literally just breaks in halves?
Not really the thing to be ruminating on a ledge with Wade about. He snaps Matt out of his thoughts with a nonchalant, “You saying hi to him before you say hi to me like I won’t jump off this building I’m precariously balanced on right now.”
Spider-Man snorts. “Okay. Do a flip.”
Matt almost laughs at that. Wade gives an affronted gasp, hand against his chest and everything. “I—“ He whips his head around at Matt, waving his phone around precariously, “Do you see the disrespect I deal with every day, DD? This is preposterous. Doesn’t care if I live or die. Pretty sure Jar Jar Binks got treated better back in the eighties.”
“Don’t start that again.”
“See if I don’t. Snap to it before I start reciting the script to The Princess Bride word-for-word.” He leans his body back enough to gesture widely at Matt, “We open on the bleak bedroom of a sick child—“
“Don’t start that either,” Spider-Man says, sounding fondly like that implies it’s also a common occurrence. Then he gets more serious, the sound of clothes shifting. “Listen, I know it’s short notice, but something came up. I’m sorry.”
Matt lifts his head at the same time as Wade. The light atmosphere fogs up. Wade braces a hand on the ledge to sit up straight, “Everything alright, Webs?”
“Nothing bad. Just.” There’s a long pause, then, “It’s May.”
It’s September, but that has to mean something else for them because Wade’s already nodding, “So nothing bad, just May. You sure you’ll be okay?”
“Positive. Would I be this calm if I wasn’t? I just can’t leave. You guys can handle this on your own. You know what to do. Crack some heads for me, but don’t go overboard,” and that had Matt and Wade both rolling their eyes. They had developed the method of just doing an entire arc with their heads since none of them could actually see each other’s eyes, which made it easier for Matt, at any rate.
It’s not like Spider-Man is their impulse control or anything. Matt can admit that his and Wade’s fighting styles are a lot more aggressive than his, which is mostly due to the fact they were both trained in it that way and from what Matt can gather, Spider-Man hadn’t been trained at all. Despite that, Matt knows for a fact that he definitely has the capacity to be as aggressive since there’s a widely acknowledged period of time early on where Spider-Man’s collars leaned more towards broken bones than the bruises he frequents now. So all of them are pretty equally matched. They’ve had slow nights on patrol where they’ve taught each other things, so there’s no real disparity.
There’s still a decent difference. The three of them together, to a bad guy, is scary. Just Daredevil and Deadpool means not one person isn’t ending up in the hospital by the end of it.
Matt isn’t proud of it. Or rather, he wishes he wasn’t. Their anger isn’t the same, but their methods for taking it out align perfectly since Wade stopped killing people. Like he had told Foggy, they made a pretty good fucking team. He’d just left the part out where that team was an H-bomb.
“We know,” Wade says once they end the motion. “Don’t worry about us. Worry about May.”
“I know you know,” he answers in a plaintive, high voice. Matt knows he’s waving a hand around. “I’ll call later if it gets better and I think I can leave. Keep me posted.”
“Will do, boo. Dev Dev, say bye bye.”
Matt reaches forward with his uninjured arm and cleanly snaps Wade’s left middle finger in two, his, “Bye,” cut through with Wade’s exaggerated, “Yeeouch! ”
“Did you just break something?”
“I told him not to call me that,” Matt says around a shrug as he leans back.
“Deserved. Told you so. Bye.” The line goes dead.
Wade pockets the phone after setting it on vibrate, waving his now-injured hand in Matt’s face. He can already hear the bone healing itself. “You should kiss it better.”
“I should break another one.”
“Then say you’re sorry.”
“You don’t look like my priest,” Matt replies dryly. They both push to their feet. Matt cracks his neck and hops on the balls of his feet a few times to get his blood pumping again. “Any chance I get to know what May is?”
“God, the rhapsodic I could wax,” Wade sighs dreamily. That throws Matt for a loop. But Wade gets uncharacteristically serious amid his own stretches, straightening after bending himself nearly in half. “But that’s not my backstory to give. That’s all Spidey.”
Matt nods and doesn’t push the subject. He follows Wade to the edge of the building and they’re off.
Wade’s intel comes from a man who will probably have to eat through a tube for the rest of his life, so they have a good stake in it. The trafficking rings aren’t anything new, no matter how hard Matt tries to squash them out. This particular ring is a new crop of Romanians that popped up a month or so ago among other smaller gangs to fill in the gaps after Matt took down the Hungarian syndicate. Every gang has some hand in the flow of drugs into the city, but trafficking is reserved for the bigger ones that simply can. ‘Meetings’, in this case, meant the tradeoff between money and bodies, this time held in a warehouse near the loading docks on the edge of Hell’s Kitchen. Matt knows it’s because that’s the fastest way to get them out of New York, but after as many busts as there have been, he would think the police would up the security measures. Maybe eventually they’ll realize Daredevil isn’t the one making them look bad.
The shipping containers provide a good enough space to move undetected toward the larger storage building where the exchange is actually supposed to happen. There are a few footmen patrolling around that they get rid of pretty quickly.
Matt taps Wade’s elbow as they approach one, motioning for him to continue walking as Matt circles around and bangs at another container. As soon as the guard turns his head, Wade is on him, arm pressing into his windpipe until he passes out and they drag him into an empty container. They rinse and repeat, slowly picking off every single one with four in total.
The metal is kind of terrible for Matt’s senses. Sound is constantly bouncing back and disorienting him, but it’s not bad enough to actually hinder him. He has to shut his eyes and focus back into himself as the padlock on the container clicks when Wade closes it.
What does hinder him is the full force of Wade’s smack against his injured shoulder. He says something triumphant but Matt’s too busy fighting against the blood that rushes to his ears at the sharp pain bolting up his throat to hear it.
By the time Matt’s filtered out the pain, Wade’s still talking, just in front of Matt with a much gentler hand on his opposite shoulder and a panicked stream of, “—always aggressive with each other, y’know, that’s our thing, I didn’t mean—“
“Pool,” Matt bites out. He swallows to clear his dry throat. “I’m fine.”
“I lovingly patted your shoulder and you blacked out.” Wade steps back, surveying him. Then he lets go of Matt to put his hands on his hips, “Are you hurt?”
“I’m fine,” Matt repeats.
Wade throws his arms up, circling around as if yelling it to the world at large even though he’s still mostly whispering, “What is it with you martyr complex having folk and this shit, I swear on Blanche Deveraux, pulling teeth is easier and I know because I’ve done it.” He whirls around on Matt, stabbing a finger that almost touches his chest but not quite, “You’re hurt.”
Matt tries not to scowl and fails. “I dislocated my shoulder yesterday.”
“Bruh,” Wade says flatly and Foggy can never, not in a million years know Matt got lectured by Deadpool. It’s not happening.
“I can still fight,” Matt continues, pushing off the container to start back toward the warehouse. “I’ve done it with worse. You can’t stop me.”
Wade falls into step with him, “Wasn’t dreaming of that, honey, but your father and I are gonna have to have a stern conversation about informing teammates about these kinds of things with you later.” He tries to pat Matt’s head but Matt ducks out of the way. “You can only have so many self-destructive people on a team before we start getting called Team Powder Keg. Or One Direction.”
Matt doesn’t give that an answer. He can’t focus on the fact that Wade is showing signs of actually caring about him. He hops up onto one of the containers and starts the ascent to perch at the very top of the pile and carefully land on the roof of the warehouse. There are so many heartbeats Matt has to take a second to individualize the frantic, terrified majority with the calm other.
Wade settles in next to him as Matt mutters, “Thirteen targets, all armed. Guns and knives. Thirty-one victims, already in a container.” He can’t keep the disgust out of his voice when he says it. They’re clearly distressed, huddled together. Matt can practically taste the fear, even from this distance.
“I like our odds,” Wade responds in a low, equally pissed tone. “See, we didn’t even need Spidey.” He reaches into his belt and Matt can hear him checking his guns, rubber bullets settling in the magazines as Wade counts them out. He starts screwing on his scope.
Matt crouches along the gutter, tapping at the roof to get more insight on the territory.
There. Glass.
“There’s a skylight,” Matt says, motioning over with his head as he goes to it so Wade can take a look.
Wade makes an excited noise when they reach it, flicking at metal that Matt can now recognize as a latch. Wade presses in close, leaving room for Matt that he takes just for the act.
“What the fuck do they even have to talk about at these things, it’s like they want to be busted,” Wade says.
Matt has been keeping one ear on the conversation for any intel he might need, but they’re discussing a drug rotation Matt is already keeping tabs on so he’s mostly listening to get a better picture of where they’re all standing.
The upside about these warehouses is that they’re easy to find. The downside is that there’s little to no way to do anything stealthily since it’s one big room that’s kept mostly empty with people posted at every entrance.
Matt sits back on his heels, “Our best shot is blocking the exits from the outside and trapping them in.”
Wade nods. “If you go to the window on the other side of the roof, I can shoot out the lights so they’re looking over here and you can drop down at the other end.”
Matt turns his head toward him.“If you shoot out the lights, you won’t be able to see.” It’s no secret that Matt’s senses let him move easily in the dark even if the others don’t know the extent, and even if Wade’s night vision is better than average, fighting in complete darkness is still what it is.
“Uh, yeah, thanks, Dareptain Dobvious,” Wade snorts, jerking his head down at the window. “But neither will they. And if you have the upper hand, I have the upper hand. That’s two extra hands we don’t even need.”
Matt can’t let himself feel touched by that. He focuses and feels the other window across the roof. “How do you know there’s another window?”
“This is a Crowley Model Number Eight,” Wade answers like it’s obvious, knocking against the building once and immediately setting onto their first task by climbing down the rain gutter. “They all have two skylights for customer comfort. You don’t research warehouse models in your spare time, Red?”
Matt leaps down with him. He can’t deny that it’s a smart move. “No, Wade, I can’t say I do.”
“Boy, you’re missing out. Don’t get me started on the Bobcat Five. I could go on for hours.” Wade’s pockets jangle as he produces a chain and padlock and hands it off to Matt.
Matt’s completely sure he’s telling the truth so he mutters, “We’ll go with your plan, we can talk about that later,” and motions them off.
There are two sets of doors on the opposite ends of the building and one extra emergency exit. Matt chains his set quietly and securely, listening to make sure no one inside is tipped off, then circles back around to the emergency exit. On the ground, he can stand by and sense that it’s hidden behind a shelving unit.
He meets back with Wade on the roof. “The emergency door’s our exit. It’s behind those shelves on the west side. We can push them over and escape through there.”
“Cool beans,” Wade says. He has his phone out, then away. “Pig pen notified. ETA fifteen.” He angles his head toward Matt though he’s still facing the skylight. “Let’s get this show on the road.”
There’s a focused edge to it. Wade’s a lot of things, flighty and loud among them, but when he has a mission, it takes full, borderline dangerous priority. Yet another thing they have in common that Foggy can’t know about.
Matt grunts his affirmative and goes to take his position. His own focus settles over him as he does, and Daredevil’s the one silently unlatching the skylight. Matt lets himself feel the anger like a physical thing in his body, filling out all the gaps.
He tilts his head to hear Wade’s steady inhale as he takes aim, leather of his gloves creaking against the handle of his gun. Exhale.
There it is.
Matt’s vaulting through the window the second the bullet leaves the barrel. The fall is a blur between the shattering of the lights and the shouts of the gang members, but by the time Matt’s hitting the ground in a roll and flinging a nunchuck at the closest head, the buzz of the fluorescents is gone. Wade’s landing comes a second later, punctuated by a, “Am I in the right classroom?”, and several gunshots.
Matt rolls his eyes, but despite the pain steadily beating in his shoulder, there’s a smirk forcing its way onto his face. He catches the chuck as it flies back into his hand and sweeps a leg. The person yelps as they fall, gun going off to hit the first guy in the knee. He grabs at their collar just after their head cracks against the ground, backhanding them across the face with his chuck.
“Please,” they beg, but they always beg, as if Matt’s the one that can forgive them. He supposes it’s not God they’re going to have to answer to, in the grand scheme of things.
He gets up only to rear back and stomp their face with a satisfying crunch. Down. That’s one.
He quickly holsters his nunchuck and grabs their gun, a hefty rifle, swinging it around to hit the next one in the ribs. It’s the right angle for Matt to then immediately flick the gun up and elbow the barrel against his chin. The smell of blood is near enough so Matt can taste it at the back of his throat. The man stumbles back but Matt gets a better grip on the gun and hits the butt against his temple. Two.
Nails scrape against the floor and Matt remembers. The one with the shot out knee doesn’t hear him as he approaches. Three.
Four puts up more of a fight, running at him with a sharp cry that Matt silences by whirling and high kicking him in the teeth. Across the room, Wade’s kneeing someone in the gut and body slamming him against another, scream-singing a Springstein song. Matt takes a fist with his jaw to get the momentum to tackle his guy to the floor. The doors on Wade’s side shake as someone tries to leave. “This gun’s for hi-re, even if we’re dancin’ in the dark —Hey, no, rude.” A pair of skulls crack together. Make that two someones.
Matt breaks Four’s wrist to deter him from getting the taser in his belt. He can’t anticipate how high his pain tolerance has to be for him to grab it anyway and bury it in Matt’s neck. His senses make what amount of shock his body armor absorbs useless. He musters up enough strength to smash his head against Four’s, effectively leaving two horn-shaped scrapes in his skin before Matt shoves him off.
His muscles are spasming enough that his knee locks as he kneels up to his feet, which isn’t really the time since someone is coming at him, knives in both hands. Fuck.
He traps a scream behind his teeth as he drives every ounce of strength into forcing himself upright with enough time to deter the one aimed for his throat even if he has to catch the other in the ribs. Matt blames the electricity still buzzing around in his head for the fact that his only thought while being slammed into their exit shelf is to apologize to Foggy later.
Matt leans so his good shoulder takes most of the impact. He pins the free knife against the wall and punches the side of his first into the back of his attacker’s hand so something breaks and the knife falls. It must also piss him off, because he twists the one in Matt’s side, the pain white hot as the taste of metal burrows itself under his tongue.
Matt bangs his head against the shelf to heave a breath and abruptly pulls it back, snarling as he grabs his attacker’s forearm. He relishes in the stutter of fear in his pulse as Matt drags him closer, effectively burying the knife deeper but also popping that arm out of its socket.
It happens too fast for Matt to act from where he’s trapped. He’s busy blocking out the pain from the stab wound and the scream his attacker lets out to shove him away, but he can still feel the person pointing a gun at him, Wade on his heels. Kill shot , his brain supplies unhelpfully, since he knows he won’t be able to dodge it in time. All he can do is brace himself and—
Gunshot, skull shatter, a spray of blood, and finally a body drop, all in the usual quick succession. The only familiar heartbeat in the room’s silent as the bullet meant for Matt buries itself beside his foot.
Matt wrenches his bad arm free to send a nunchuck flying at the shooter, slowing them down enough so he has the chance to yank at his attacker’s dislocated arm and slam him solidly against the wall. He would usually keep the knife in but it didn’t hit an artery and it’s more useful in the moment to pull it out and stab it through his attacker’s hand as he scrabbles at the wall to stand.
Matt tightens a fist into his hair and smashes his face into the wall until he passes out in shuddering breaths. Then he turns toward the shooter. He’s struggling to stand, but he’s still up.
The darkness makes it so it’s easy to kick the gun away, pick up his chuck, and slam it against the shooter’s throat. He wheezes and Matt does it again for good measure before hooking his ankle with the shooter’s and dragging him down. He falls to his knees, one planted on the shooter’s chest, and starts punching. One of the shooter’s arms spasms out, grappling at Matt’s injured side, so Matt pulls his fist back for long enough to break it before going back in.
He doesn’t know how long it is until he’s passed out, but by the end of it all Matt can smell is blood and gunpowder. Mostly blood. His own, he thinks. He can hear it still dripping as he stumbles to his feet to knock the shelf over.
The victims’ collective cacophony of pulses filter back in. He had tuned them out to focus on the fight. Their container is sandwiched between two others, like that does anything to mask the whimpers and sobbing whispers Matt winces at as he picks the lock open swiftly.
He expects the horrified gasps and motions for the emergency exit. He knows he sounds more than a little bit slurred when he says, “Get out. Stay in the light and stay close. The police are on their way.”
They don’t move, which he also expects. He was a lot nicer the first couple of times he stopped these kinds of situations, carefully trying to coax them out of their hiding spots to leave with him, but he quickly realized it doesn’t help anybody to be nice even if they deserve that kindness after everything they’ve been through. Shock makes people slow, and slow gets them dead.
Matt takes a ragged breath and slams a fist into the side of the container, “I said go. Now.”
They don’t need to be told twice. They run and Matt leans against the wall beside the door to catch his breath as they do, listening as they run for the very edge of the docks where the streetlights hit. Good.
Which leaves Wade’s corpse. Matt presses his hand back over his wound and limps over to crouch next to him.
Being near a body never gets easier. The silence is always uneasy and he can smell decay in a millisecond because of how many chemicals the body releases at once, though this time the blood is overpowering it. He should probably reevaluate his life choices if the smell of blood is comforting in any situation.
Levels above uneasy is the fact that Matt can hear brain matter regrowing already. If he touches Wade right now, he’s sure he’d be hot enough to burn with how fast the healing factor’s working. He knows it’s a good thing that his teammate’s unkillable, but actually experiencing it is a whole other thing entirely.
He snaps his head up at the faintest sounds of sirens. Fuck. Right.
His muscles are trembling. His head is swimming from overstimulation. Matt swallows everything down and hoists Wade’s body up onto his back.
He makes it decently far. Out of the docks, following the opposite of his own advice and keeping to the shadows so he’s actually in the city when he finally has to collapse in an alley to heave in a breath. His shoulder’s fucking pissed at him, and his still-bleeding side’s not too happy either. So much for taking it easy’s soft launch. He really would have to apologize to Foggy.
They’re well hidden here, at least. The sirens stopped a while ago and Matt had heard the police make their rescues and arrests.
But what is Matt supposed to do with Wade’s dead body in the meantime? It’s not like Matt’s about to leave him. He doesn’t know how long a posthumous regeneration can take and regardless he’s not going to let Wade wake up after that completely alone in an alley. He saved Matt’s life, or at the very least a nightmare of a healing process.
Matt’s apartment is close but there’s no way he can take Wade back as deadweight with the way the blood loss is starting to haze up his senses. He shuts his eyes under his mask and takes a second to think and finds he can’t.
He thinks the buzzing is just the first signs of a concussion he hadn’t initially detected until his hand brushes Wade’s shoulder and he feels it.
Matt blinks his eyes back open and fumbles for Wade’s phone in his belt. He can’t see the contact name but he gets a feeling and puts the ringer back on. Dua Lipa blares.
“Spider-Man?”
“Daredevil?” He answers, clearly surprised. “Uh. Hi. I was just calling Pool to see if you guys were done yet. I did end up able to get out early. Where is he?”
Matt tries not to let too much of his exhaustion bleed into his voice, “We finished. Everything went fine except, uh. I might still need that help. He got shot in the head.”
“He what ,” and maybe Matt should have anticipated that but it’s loud enough to hurt like a physical box to his ear. There’s fabric movement, the microphone muffled like Spider-Man has the phone crushed against his shoulder, “Is he dead? Are you okay? Where are you guys?”
“Yes. Mostly.” He has to gather up some nerve to admit the next part, “I can’t go any farther with him alone. I got stabbed.” He doesn’t really feel the need to mention the shoulder.
“Getting stabbed’s the worst. Fuck.” The phone definitely falls before it’s swiftly picked back up and Spider-Man says, “I have Wade’s location, just don’t turn his phone off and I’ll be there in ten. Probably less. Sit tight.”
The call ends. Matt shifts, hissing at the stinging pain of the movement. At least the shoulder and the stab are all on his right side. He can’t hear anybody approaching apart from the actual people walking in the streets so he keeps an ear out but settles. He sits tight.
The thwips come in way earlier than he thought they would. That couldn’t have even been five minutes.
“Spider-Man,” Matt says, not too loud. He knows even if Spider-Man’s hearing isn’t as good as his, it still has some reach.
Spider-Man’s feet hit the top of the building Matt’s tucked into and run until he’s landing right next to them. His heart’s beating wildly and Matt would chalk it up to exertion if the first thing Spider-Man does instead of catch his breath isn’t touch Wade’s chest, spandex against leather. He sucks a breath in through his teeth.
“I hate when this happens.”
“It’s happened with you before?”
A nod. “Twice.” He’s splaying his entire hand over Wade’s chest now, and his pulse is slowly winding back down even though Matt can still smell fear in the air. “Doesn’t make it any easier.”
“I don’t doubt that,” Matt responds.
“Where’d you get stabbed? Let me patch it up.”
He motions vaguely, “Right side, between five and six. It didn’t hit anything, but it’s still bleeding.”
Spider-Man makes an affirmative noise and Matt lets him take a look. He inhales sharply. “Shit, man, you definitely need stitches on this.” The webbing’s cool when it hits his skin but it warms up immediately when the sluggish flow of blood soaks through.
Matt resists the urge to touch it. He pushes up into a crouch with only one fumble, motioning his head at Wade, “What do you usually do?”
Spider-Man shrugs, “Wait.”
“How long?”
“Depends. I’ve never seen this,” he motions toward what Matt assumes is the bullet hole, “so I don’t know. His healing factor’s as unpredictable as he is.”
“Makes sense. You think you could get both of us out of here?”
“Yeah, of course,” he responds immediately.
Matt had been gearing up to say it but he still hesitates.
It’s the smartest move. He can’t get far with his injuries and they have an entire dead body to account for. Claire is out of town for her aunt’s birthday. He is not going to call Foggy.
Spider-Man notices. “What’s wrong?”
“I’m weighing our options,” he mutters and lifts his head. “My apartment is close by.”
He knows Spider-Man will take that as what it is, question and statement all in one. He’s right because Spider-Man straightens. “Okay.”
Matt keeps choosing his words carefully, “I’m willing to offer it up. I just…” It isn’t exactly a secret, not to them anyway, but it’s still hard to get out. “I have people I need to protect.”
Spider-Man nods carefully. He clears his throat and takes a few breaths Matt knows are fortifying, pulse steady and sincere. “You know I get it, man. I know how important it is to keep this stuff private. If you’re just doing it to be, uh,” his voice goes up in a question, “nice…?”
“Am I not nice?”
“No,” Spider-Man answers immediately. Every word picks up more speed. “But I’m also not super nice. I think Wade’s the nicest one out of the three of us, if we’re splitting hairs. Which is why I don’t want you to do this because you think you have to. When all’s said and done, our secret identities are who we are, and I don’t want you to compromise that if you don’t want to.”
Matt has to take a second to process that. He presses his hand into his side to brace himself and points at Wade with his chin, “The bullet he took was meant for me. He saved my life.”
Spider-Man doesn’t flinch. “I assumed that. He doesn’t take bullets he doesn’t need to.”
Matt tries not to raise his voice but he knows he can’t hide his insistence. “I got him killed.”
“He’s not dead,” Spider-Man says back like he’s had this conversation before. “He knew what he was doing.”
Matt raises a hand, “I didn’t say he didn’t.” He drops it and gives in to the heaviness in his head momentarily to press it against the wall as he chooses his words carefully. “It surprised me.”
Spider-Man huffs what could be a laugh and nods. “He’ll always be the fall guy if he can help it. I don’t enjoy it, but he’s one of the only people I think really can be. That’s just something you get used to working with him.”
“What, getting him shot in the head?”
Matt isn’t sure if he’s aware he’s doing it, but he leans back with that same hand on Wade’s quiet chest. “Realizing there are other people that would go through the same lengths to protect what you also want to protect.”
Matt thinks of the blood in his throat and the smell of Foggy’s detergent in his closet. Both familiar. Both his. He’s bleeding out in an alley with a guy that took a bullet to the head for him despite not even knowing his first name and another guy that is adamant about respecting Matt’s wishes because he knows, better than anyone Matt might ever meet.
Matt takes a deep breath.
He shifts to face Spider-Man fully. “Do you have any intent to uncover my identity without my consent, Spider-Man?”
Spider-Man pauses before answering. “Of course not, man.”
Truth.
“And if you did figure it out regardless of whether or not I tell you, would you use it against me?”
“No.”
Truth.
“And you trust him to do the same?” He hooks a thumb in Wade’s direction.
“Yeah.”
Truth.
Matt nods once and gets to his feet, one hand still on the wall for support, “Then that’s all I needed to know. Let’s go.”
Spider-Man’s probably staring. Matt would probably be staring and he can’t even exactly do that. “Did you just lie detect me?”
He doesn’t sound angry about it. That’s definitely shock. “Yes.”
Still no movement. “So you’re really serious.”
Matt finally lets all the background noise filter back in and reaches for the vibrations of the fire escape above him to pull himself up. It burns, but there’s still enough adrenaline left in his system for him to do it. “Why would I say it if I wasn’t?”
“You—“ Another long pause. Matt’s halfway up the building when he finally hears Spider-Man pick up Deadpool, then already walking across the roof when Spider-Man lands heavily beside him. His heat signature combined with Deadpool’s is like walking in step with a small star.
“You’re doing this on purpose somehow.”
“Doing what?”
“Acting like this isn’t that big a deal.” It’s not accusatory. Matt doesn’t usually like to act like he doesn’t get what someone is saying unless it serves him, especially considering he’s spent his entire life using the smallest cues to do it. Spider-Man’s definitely just curious. And wouldn’t Matt be too.
“Since when have I been the dramatic one, Spider-Man?”
Spider-Man snorts, “Oh, you’re definitely doing this on purpose.”
Matt doesn’t respond to that one, pressing his hand to his stab wound and taking a running leap to the next building. Pain shoots through him despite landing with his left foot instead of his right, but it’s not bad enough to debilitate him.
Spider-Man follows. They keep at a faster pace from then on and Matt tries not to let the fact he’s accompanied by someone on this path unnerve him too much. At least now he knows he wouldn’t have made it this far dragging Wade by himself because, luck of lucks, the second his feet hit the roof of his own building, his knees buckle and follow suit.
“Yo,” Spider-Man exclaims and hurriedly kneels down next to him. “Hey, you okay?”
“Fine,” Matt gets out, even if he can feel his own heartbeat underneath the webbing through his fingers. “We’re here.”
He gets up and doesn’t know if it’s that he falls again or what but suddenly Spider-Man’s free arm is wrapped around his waist, “You’re done. Through the emergency door?”
Matt nods and stumbles along. He has to focus all his energy on blocking out as much of the smell of decay as he can or he’ll definitely black out.
The second they’re inside and Matt has a hand on the railing, he pushes Spider-Man along. “Put him on the couch. Give me a second.”
Spider-Man goes without a word and the spandex strains as Matt’s sure his head’s swiveling around to get a good look at everything. “You have direct roof access? That’s so lucky.”
“I’m all about luck,” Matt says, sucking in a breath. It’s faint, but there’s Foggy. Maybe it’s just Matt, since they spend so much time together, or it’s both of them together, but it gets the job done in settling him. The world’s stopped spinning. He misses the button the first time but manages to unbuckle his helmet to give himself more breathing room. He can feel the burn mark from the taser tucked into his collar.
The couch creaks with weight. The fact it releases a faint smell of old gore without even accounting for Wade’s speaks to just how right Foggy and Claire might be about getting a new one. Spider-Man’s steps are light on their own again so Matt says, “First-aid’s on top of the fridge.” He starts his way down the staircase, motioning vaguely, “There should also be a pair of glasses on the counter if you could get those for me.”
He’s not sure if Spider-Man’s even aware of the near-silent noise he makes at that request, but Matt sure is. The fact he knows has some surprises up his sleeve is inexplicably satisfying.
He moves to the chair on the left, since he’s already accidentally bloodily collapsed into it at least twice. Maybe he should start plastic wrapping everything before paroles. Better yet, ask Claire if they have any old hospital beds to spare and just make that the only thing in his living room.
“Here,” Spider-Man says but is only holding out the glasses.
Matt takes them, setting them in his lap, and puts his hand back out for the kit. “You said I needed stitches, right?”
“Yeah,” Spider-Man says. A beat. “Dude, I meant I’m going to help you with them.”
Matt answers automatically, “You don’t have to do that.”
“I know that, but, like,” the contents of the kit rattle around as he motions, “why not? You’re extending courtesy by letting me see where you live, I might as well help you out.”
Matt doesn’t say anything yet. He knows that’s logical. He’d probably offer the same, if their positions were switched, but the Catholic self-flagellation and his insistence for not needing help are fist-fighting in his head right now. Or maybe that’s just a migraine coming on.
Spider-Man shifts and his voice is lower when he breaks the silence, “I’m not about to force you into it, man, but I know that it’s a pain in the ass to do them yourself at that angle. Are you sure you want to do it alone?”
It’s like Foggy’s right there beside him, giving him his best judgemental silence. Matt knows there’s no reason to say no.
Help’s not a four letter word, Murdock.
“Okay,” Matt finally says and Spider-Man wastes no time in pulling in his other chair to start. He has one foot pulled up, crossed under him, the other tapping a nervous tattoo into the floor. That might not sound like the most comforting thing coming from someone about to stick a needle in his skin, normally, but he’s used to all of Spider-Man’s excess energy, and that realization is a comfort.
The web-dissolving disk’s flicked on, smelling like saline solution and just barely lavender Windex. Matt waits until the smell’s mostly traded out for that of fresh blood to assume the web’s gone so he can gingerly prod at it. It’s too high for him to just lift his shirt for it, so he waves off Spider-Man’s alarmed noise and gets it off over his head.
He has to take a deep breath in through his nose to not wince at both his shoulder and the dried blood that’s lifted as it detaches. The cool air of his apartment hits his sweaty skin so he can tell just how overheated by the overstimulation he is.
Spider-Man pops open the kit with a click while he’s undressing, careful so something doesn’t get caught on his horns. He rustles around in it and Matt makes a note that it sounds like he has to restock his bandages. He hadn’t noticed last night because he’d basically passed out as soon as he hit the bed; not that anybody had to know that.
He smells the antiseptic wipe before it’s even open. Something about the fact that Spider-Man doesn’t give the warning of this is going to sting makes Matt want to laugh. Normal people who aren’t patching themselves up every twenty-four hours haven’t done it often enough to know they don’t need that warning. Spider-Man does.
“Doesn’t look as bad clean,” Spider-Man mutters. “I think it might be six. What do you think?”
Matt assumes Spider-Man’s asking for him to take a look. He reaches over and measures it out by the distance between his fingers.
“Yeah, six seems about right. Go ahead.”
Spider-Man pauses for a second long enough for Matt to believe he’ll bring it up. Instead, the wipe’s wrapper crumples as it’s discarded and thread is strung through a needle. Spandex brushes against skin and Matt can hear Spider-Man’s breath unmuffled. His mask’s pulled over his nose so he can bite his right glove off before pulling it back into place.
The gloved hand’s the one that braces itself on his flank while the other one does the work. Matt focuses on his breathing and taking off his own blood-caked gloves.
“That thing gives some pretty good light.” Spider-Man says. Matt doesn’t have to guess whether or not he’s motioning at the billboard. There’s no other source of light in his apartment. “It doesn’t keep you awake or anything?”
“No. Doesn’t bother me at all.” He tilts his head at the room at large, “I got this place cheaper because of it and everything, so honestly it does the opposite of bother me.”
Spider-Man looks up abruptly, movement pausing, “Wait, really?”
Matt nods.
He clicks his tongue faintly, continuing the sewing, “Damn, that’s great. Do you save a lot on electricity?”
Matt bites back a snort at that. There are three lightbulbs in his house and every single one was purchased by Foggy for his own benefit. It’s also definite confirmation that he and Spidey are probably in the same financial boat. No rich New Yorker asks about utility bills. He nods again, “Oh, yeah, absolutely.”
That’s when he hears the second heartbeat. He’s long since blocked out his own, so Spider-Man’s is the only one he’s been aware of until this very moment. Faint and slow but definitely there.
Matt lifts his head. “He’s alive.”
Spider-Man’s fingers spasm around the needle in time with his heartbeat’s abrupt mad sprint, thankfully not in a position to tug at the thread too hard. Matt takes it from him carefully as he gives a strangled, “Crap, I’m sorry, what?”
Wade gasps. Spider-Man’s got both feet on the ground before Matt can register it, but there’s an audible breath of hesitation. Matt waves him off, “Go check. You can finish me in a second.”
Spider-Man doesn’t move immediately, swallowing, “Yeah, yeah, right,” and tripping over his feet in his haste to get closer.
Hm.
Spandex touching leather again, Wade’s ragged breathing suddenly unmuffled. Matt can almost taste Spider-Man’s relief. His pulse is slowing back down as Wade’s ticks back up. It’s not like he’s never noticed before, but this situation’s different.
“Sorry,” Spider-Man repeats. He sits back down beside Matt, taking the needle back. “I, just, uh. Thanks for the heads up.”
Matt responds easily, letting a good helping of his amusement bleed into his voice. “No problem. You can stop glancing at him every two seconds now.”
He pities Spider-Man when he’s out of the suit because he can feel the heat of his flush straight through it.
“I wasn’t—“ His teeth click shut. He assumes his potition again and finishes with a halting statement of, “The billboard was distracting me.”
“Right,” Matt says, nodding and patting himself on the chest to the beat of Spider-Man’s pulse betraying his lie. “Sorry. That’s my bad.”
Spider-Man doesn’t respond but again, the blood rushing to his face doesn’t lie. Matt has to confine whatever smile makes its way onto his face to the side Spider-Man’s facing away from.
He finishes the rest of the wound off quickly. Matt gets a second to run a finger over the pattern to make sure of it before Spider-Man tapes a bandage over it.
“I think you need to restock,” he comments.
“Yeah. I’ll probably go sometime this week.”
The kit makes noise as Spider-Man arranges everything back in, “Where do you get your stuff? I haven’t found anything for the wipes yet, but if you go to this pharmacy right outside Tribeca on Franklin, they sell ACE in bulk.”
Matt turns at that. “Really?”
“The owner’s son’s a medical supply vendor. It’s a little out of the way, but when I buy I don’t have to restock for a few months.”
“Hm. I’ll check it out then. Thank you,” he motions between his side and Spider-Man, “for both.”
There’s the blush again. Matt can’t quite describe at this point how he’s able to tell the difference, but it’s more pleased than embarrassed. “Yeah. You're welcome. Solidarity, right?”
He holds out a fist. Matt bumps it.
Matt calls at him as he stands to put the kit back, “You can get water or anything if you want. Cups are in the shelf next to the fridge and I have a drawer of granola bars under the sink.”
“Oh, cool. Sure.”
Matt waits until he sounds engrossed enough in the task to lean back and take his mask off, forcing his hand to stop shaking. They’re in his house already, there’s no reason to treat this like anything other than the show of—God help him— trust it is.
He sets the mask on the ground with a small sigh. It’s easily the best part of any night, Spider-Man in his kitchen or not. As much as he knows it’s the most important part of his suit, it squeezes the shit out of his head. He sticks a hand through his sweaty hair to pat the spikes down. He waits.
Spider-Man seeing him is punctuated by a sharp gasp and glass singing through the air as it falls. It’s caught before it can hit the floor, but there’s still some fumbling, liquid sloshing over the sides.
“Jesus Christ.”
“That’s a first,” Matt says with a faint smirk as unfolds his glasses, because he can still have some fun. “I’m usually named in the other direction.”
Having them on helps him have the confidence to not duck his head. He doesn’t consider himself a shy person but everything about this is undeniably vulnerable. He wants to do it anyway. Tonight’s proven that.
“You’re—“ Spider-Man starts and stops. His pulse’s smoothed down already, not nearly as panicked as it had been for Wade a minute ago, but still noticeable. He sets his cup down on the counter.
Matt tilts his head. “Not Jesus Christ.” He holds his hand up. “For the record.”
That gets an airy laugh. Spider-Man walks closer until he hits the back of the couch, one hand braced against it. “You have no right to say you’re not dramatic anymore. What the hell.”
“Really? I feel like I consider this the opposite of dramatic.”
“Ergo proving my point and making it dramatic.”
Matt shrugs, “I’ll concede to that.”
A hesitation is always easy to spot. The stillness surrounding it is always too deliberate. Spider-Man’s hand tightens on the leather of the sofa.
“This isn’t me trying to make you do the same,” Matt continues and that bated breath is released. He nods at him. “What you said earlier about our identities is completely correct. They’re the most important things we have in our line of work and they shouldn’t be taken lightly. The fact you understand that is part of the reason I’m trusting you with this now.”
“Oh,” Spider-Man says. Matt’s sure this next stretch of silence is just staring, which makes sense, considering. He has to stand up and defend people’s lives in court as a blind man every other week, so the scrutiny doesn’t bother him.
“How come your glasses are red?”
Matt barks a laugh. Of all the things to ask. “I didn’t pick them. A friend bought them for me as a graduation present.”
“They don’t, like,” he’s moving closer carefully, back to the chair besides Matt, “obstruct your vision or anything?”
“No,” Matt says.
Spider-Man makes an unsure noise. Matt tilts his head in it’s direction and can hear the exact moment it clicks.
“Wait,” Spider-Man says loudly, hopping up onto the chair in a crouch. His head swivels back to where Matt’s cane is still leaning in the entryway and back. “Wait. You’re blind.”
He likes someone that doesn’t skirt around it. Matt lets him see his faint grin this time. “I wonder what gave it away.”
“That’s why,” he’s motioning around, “the sign.”
“Right again.”
Spandex strains as Spider-Man very clearly does his rounds at looking at everything again, like it’ll make a difference, “But. You knew I was. You…” Matt waits until his brain catches up with the fact that that’s the least of what he’s seen Matt do so he can gasp, “Holy crap. Just how advanced are you?”
“I’ve never really quantified it. Enough for me to do what I do and do it well.” Matt shifts, smoothing a hand over the arm of his own chair. Spider-Man is still perched on the edge of his seat expectantly so Matt continues, “Do you really want to know?”
Spider-Man nods enthusiastically, “Yeah, yeah if you’re up for telling me, sure.”
Is he? He hasn’t ever really had to, beyond Karen and Foggy, who were less interested in the specifics than they were trying to rationalize that he wasn’t just blatantly lying about not being able to see, which he could understand.
He sits back in his chair, “I have to start by saying I really am blind. I can’t see that,” he points back at the billboard, “for example. Or you. Or anything in this apartment. My senses translate everything into…” He pauses. “You know how when you set something on fire it’s not defined, but you can still see it inside the flame?” Spider-Man nods once. “It’s like that.”
“And you can do all that with sound?” Spider-Man asks, all genuine curious.
“No. Sort of. It’s not just sound. I’m able to take information from everything.” He points at Wade, “I knew you were looking at him because I could hear the spandex strain every time you turned your head and it would always make the pulse in your throat sound louder when you did.” There’s another glance back, on cue. “But smell also helped because different emotions have different smells and the worry sweat would get stronger every time the noise happened.”
Spider-Man jerks his head back, “You can smell emotions? ”
Matt shakes his head with a faint grin he tucks away. “I don’t really call it that. It’s just taking the different aspects and assigning them meaning. I wasn’t always blind, so I did learn to do that just like you did growing up. I just had to relearn it a different way once I was. I’m sure it was the same way for you when you got your Spidey sense, right?”
Spider-Man’s definitely gawking. He has to swallow a few times before nodding, “Yeah, kinda. It’s just… Dude, that’s sick. I’m really impressed.”
Matt tries not to sound too pleased about that. “Really?”
Spider-Man nods quickly, “Obviously. You’ve always been pretty cool, your fighting style’s insane, but this is just a whole new layer.”
He has to take a second before clearing his throat. “Thank you.” He turns his head to be the closest to looking Spider-Man in the eye as he can between not being able to see him and him still having his mask on. “Seriously. I appreciate it. No one’s ever said it to me like that.”
Spider-Man sits forward. “No one in your life knows?”
“They do,” Matt says carefully. This is a little more than what he was bargaining to talk about, but he just chooses his words carefully. “Their priorities are just…different. They knew me first, so Daredevil and the fact that he gets me beat up every other night terrifies them, even if it’s still just me. It outweighs anything else.”
Spider-Man’s breath catches. One of his feet drops back into it’s beat against the floor, hands folding together in the same movement. His head’s angled down and away when he softly responds with, “Yeah. It’s the same for me.”
Matt will never say that Foggy’s response to finding out was anything but justified. The anger, the horror. He would probably feel the same if their positions were switched, if he couldn’t understand just how important this was to him.
Well. He guesses the horror was mostly due to the fact that Foggy does.
His point being that this much positive feedback is new. It’s refreshing. Even if this is his norm, acknowledgement for how much he’s trained his ass off to be where he is now is nice, especially by someone who’s done the same and can understand him beat for beat. Especially since he knows it’s all true.
Spider-Man’s other foot comes down so the other stops tapping. His spine cracks faintly as he leans forward, elbows braced on his knees. “So me having my mask on doesn’t stop you from knowing who I am, does it?”
Matt raises his eyebrows. “What do you mean?”
“I mean,” he waves one hand around, pulse starting to quicken, “you can’t see me anyway, so if we were walking by each other on the street out of costume, you’d know it was me.”
Matt hums. He starts nodding slowly, “Realistically, I could, if I were looking. You’re familiar enough to me now that if I were to focus, I’d know.” He tries to make his shrug as reassuring as possible, “I’m not going to do that, though. I don’t even know your name. I think we’ve established we’re on the same page here.”
Spider-Man’s definitely staring at him. “I’m guessing your lie detector would come in handy for me right now.”
“If you think so,” Matt replies. “Even with mine, there’s always the possibility for change toward the worst.” He looks up. “I don’t want you to think I only let you in here because I knew you were telling the truth when you said you wouldn’t use it against me. That’s definitely a reassurance, but trust is trust with or without it.”
Maybe Matt can’t believe it for himself, but he means it.
The resulting pause isn’t uncomfortable. Matt’s had time to think about it and Spider-Man hasn’t. It’s a lot to process, so he gets it. He stands, keeping a hand pressed to his side as he limps to his room to shed the suit for a more comfortable t-shirt. Spider-Man hasn’t moved when he comes back out to the kitchen, so he says, “You sure you don’t want a granola bar? They’re not bad, but if you want a specific flavor, you’ll have to come find it yourself. I can’t tell.”
“Uh. Sure, actually. I don’t care which flavor. Thanks.”
He nods, taking two random ones out as he passes to get his own glass of water. Then another.
“He’ll probably need to eat and everything when he wakes up, right?”
“Right, yeah. What time is it?” Matt can hear Spider-Man tapping on his phone with his ungloved hand as he fills the glasses. He groans. Matt hears his voice move as he drops his head forward. “Is it really already two?”
Shit, is it? Matt reaches around for the analog clock he has next to his coffee machine and taps it. It’s robot voice says one forty-seven.
“Damn,” he mutters. He’ll have to set a few extra alarms to make sure he wakes up on time.
“Stupid morning classes,” Spider-Man says under his breath, then louder, to Matt. “And nothing’s open nearby.”
“I figured,” Matt responds. He swipes the bars back into the drawer then takes the entire thing out of its place. He arranges the glasses so he can take all three over at once.
Spider-Man gives a small laugh when Matt’s back, pushing his piles of mail away with the edge of the drawer as he sets it down on the table with Wade’s glass. He hands Spider-Man’s own glass over to another, “Thanks,” and a following, “He’ll eat all of those. Just as a warning.”
Matt waves him off, “I forget to eat them half the time anyway. Call me a good host.” He nudges the drawer in his direction, grabbing one for himself.
Both of them open theirs at the same time, so Matt is anticipating Spider-Man pulling his mask over his nose again. What he isn’t is the soft sound of the mask being placed on the table accompanied by a hand running through damp hair. Familiar yet completely new all in one.
Matt chews his bite down (chocolate peanut butter, his second favorite after salted caramel nut) so he doesn’t smile then reaches for his water, “Taking the mask off’s always the best feeling, isn’t it?”
Spider-Man nods, “Yeah. Always.”
Matt doesn’t get the chance to nod back. Spider-Man holds his granola bar out and Matt isn’t sure what it means until he speaks. His heart’s going a mile a minute but his voice is steady.
“My name’s Peter. Peter Parker.”
Matt has to realize what just happened before the grin spreads slow and small on his face. Right. Okay.
He complies and taps their granola bars together. “Matt Murdock. It’s nice to meet you.”
“Same here,” Spider-Man— Peter answers back. The spandex really doesn’t make much of a difference in how well Matt can hear him, but something about the sincerity makes him swear he can hear the smile there better. Peter settles back into his chair, evidently calmer. “Would I know your last name from anywhere? I swear it rings a bell.”
Matt takes another bite of granola, “Maybe. You could just look it up, but I’m a lawyer.”
Peter’s head whips up, “A lawyer? Like…” He snaps his fingers in the air quickly, stabbing one in Matt’s direction, “Your firm’s the one that took Fisk down that first time. Nelson and Murdock, right?”
“Yeah,” Matt confirms. Every time he hears someone say it, he’s newly glad they put Foggy’s name first. “That’s us.”
“That’s crazy.” He continues, voice speeding up excitedly as he talks around his granola, “I can’t believe that was you. My aunt and I popped one of those little bottles of champagne that day and everything.”
Matt has to make a conscious effort to not look bashful, clearing his throat, “I’m glad. I barely did anything, honestly, my partner and our secretary did most of the work. I was too busy beating the information out of people to actually help compile it for conviction.”
Peter moves to face him fully, arm hooked over the back of the chair to motion his granola noisily at Matt, “Oh my God, is that why you asked me if I thought you were nice? Are you actually this nice? You have a weird definition of what’s really impressive, man.”
“I’m sure you’ve done something,” Matt says dismissively.
Peter snorts, “Not in real life. I work at the Bugle.”
“The Bugle?” Matt repeats abruptly. “You? Spider-Man?”
“No, me. Peter Parker,” Peter responds in the same flat tone. “I’ve taken every single picture they’ve used to slander me on the front page. Capitalism, the gift that keeps on giving.” He seesaws his hand back and forth, dropping the flatness, “I’m also a grad student, but you already know that. Not a lot of room for impressive there.” He takes another bite, humming thoughtfully, “I did discover a new bacteria in a sample of cow saliva at one point. Riveting stuff.”
“See, I think that’s impressive,” Matt says, mouth twitching.
Peter snorts, “Which part, the self-exploitation or the bacteria?”
“Both. The Bugle thing, that does surprise me.” He finishes his bar, tossing the wrapper back into the drawer. “If I were any good with a camera I’d probably do the same.” They don’t hate Daredevil quite as much as Spider-Man, but they have to need some action shots. He could ask Foggy to set up the specs. They could finally buy actual desk chairs. Maybe a working air conditioner.
Peter says, “I thought lawyers made bank.”
“So did I,” Matt answers back. That manages to get them both laughing quietly. He reaches for another granola bar and limits himself to those two so Wade can have the rest. This one is salted caramel.
“Hey, uh. Matt.” Matt can’t say it doesn’t feel weird hearing Spider-Man’s voice call him by his actual name, but Peter’s tone suggests it’s just as weird for him, so he nods for him to continue. “Thanks again. For tonight. I’m sorry I couldn’t make it, but I swear—“
“You don’t have to apologize for that,” Matt says back. Peter stops crumpling his empty bar wrapper over and over again. “God knows we should prioritize a few more things in our daily lives over our nighttime ones. There’s nothing to apologize for.”
Peter lets out a puff of breath, “I know. It’s just. You guys got really hurt, and I wasn’t there.” He shrugs. “I can’t not feel bad.”
Matt tips his head in his direction. “If I can’t feel bad for getting him shot in the first place, you can’t feel bad for not even being there, Peter.”
Peter gives a dry snort but waves his hand vaguely as if ending the argument. Matt holds himself back from the rest of what he has ready to counter with. He’ll let it slide, just this once, since they have an attempt at such a new kind of trust going.
Peter turns to look at Wade on the couch. His wince is practically audible with how it matches up to his pulse quickening when he continues with, “Er. Could I ask you to, like, please not mention that I kept… Earlier, with the stitches, it’s just, it’s—”
“Complicated?” Matt finishes. He can’t help the thought of his three lightbulbs and his clothes and the glasses he wears every day. “That, you don’t have to worry about. I get it.”
Peter doesn’t say anything, but his pulse and the slow nod he does give are enough. There was to be something in Matt’s voice that tips his hand, but it’s too late to change that.
Matt nods back.
They take a beat. There’s vigilante solidarity and then there’s whatever they were confirming about each other right now. Matt decides this is the most he’s talked about himself outside of being drunk or at confession in one go maybe ever. The fact that this was with Spider-Man is—
And with that, he doesn’t need to wonder why his body’s finally seemed to catch up with the night’s trauma when he tries to stand again. It’s all one big pulse, like a bruise, and he falls back into his chair in a cold sweat.
Peter’s up at his side. “Did you just pass out?”
Did he? “No,” Matt decides, half-convincing himself. “I lost a lot of blood and I think the adrenaline wore off. I’ll be fine. I’m just going to stay here for a while.”
“What were you going to do?” Peter asks, sounding about as convinced as Matt. He wordlessly hands Matt his water to drain.
“Get my work bag,” Matt answers once he finishes it, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “If we’re waiting, I might as well.”
Peter takes the cup without Matt asking him to, motioning with it while he mutters, “You’re right, I have a paper due.” He hears the water run as Peter goes to the kitchen and comes back, stopping briefly at his dinner table. “Is this your bag on the table?”
“Yeah,” Matt says and accepts both things once Peter returns. He rummages around his bag until he hits his player, fishing it out by the wire of his headphones.
He pops it open to run a finger over the label to make sure he still has the Rojas tape in and rewinds it to the start. Doesn’t hurt to refresh himself on the details before meeting with the client. He’s too tired to read.
He hesitates for a second before putting in his second earbud. It’s not like he can’t hear anything with them on, more like he needs both to focus because he hears everything regardless. Even as his own voice introduces them to Dr. Rojas, he can tell how fast Peter’s typing up his essay on his phone.
Yeah. It’ll be fine.
Matt’s fighting through a yawn as he rewinds the last minute to keep a better mental note of the exact kind of wood used to build Dr. Rojas’s now-collapsed balcony when Wade wakes up. It’s about as violent as Matt expects someone coming back to life in an unfamiliar place to be, bolting upright around a choked off shout.
Peter’s there in an instant, voice low as he says, “Hey, you’re good, you’re okay.”
Matt can very clearly hear Wade’s pounding heart skip a beat when he realizes it’s Peter helping him out, a mumbled warning of, “Webs, your mask,” that Peter dismisses. He chooses to ignore that completely in favor of putting his player away.
He’s absolutely being stared at when he straightens back out. Matt adjusts his glasses. “Wade.”
“Hold up,” he says immediately, any trace of that prior softness gone, one hand waving out as he ducks his head to pinch the bridge of his nose in a creak of leather. “Not y— Yeah, actually. You. Both of you. Shut the fuck up.” He motions around at his own head, “They get mouthy after a revival. I’ll tune them out. Let’s get back to this.” He swings an arm in Matt’s direction in a sharp point, “What the actual fuckshit?” Turns his head toward Peter, “Are you seeing this? Am I having full blown hallucinations again?”
“I’m seeing it, dumbass,” Peter says not without affection and presses Wade’s cup into his hand. “Drink.”
So they do know each other already. Matt’s pleased his theory was right.
Wade complies easily. He pushes himself into a more comfortable position, one foot planted firmly on the ground. “My brain feels like it’s being pulled in four different directions and not even because I just got it blown out. Okay. Order of priority, then. Number one,” he points an accusatory finger at Matt again, “you were supposed to be a redhead.”
That makes Matt bark a laugh unexpectedly. Trust Deadpool to always surprise him. “What?”
“I always pictured you as a redhead!” He insists. “Why do you even think we call you Red?”
“Because of his suit,” Peter interrupts, skeptical. He’s refilling Wade’s cup in the kitchen. “Are you serious?”
“Like the plague, baby boy, I had expectations. You ruined them, Red. You ruined them by not being red. God. Numero dos.” He swings his other leg around so he’s sitting facing forward, “Everything go well after I got my eggs scrambled? It’s all still coming back to me.”
Matt nods. “Yes. All the hostages got out okay and the police got plenty of high profile arrests for the night.” He pauses and continues, “We need to call in the container of guards at some point tomorrow, by the way. I don’t think we did that.”
“We did not,” Wade confirms in the same serious tone he’s been using the entire time. “Unimportant. Nummer trei,” and Matt can already tell what this one’s going to be because Wade’s entire body loosens as he leans back, one arm thrown over the back of the couch, “if I had known you looked like this, I’d’ve told you to break more than just a finger earlier. Mee-yow.”
Matt and Peter’s eye rolls are practically synchronized. “The only reason I’m not doing it again now is because you saved my life.” He clears his throat, trying for sincere at the surprised uptick in Wade’s pulse. “Which I want to thank you for, by the way. Really,” he continues when whatever else Wade was going to say gets stuck in his throat with a dry click. “I know you can’t die, but it’s still catching a bullet. I appreciate it. I’m not taking it lightly.”
Wade’s mask is still lifted over his nose so Matt can hear exactly how many times he opens and closes his mouth. “How did you manage to turn a sentence in which I said to you, verbatim, ‘Mee-yow’, and make it into a heartfelt apology? The hell’s wrong with you?”
“He’s a lawyer,” Peter comments as he swoops back in with the water, shoving at Wade’s side to sit next to him.
Wade makes a high, knowing noise. “Wow, that explains literally everything. Wait,” he smacks a hand over Peter’s thigh that earns him an elbow to the face, not that it stops him from offendedly squawking, “you guys did the identity reveal bonding thing without me!”
“It just kind of happened,” Peter says at the same time as Matt’s, “You were otherwise indisposed and my mask’s uncomfortable.”
Wade’s still shaking his head anyway, standing and immediately being seated again as Peter grabs at his torso harness and forces him back down. “I should’ve known there was something going on back when you said hi to him first. What floor is this, Red, I wanna make sure I really go splat.”
“Four. Won’t kill you, but it’ll sting like hell.” Personal experience. The fire escapes had broken his fall, at least.
“I’ll swan dive.”
“Wade, down,” Peter says. He pins Wade to the couch with an arm across his collar, “We’re extremely sorry, aren’t we, Matt?”
“Matt?” Wade wails, drawing out the A. Matt reaches behind himself and tosses Peter a pillow to smother him with. Wade struggles before yanking it out of Peter’s hands then smacking his own on either side of Peter’s head, jerking his chin at Matt as Peter protests. “Did you tell him your last name?”
“Yes. Murdock,” he adds.
Wade stamps his feet on the ground excitedly, moving Peter’s head around so he has to trap Wade’s wrists to make it stop, “Oh my God, we’re the alliteration dream team.” He snaps his head to the side like he’s talking to someone else, “Not the point,” before facing Matt again. “Did you tell him your middle?”
Matt raises both eyebrows. “How do you know I have one?”
“Babe, you’re Catholic.”
Fair. Matt shakes his head, thinking maybe he gets what Wade wants. He holds a hand over his mouth and says, “It’s Michael.”
“Three for three, O-M-G,” he finally lets Peter go to clap, “we match! This is destiny.” Wade catches the next elbow Peter throws his way, pulling him closer to audibly smirk in his face. “I knew his middle name before you. I win that.”
Matt only doesn’t laugh out loud at the jump in Peter’s heartbeat because he’s too busy rolling his eyes. He’s not sure if Peter’s under the impression that whatever complicated is is unreciprocated, but as flirty as Wade is normally, there’s a difference. Peter must do something else Matt can’t sense because there’s a pause before he takes his arm back to grab the granola drawer and shove it in Wade’s lap. Wade makes a happy noise and immediately digs in. “Ah, amuse-bouche. Very hostly of you, Red, I didn’t know you had it in you.” He crams a good amount in his mouth.
“It’s the least I can do,” Matt starts, except Wade crumples the wrapper of his bar and throws it at him. Matt flicks it away easily.
“You still on about thanking me?” He says around his full mouth and swallows, “Sorry, buddy, but the only favors I take are of the sexual variety and I think the only thing worse than seeing my skin is touching it.” Matt knows Wade’s healing factor affects him in more physical ways than just the heat signature from all kinds of comments over the years but he frowns anyway. Peter makes a noncommittal noise Wade deflects by pausing where he’s tearing open his next bar with a, “You are blind, right?”, at Matt.
Matt nods. “I’m honestly surprised you didn’t mention it earlier.”
“Didn’t feel important,” Wade says with a shrug. He takes a bite, “I just wanted to make sure so I know I won the bet.”
“Bet?” and Peter says it at the same time as Matt, so at least he knows he’s not in on it. He’s too shocked to get angry quite yet.
“With yellow,” Wade responds, like Matt knows who that means. He shakes his head out, poking at his own temple with the edge of the granola bar, “With myself. I’ve known since, like,” he draws out the word in a high voice, “maybe month three of our team ups.” He points his ear up like hearing someone else speak. “Wait, four? Fine, month four to be safe. Coincidentally, this is my numero apat. ”
None of that makes Matt lower his haunches. He clutches a hand at the arm of his chair, “How?”
Wade finishes his granola bar, goes on to the next with a voice that’s slowly tapering into seriousness, “I know I’m all cute and huggable and a couple of years unalive-clean, but I’m still a mercenary. Part of the job’s always been being hells-a observant.” His pulse turns into a nervous staccato. Matt doesn’t think he’s ever heard Wade so quiet outside of stealth missions. “I can’t turn it off. I know my brain’s a fuckin’ mess but I… Red, I’m—“
“I don’t mind that,” Matt says before Wade can continue. He doesn’t know he means it until he says it out loud. “I…I get it,” he finds himself saying. He doesn’t think he’s ever meant that as sincerely as he does in the moment, and this is the second time in the past hour. “It’s the same with my senses. I can’t stop them, even if I wanted to. I know a lot more about people than they’re probably comfortable with.” He should say definitely, but he doesn’t want to think of Foggy’s angry, jackhammering pulse that terrifying morning.
“You’re not mad.” Wade says. His pulse starts smoothing out again.
“No,” Matt confirms. He shifts, “I was unsettled—Understandably, I think. I’m obviously at an advantage with how much my advancements help me, but my disability is still something I’d rather not be easy to pick out when it can be used against me.”
Peter finally speaks, raising a hand, “Listen, I had zero clue—“
Wade immediately perks up, “—and he’s an effing genius—“
“Wade,” Peter says, smacking at his arm. He clears his throat. “This is just a him thing. You know how long I’ve been doing this and I haven’t met a single person that can come close. You have nothing to worry about.”
Wade nods along, leaning forward anxiously, “And I only even knew because I had a few months of being up close and personal, which isn’t even your usual bag.”
It isn’t. This, in no small part, is why. But he went into this ready for them to know who he is, so with the shock wearing off and the sincere tune of their pulses, he can breathe again.
He leans back in his chair, nodding. “Okay. I get it, now. I’m not mad.” Wade lets out a breath. Matt turns toward the sound. “It’s just, most people don’t even consider that for people like us.”
Wade scoffs, “I sound like most people to you?
Matt concedes to that, tilting his head back. “Then, just out of curiosity, what tipped you off?”
Wade stops with his granola bar half-lifted to his mouth. “You sure? It won’t make you paranoid?”
“You’ve established your observational skills are basically superhuman and even then you could only figure me out after spending extended periods of time with me.” Matt shrugs. “You tell me. Should I be?”
Wade makes a low, exaggerated noise like a growl, “Oh, you have to be a fucking beast in a courtroom. I need you on Law and Order for personal reasons.”
“Do you want to answer my question?”
“Abso-toodely-mundo! Okay, so,” Wade launches immediately, an excited edge to his voice, elbows perching on his knees as he gestures, “I operate on a theoretical basis. My last roommate was also blind,” he blows a kiss at the sky, “fly high, Al. So—“
“Wait, did Al die?” Peter asks.
“No. Worse. She moved to Jersey. Let me finish, I’ll tell you later. So there’s a certain way you move where you make a much more conscious effort to be aware of your surroundings than most people that I could recognize because of her. You’re a tactile person in new places, and that can be interpreted a lot of ways but for the sake of my theory, I guessed it was because you want a better lay of the land. Your whole advanced senses and ninja training schtick would also make it so you could do this whole thing without eating shit.” He takes a final chomp out of his granola bar when he finally takes a breath, stabbing a finger up in the air, “But my biggest clue was that one time we were trailing those gang bangers and you identified the guy with maybe the ugliest fucking puffer jacket I’ve ever seen in my life by the fact he was tall. Didn’t even mention it. I mean, dude, it was ugly. Like if dragging a knife against a chalkboard were an article of clothing ugly.”
Matt tries not to make a face at the thought. “That would do it.”
Wade makes a high, knowing noise. “Right? I just never said anything ‘cause I didn’t wanna expose you if I was right.” He flicks his wrapper into the drawer and points with a new bar, “Cool shades, by the way. Whoever picked those out has taste.”
More deductions. He’s starting to realize just how many off-colored comments of Wade’s show off that well of intelligence. Matt snorts, “How do you know I didn’t?”
“Mattythew,” Wade responds around a mouthful of granola. He doesn’t bother swallowing before going in for another one. “Please.” He motions around, “Your place has spiffy bones but it looks like Pete’s before we moved in together. You do not.”
Peter’s pulse quickens as Matt nods steadily. It’s a bit surprising, but he knew they were very close in some capacity, and the fact they always arrive together to their meet up spots makes more sense.
Wade cottons onto Peter’s reaction though. He does finally swallow, shifting and giving a short hiss, “Did you not get to that during your bonding sesh? Shiiit.”
“No, no, it’s fine.” It’s the truth. Peter’s voice becomes more confident as he continues. “I just hadn’t mentioned it but,” there’s not quite a pause but Peter tilts his head in such a way that Matt thinks he’s looking at him, “I don’t care if he knows. Trust is trust, right?”
Matt doesn’t smile but his mouth twitches. He nods once. “You know you have nothing to worry about with me.”
”Oh,” Wade says suddenly, hopping up to cross both legs under himself on the couch, “you know what? Let me challenge you on that, counselor.” He leans his elbows forward on his knees, pointing between Matt and Peter, “I am one of you guy’s’ broken bones away from jumping into the Hudson and seeing if it makes me unmutate.” He settles on Matt, “You wanna talk worrying? Your shoulder’s fucked and you didn’t tell me. Boom, bringing that plot device back on you.” He holds a palm out to the ceiling, “High five, writer, see how I did that?”
Matt grimaces. Peter whips his head up, “What?”
Wade immediately smacks that same gloved hand against his face and shoves him back into the couch. “Nuh uh, you don’t get the satisfaction of saying jack squat ‘cause you’re the exact same fucking thing.” He doesn’t turn toward Matt but he projects his voice at him, “I had to kidnap him to get him to take a nap after three days without sleep one time.”
“One time,” Peter protests as he escapes from under Wade’s hand. “That was one time. I had finals.”
The memory of Foggy sitting on him to not let him out of their dorm room to go to the library on more than one occasion hits him like a lightning bolt. God, give him the strength not to start screaming. They’re usually like this, Matt can’t say they aren’t, but these personal anecdotes that scratch at Matt’s own are making him dizzy. Or that’s still the blood loss. Either way, his life is a joke.
Their spat finally filters back in to Peter’s hands flapping wildly as he pushes himself into sitting straighter, “—don’t you tell him about the time I had to web you to the wall after we first moved in together to make you take your suit off because you didn’t want to freak me out, not even to shower?”
Wade’s sneer is audible. “Yeah, babe, let’s definitely say it to him exactly like that.”
Peter doesn’t rise to the bait, not skipping a beat, “It had been days at that point, I think he opened a window and a bird died when the smell hit it—“
“It was a possum and I’m basically positive it told me it had a terminal, completely not related to me illness before it dropped dead,” Wade says vehemently and raises his voice with a final sweep of both arms like he was calling a homerun. “Point bein, if we’re talking trust, y’all can’t be going into missions all willying your nillys. As teammates, our nillys are communal. It takes one bad injury to outweigh the advantages of a team-up, and even if this injury wasn’t the one, it could be the next. Here I thought I was in the clear with having to worry about that for myself but,” he makes an annoying buzzer sound, “EH, apparently I’ve gotta do it for the both of ya’s.”
Matt doesn’t say anything. If he could, he’d be staring. Peter’s settling back into the couch with a grumble like he’s heard it all before, but Matt hasn’t. He knew after some time Wade is, like Peter had said, basically the nicest out of all of them, even if the definition is a bit strained by the fact they were all snarky as a baseline. Matt had just never been faced with this exact level of sincerity. His pulse had been steady the entire time, like Peter’s as he’d stitched Matt up what felt like days ago already.
He actually wants to help. Both of them do.
Wade leans, voice dropped into a loud whisper, “I think he’s broken.”
“I’m not—“ Matt replies and stops. He absently rubs the hem of his shirt between his fingers, finding two small holes in quick succession. It’s one of the Columbia shirts he and Foggy divvied up for split custody when they lived together.
He takes a deep breath.
“I had a discussion about this with my firm partner earlier. He knows about Daredevil and he wants me to take it easy, at least until the shoulder heals.”
There’s more he wants to add but Peter’s already sitting up and making a thoughtful sound, “I can add an extra half hour to my schedule for the Hell’s Kitchen route. The semester’s still starting and I only have a morning class on Wednesday, so it wouldn’t be too bad.”
Matt can’t even mask his surprise. “What?”
Peter stills. “What? Was that not you asking?”
Matt’s fingers twitch on his hem and he lets it go to rub at the back of his neck, “I hadn’t been planning on it.”
Peter lets a breath go, sitting back, “Well, now I’m offering.”
Matt drops his hand back into his lap. He feels like this isn’t happening. Except of course it’s happening. “Really?”
“I’m telling you, it’s no sweat,” Peter says with a shrug. “I used to do this stuff by myself, remember? I don’t dedicate as much time to the Kitchen anymore because I know you’re here, but I can adjust things for a few days.”
“My deal’s for two weeks.” Matt says and immediately adds, “That’s a long time, I’ll go with you.”
Peter’s head tilts and he waves a hand in the air. “Right. I just squinted at you. I can’t, like, stop you from doing anything, but you coming defeats the purpose of the thing.” He raises the hand again neutrally, “I’ll still do it. I’m just saying. A dislocation and a stab wound are both pains in the ass and I have a healing factor.”
Matt tries not to worry at his bottom lip, biting the inside of his cheek instead. As stubborn as he is, he practically studied logic. He knows a moot point when he sees one.
“I’ll take the day off tomorrow since I got stabbed today,” he starts. Last time he had gotten stabbed, Claire had made him take a day off for every one. He could use that as an argument. He lifts his head, leveling his chin in finality, “But I’ll be back after that.”
Peter’s breath hitches imperceptibly in his apparent surprise. There’s a small catch in his voice that means a smile when he speaks, “I can’t be with you the entire night, but,” he turns to Wade, “Pool?”
Wade, who’s slowly started vibrating from lack of action finally animates, saluting Matt exaggeratedly and nearly backhanding Peter on the way, “Wink! Count me in as Hell’s Kitchen cutest little sous chef.” He unfolds a leg to reach out and poke Matt’s knee with his foot, “What say you, Gordon?”
Matt finds himself nodding before he’s even aware of it. He should be freaking out. This shouldn’t be this easy. But, surprisingly, all he feels is relief. “Yeah. I’m okay with that.” He thinks and adds, “This isn’t just going to apply to me. Obviously it would be moreso to you, Peter, but if we need a leg up after a rough night…”
“Tap in someone else,” Peter finishes. He’s definitely smiling now, but he clears his throat like he’s trying to put it away. “Yeah. I can adhere to that.”
Wade claps excitedly, “Ooh, is this where we sign some cool legal papers?”
Matt’s amused, but he responds dryly, “I don’t have a blank contract on hand, and even if I did, I’m not sure of one for an agreement between three vigilantes. I’ll look into it.” He’s not even lying. It would be a little funny.
Wade sticks a fist out, pinky pointed up, “Then we pinky promise.”
“Wade,” Peter says around a snort but Wade drops his voice to a serious gravel that’s anything but.
“This is the most legally binding thing I can think of short of a blood bond.” It goes high again, sing-songing as he wiggles his finger. “Pinkies, boys.”
Peter sighs. Matt gives a small roll of his eyes even as he lets a real, faint smile settle on his face. He obliges and leans forward, careful to not disturb his side, reaching with his left hand. He meets a gloved pinky and then Peter’s ungloved one. There’s a moment where they have to actually find a way to link all three of them together and Wade bends his pinky to shove against Peter’s like he’s elbowing it so Peter does it back and Matt has to wrangle them both up with his own. They all squeeze once before letting go.
There’s a finality to it. The following brief silence feels like the moment right after finally picking open a lock when the last mechanism clicks into place.
“So we’re friends now,” Peter says. He’s still smiling.
Matt laughs quietly. “Yeah. I think we might be friends now.”
“Yeah, okay,” Wade scoffs, “you lone wolf types go ahead and say that, meanwhile I have a hashtag Team Red scrapbook under my bed thicker than Spidey’s—“
Leather creaks and Wade gets cut off as Peter yanks his mask down back over his mouth, “Aaand that’s done. We’re done. It’s getting late, we have to leave before the sun comes up, and I have a class in,” he checks his phone as he stands, wincing, “four hours. That means we’re done.”
Matt slowly pushes himself up too, dismissing Peter’s move to help him as Wade noisily adjusts his mask and whines, “I was gonna say your brain.”
“No you weren’t,” both Matt and Peter say. Matt collects the glasses and the drawer as he makes his careful way to the kitchen.
Wade huffs, jumping upright on teetering heels, which Matt’s never been able to understand how he does considering how thick his boots are. “See if I even use my special glitter beads for your friendship bracelets, huh? I’m leaving.”
Matt disposes of all the empty wrappers and shoves the drawer back into place. He’ll rinse the cups tomorrow. The others are already at the roof access door by the time Matt hobbles over. He can’t wait to get out of the suit pants.
They’re talking in low voices Matt doesn’t bother to tune in to. Peter opens the door as he steps onto the platform to send them off. He nods at Wade, “I know you don’t want me to, but that’s too bad. Thank you again for saving my life. Really, Wade.”
Wade stills for a second then flaps a hand at Matt’s face, “You’re too hot to be this gooey. Stop that. Fine,” he says like it takes a great deal of effort, “You’re welcome.” He shifts and takes an aborted step that never lands, “Wait. You a hugger?”
Matt considers his answer briefly before saying fuck it and lifting the hand not on the railing minutely. Wade’s on him fast, squeezing him with one hot arm around his left shoulder that he returns with a small pat. Wade smacks an exaggerated kiss against his head before letting go, twirling to go through the open door, skipping across the roof, “Night night, Dev Dev! Sleep tight!”
Matt can’t help his groan. Peter snorts, “You shouldn’t have told him it was annoying. It makes him do it more.”
“I’m gathering that,” Matt mutters. It doesn’t even annoy him. It’s the principle of the thing.
“Thanks for having us,” Peter says, dipping his head toward Matt. “I appreciate it.”
Matt does it back, patting his right side lightly, “Thanks for the stitches.”
There’s Peter’s pleased flush again. He points warningly, “Day off tomorrow. I’ve got this. Don’t worry about it.”
Matt waves him off with a, “Yeah, yeah,” and shoves lightly at his arm. “Go. Every minute of sleep counts.”
Peter gives a huff of a laugh and actually listens. He waves as he shuts the door, pulling his mask on with his other hand, “Good night, Daredevil.”
“Good night, Spider-Man.”
The door shuts. Matt locks it from the inside and hears Peter jog over to the edge of the building where Wade waits, lock a practiced arm around his waist, and jump off. The thwips fade into the distance.
Matt takes a step back. Then another. He goes back downstairs and passes by to collect his mask where he had left it on the floor next to the chair.
He holds it so it would be staring at him if he could meet its eye, running the same thumb up the same horn absently as he goes to the closet. Just a couple of hours make the difference, don’t they?
“God,” he mutters under his breath, and doesn’t know if he’s asking for guidance or starting a sentence or just cursing. He leaves it at that to the empty room, though, and puts away the mask.
Matt goes to bed.
He does wake up on time the next morning. Unsurprisingly, stab wounds hurt more before they hurt less, but at least none of the stitches popped in the night. Peter knew what he was doing. Matt changes the bandage anyway because he can smell the iron through it.
It all still feels like a fever dream despite the fact Matt knows there are still three cups in his sink. He rinses them off while he eats his banana, turning the events of last night back over in his head.
Foggy comes distantly into his awareness by the time he’s lining them all up on the drying rack. Matt lifts his head as the familiar heartbeat enters the building, the smell of neutral detergent and something entirely Foggy getting closer with every step. Also, further surprising him, bacon.
Usually, since Foggy’s building is closer to work, Matt meets up with him at his place to walk the rest of the way together. This isn’t alarming, but it is weird. Matt goes and opens the door just as Foggy makes it to the hallway.
“You can’t even attempt to give me the illusion of surprise and mystique, can you,” Foggy sighs, but he’s definitely smiling. The greasy smell of bacon aswell as eggs and cheese is coming from the crumpling paper bag in his hand.
“I’m still surprised,” Matt says honestly, stepping aside for Foggy to come in. “You’re just very distinctive to me. What’s going on?”
Foggy shrugs as he comes in, “I got up earlier than my alarm this morning. Couldn’t go back to sleep, so I got actual breakfast,” he swivels his head to, Matt assumes, look pointedly at his finished banana, “and figured we could eat it on our way over so the smell doesn’t linger in the office.”
Matt smiles. “I like the sound of that. Let me finish getting dressed.” He’s still moving carefully as he goes and even though Foggy doesn’t give any indication he notices, Matt knows he does.
He hears Foggy washing his hands as he shrugs on his suit jacket and loops his tie around his collar. He’s about to tie it when Foggy walks over and bats his hands away without heat. “Let me at it, Murdock. You’re capable but I still do it better.”
“Sure,” Matt says, sticking his hands in his pockets and angling his head up to give Foggy space. His knuckles brush softly against the underside of Matt’s jaw anyway. “I still think you always say that because you know I can’t accurately verify that for myself.”
Foggy scoffs, “What, you can’t sniff out a well-tied Windsor? What a cop out.” He finishes because he tightens it around Matt’s neck carefully, smooths the longer part over his chest and for a brief second Matt can feel where the inside of his wrist brushes against Matt’s heart. It’s almost like they sync up.
Matt has to mentally slap at himself. It’s too early for this.
“Where’d you hurt yourself last night?” Foggy asks, taking a short step back but still reaching out to tap a spot above Matt’s eyebrow then motion at his neck, “Apart from these.”
Matt shifts his feet. “Headbutt. Taser. And I got stabbed.” He motions at his side
Foggy’s pulse ratchets like the beat of a song Matt knows unfortunately well, “Claire didn’t tell me you went over.”
“We need to have a serious talk about HIPAA violations,” Matt mutters.
“Oh, you want to have a serious talk about legal violations?” He’s not quite angry. Pissed, but just the garden variety where it’s kneejerk to any time really anything happens to Matt.
Matt concedes, “I didn’t go to Claire.” He pauses and clears his throat, “Spider-Man did it.”
Foggy’s definitely making some kind of face. “Spider-Man? Really?”
Matt nods carefully. “He couldn’t make it to the actual mission last night, something came up, so I went with Deadpool alone. Everything went well except I got stabbed and he got shot in the head.”
Foggy gives a surprised bark of a laugh, “Everything went well but your teammate got shot in the head?”
“He’s fine,” Matt adds quickly, taking one hand out to gesture then putting it back. He decides against mentioning the circumstances of the shooting quite yet. “His healing factor doesn’t let him die. I carried him out and Spider-Man picked us up—“
“—and you guys came here,” Foggy finishes, turning to face the drying rack. His voice suggests he’s still putting the pieces together. Super hearing or no, the gears are definitely turning in his head and they must come up with something because he whips it back around toward Matt, “Holy shit. You totally told them your identity.”
It’s not accusatory, but he definitely is gawking. Matt nods again. “To be fair, so did they.” He remembers and adds, “Spider-Man gives his kudos on the Fisk case. He thanked me, but I told him you and Karen did most of the work.”
“Holy shit,” Foggy repeats faintly, face heating. Matt’s always been a level of desensitized to superheroes, considering, but he gets that, as a New Yorker, Spider-Man is Spider-Man. “You told him about that?
Matt shakes his head. “It was the first thing he figured out. He recognized my last name.”
“Holy shit,” Foggy says one more time, with feeling.
Matt grins, pleased that he can make Foggy happy with something that’s technically Daredevil Shit, and walks around him to get his bag. The breakfast bag is there beside it so Matt grabs that too and hands it off to Foggy as he continues toward the door to where his cane’s leaning.
“Is it because of what I said?” Foggy asks suddenly as he walks over. Well, not suddenly. Matt can hear his heartbeat give a proverbial snap when he realizes. Matt hitches his bag higher and twists the handle of his cane with both hands out of habit
“Most of it,” he answers truthfully. Foggy isn’t blaming himself or anything, not like Matt would, he’s just asking, so Matt sucks it up and gets to it. “The bullet Wade—Deadpool took was meant for me.” That sets Foggy’s heartbeat wild. Matt smooths it over by holding a hand out for Foggy to fit his elbow around it. Regardless, the support is welcome since he’s still got a a limp because of his side. He squeezes briefly in apology for the shock. “It just made me realize that we’re close enough that there does maybe need to be some modicum of…”
“Trust?” Foggy finishes, clearly satisfied.
Matt locks the door behind them, nudging at him, “Maybe.”
They’re exiting the building when Foggy finally says, “There’s an ‘I told you so’ in there somewhere.”
Matt snorts, “You could find an ‘I told you so’ in that brick wall that beat me up two days ago. Pass me my sandwich?”
Foggy does. It’s as good as it smells and Matt savors every bite since he doesn’t usually get such a full meal this early. Foggy starts his own and hums thoughtfully around a bite. “I have to send Deadpool a fruit basket then.” He swallows, “No, wait, those are expensive. Maybe a cake pop from Starbucks. But still. Yeesh.” He gestures with the sandwich, wrapper crackling, “If you see them tonight—“
“Oh, I’m off tonight,” Matt says.
Foggy stalls for a second so Matt has to side-step them to dodge a baby stroller. He regains his composure, clearly unbelieving, “I’m sorry, my hearing’s normal and puny.” Matt gives a dry two note laugh as he continues, “Did you just say you’re off tonight?”
Matt keeps facing forward as he thinks, weighing in his head. “I brought up what you said. We made a pact. Spidey’s spending some extra time in Hell’s Kitchen today and for the next few weeks when I go back, Deadpool’s gonna come with me for backup.”
Matt can smell the sandwich and faint notes of morning toothpaste on Foggy’s breath as his mouth falls open slightly. They nearly topple a shorter couple with a cat on a leash.
“Hey,” Matt says after maneuvering around them. “Do you want me to lead you?”
Foggy shakes his head out, swallowing another mouthful of his sandwich. “You probably should. No, stop, I’m joking give me your hand back.”
They keep eating, Matt throwing both their wrappers away when Foggy points out a trash can for the public benefit.
“I still don’t like that you have a stab wound,” he comments.
Matt snorts, “Me neither.”
“Yeah, but I definitely don’t like it more.” He pulls at his bag’s strap and pokes his elbow under Matt’s armpit, “And I’m going over to your place tonight. We’re gonna watch the Tonya Harding movie and buy from the good Thai place near Karen’s then keep brainstorming for our other cases.”
Matt can’t help his grin, tilting his head, “Oh, are we?” Watching a movie with Foggy means hearing it play from his laptop since Matt doesn’t have a TV while he narrates everything to a T. Matt loves it. He hears Foggy’s voice everyday, but the narration is for Matt and Matt alone.
“Hell yeah we are,” Foggy says vehemently. “I need to make sure the lure of the city doesn’t grab you back. We haven’t hung out in forever.” The strap creaks as he holds it with his thumb despite pointing at Matt warningly, “Working in the same office doesn’t count.”
“Okay, okay.” Matt answers placatingly. He’s sure the stupid look on his face ruins the effect, but he doesn’t care because it’s Foggy and he’s actually looking forward to it.
Dr. Rojas does end up asking about the bruise. He’s an older, kind man whose dispute is against a landlord that refuses to fix his safety hazard of a balcony even after Rojas’ wife nearly fell through it.
“Estas bien, Mr. Murdock? ” He asks through a gasp as they sit down.
Foggy kicks at Matt’s foot under the table as Matt plasters on a grin and nods. “Todo bien, doctor. Tuve una pelea contra una pared.”
“Bueno,” he takes out the extra set of documents they had requested of him, wagging a finger, “I hope you won.”
They invite Karen to their impromptu movie night but she has a friend’s birthday to go to, prompting Matt to teasingly ask if she really has friends other than them and for her to flick at his face. It means they walk with her to a bar that’s not Josie’s before turning back to go to the Thai place and then Matt’s together.
“Sky’s clear tonight,” Foggy comments as they emerge from the Thai. Matt’s rubbing at his nose like he always does after going into a restaurant, willing the smell out of his nose. It’ll be in his apartment too, but being near the actual oils and the cooking will always be worse. “Moon’s half full.”
“Any stars?” Matt asks, because he always asks, even if he knows the answer. The small talk helps, both with the smell and with the fact that Matt’s trying very hard not to fall into the habit of keeping an ear out for anything.
Foggy knows that. “No. If I ever answer yes, you know we need to start running. Stars in New York means we’ve got another alien invasion or something.”
They take off their shoes, ties, and suit jackets. Nelson and Murdock to Foggy and Matt. Matt sets up their food while Foggy opens his laptop. He finishes before Foggy so he busies himself by getting an extra blanket out of the closet and spreading it over the couch since he hasn’t cleaned yet. It still smells like blood but at least the decay’s aired out during the day.
“So Deadpool was dead,” Foggy starts when he presumably sees Matt doing it, “on that couch?”
Matt can’t pick out his tone except for the fact it’s not disgusted or mad. “Yes. Does that bother you? The floor’s still good.”
Foggy makes a noncommittal noise, “I care more about the times I’ve seen you half-dying on it. But yeah, I think I’m taking the floor. It skeezes me out.”
That’s fair. Matt joins him, their backs to the couch, shoulders brushing together. Foggy hands him his pad thai. He starts the movie.
The main character’s voice is familiar. “That’s the one from Wolf of Wall Street right? She’s doing a different accent.”
“Margot Robbie,” Foggy confirms as he pauses his narration. “She’s pretty good. Looks like your type.”
Matt makes a face. “You know I don’t have a type.”
Foggy shrugs, pointing with his fork, “Beautiful person. That’s your type.”
It’s times like these that make Matt want to be a little stupider. Maybe with less braincells he’d grab Foggy by the shoulders and shake him until he realized if Matt had any kind of type, it would be him. It means he’d fall into the aforementioned category anyway, but the way he’s saying it suggests he doesn’t think that. Maybe with even less braincells, Matt would do something else to make him stop talking that way while he has him by the shoulders already.
He shoves a fork of noodles into his mouth and tries focusing on the movie.
At some point after Matt finishes his food, someone lands on his roof. He lifts his head from where he’d had it tilted to listen to Foggy and that makes Foggy stop. He knows he’s been twitching at every outside noise all night, but he hadn’t let himself pay attention until now.
He listens closer and pushes himself to his feet, patting Foggy’s shoulder. “It’s Spider-Man and Deadpool. Give me a second.”
Foggy makes a high noise, “Right, yeah, it’s just Spider-Man and Deadpool.”
“Shut up,” Matt throws back as he climbs the stairs. There’s a single knock he cuts off by opening the door.
Peter had been the one knocking but he’s ducking out of the way, hurriedly whispering, “Were you talking to someone? Should we leave?”
“No,” Matt dismisses then hesitates, hand tightening on the handle briefly.
He doesn’t know if Foggy’s watching him from downstairs or if maybe he really should take his mind reading theory more seriously, but he does know he hears Foggy mutter, “You know I don’t care, Matt.”
He resists rolling his eyes on instinct but chooses to agree and opens the door a little wider, gesturing with his head. “I mean, yes. I’m talking to someone. But he knows, you don’t have to leave.”
Peter steps back into the doorway, craning his head, and Wade pops his own out from the other side. Foggy’s pulse quickens from downstairs. He clears his throat and calls, “Foggy Nelson. Good to meet you.”
Wade waves his arm in a wide arc, “Hi! Pool comma Dead, but since we’re friends-in-law you can call me Wade.”
“Spider-Man,” Peter calls back, and adds, “Good to meet you too. I told Matt earlier but you did a great job on the Fisk case. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
Matt leans a forearm against the door, “Do you guys need anything?”
Peter leans back again. “Oh, right. No, I just left my phone here yesterday. We can’t split up until I have it in case we need to meet for something.”
“I’ll get it,” Foggy says. He’s regained his composure, Matt hears him getting up. “Where is it?”
“On the chair?” Matt asks Peter.
“I checked the time before I left,” Peter answers with a shake of his head and directs to Foggy. “Near the couch, I think it might’ve fallen there.”
“Okay. Found it.”
Wade leans his head in then back out, poking at Matt’s arm with a low whisper of, “Your bestie’s hot, are you tapping that?”
Matt shifts his weight and sends a direct kick to Wade’s shin bone that won’t break it, but it will certainly make him shut up. Wade’s not an idiot, but he is crude. Him saying shit like that is inopportune since Foggy’s coming up the stairs. The kick’s effective since Wade yelps and goes back out to the roof the hop around on one foot and rub at the other one. He’s hissing curses under his breath but at least he’s being quiet.
Peter’s facing Wade when he speaks, but his voice is toward Matt with a pat to his shoulder, “He deserved that.”
“Yeah,” Matt grumbles, hoping to every saint he can think of that his face isn’t as visibly hot as it feels.
Foggy sees, tapping Matt’s elbow out of public habit for telling him he’s near, “What happened?”
“Oh, you know,” Matt says faintly.
“Deadpool,” Peter finishes, turning toward them.
Foggy nods his head slowly. “Right.” He holds the phone out, “Here. This it?”
“Yeah, thanks,” Peter says as he takes it, checking it briefly before putting it away in his suit.
Foggy says, “No problem. I should actually be thanking you.” Peter must do something with the mask’s eyes to indicate confusion because Foggy clears his throat, tucking his bangs out of his face. “For taking over for the night, I mean.” He hooks a thumb at Matt. “He’s an idiot and he needs people even if he doesn’t think does and this is the one thing I can’t do for him. So thanks. To the both of you.” The last part’s directed at the fact that Wade finally comes back to stand next to Peter.
Peter’s lucky he has his mask on so he can save face, but Matt thinks the way he shifts gives away his embarrassment. He waves a hand dismissively anyway, “No problem. Seriously. It’s what friends do, right?”
Foggy dips his head, “Right.” Matt tries not to look too outwardly confused as Foggy’s pulse tells him that one word is somehow a lie. In any case he’s saved from lingering on it because Foggy’s phone starts ringing downstairs so he looks back. “Oh, shit. That’s my cue.” He nods at them, “Bye. Hope everything goes well with your… super…hero,” he takes his leave to the stairs, waving a hand, “stuff.”
Both of them return the bye. Matt listens as he goes down and doesn’t realize how far he’s turned in Foggy’s direction until Wade gives a low whistle and Matt turns back.
“What?”
Wade raises both his hands immediately, waving them quickly, “Nuh uh, I don’t want to get kicked again.” He reaches down to rub at his shin again, “What are your socks made out of, lead?”
“Vibranium,” Matt replies flatly.
Whatever else Wade is going to say to that is cut off by Matt whipping his head toward a scream in the distance. It’s far, enough for Wade to not notice, but not enough for Peter’s advanced ears to not with an uptick in his pulse.
Matt doesn’t even realize he’s stepping out until Peter gets a solid hand on his chest and pushes him back. “Stay. Relax. We’ve got this.” Peter turns to Wade. “We have to go.”
Wade nods firmly with a creak of his mask and quickly smacks another loud kiss that’s practically a headbutt onto Matt’s forehead, ducking away from the slap Matt sends back his way. He and Peter take a synchronized step back before running to the edge of the building and they’re gone.
Matt shuts the door rougher than he has to. The scream’s given his blood a Pavlovian response of adrenaline so he feels like he’s thrumming faintly. He has to flatten his hand on the metal to keep from digging his nails into his own palm.
Foggy’s still on the phone and Matt doesn’t have to focus on not eavesdropping because he’s too busy thinking back. The fact Foggy lied is still bothering him. It had just been one word, confirmation to a statement that wasn’t really—
It’s what friends do, right?
Right.
Nuh uh, I don’t want to get kicked again.
A wild thought plants itself at the forefront of his mind and Matt almost gasps. No , he thinks next and pushes away from the door to hold onto the railing. He can’t let himself believe that. He can’t.
But his senses have never failed him before. He’s had them for long enough to recognize a lie versus just an irregular heartbeat. He’s known Foggy long enough.
He feels his way to the stairs and goes down. Foggy finishes his call just as he’s hitting solid floor. “Dude, I told you, my uncle only calls me for—“ He stops, stilling in the middle of the living room. Matt doesn’t really have the faculties to school his features right now so every stricken line has to be written all over his face. “What’s wrong?”
And Foggy knows him well enough. He doesn’t even need the enhancements; he’s just like that.
Matt knows he can ignore this. Foggy won’t believe him but he can insist, he can dodge it. But he can’t. It’s too much. “Don’t get mad,” he says. “Please.”
Foggy’s clothes rustle as he slumps, pulse worrying for him, “Are you leaving?”
“No,” Matt says quickly. Foggy’s pulse gets no less anxious and Matt wishes he could tune it out but it’s currently the loudest thing in the room. He twists his fingers in the railing. “No, I trust them to do it. Just. I have a question and I don’t want you to get mad.”
Foggy’s teeth grind through his lips as he presses them together tightly. He shakes his head, “You can’t ask me not to get mad if I don’t know the question yet. You asking me not to get mad in the first place practically guarantees I’m going to be.”
Matt lifts a hand, “Then get mad. But please let me ask.”
Foggy stares at him. His voice is a fabricated neutral. “Go.”
Matt isn’t even ready to say it, let alone have Foggy hear it, but he motions his head up anyway, “Why’d you lie up there?”
“I didn’t…” Foggy starts and there’s the anger Matt expected, bleeding thinly into his tone, “You heard my pulse?” When Matt doesn’t answer, he throws his hands up, letting himself fall back to sit heavily on the couch. “Well, yeah, I’m mad. It’s a little hard not to get mad, Matt, I don’t even know what you’re talking about.”
He’s past saying he can’t help it. He’s explained it to Foggy before, but he knows it makes it no less violating, which Matt can’t deny.
“He asked you, ‘That’s what friends do, right?’,” Matt starts slowly.
Foggy makes a short, confused noise like a scoff. “Okay?”
Matt feels like he’s swaying on his feet. His own pulse is loud in his ears and he can’t make it stop.
“You lied when you said, ‘Right.’.”
Foggy doesn’t react at first so Matt prays and hopes he was wrong, this could be the first time his senses gave him a fluke and he can chalk it all up to error and shove everything back down again. Then Foggy’s heart gives him away one last time, suddenly hammering away like it’s trying to escape his chest. Matt’s stomach drops at the faintest smell of fear, and even if it’s not the danger-induced kind, it’s still there. He freezes.
“I can’t even lie to you,” Foggy breathes, head dipping.
Matt can’t take that as confirmation. He can’t. He can’t just assume something like this, but his options are narrowing with every second that Foggy doesn’t answer, like he can feel the cracks making this moment turn into something irreparable grow under his fingers. Matt wants to tell him he can just not answer, then. Plead the Fifth. Forget this ever happened.
He doesn’t. He can’t. He knows. Because if caring for him’s not what friends do then it’s—
“I don’t know what to tell you, Matt,” Foggy says hoarsely. The air is starting to smell horrifyingly like salt, like tears that Matt had just thought were his own and he’s walking over before he can stop himself. Foggy doesn’t move away when Matt sits next to him but he remains rigid. His fingers are clenching in his suit pants. His voice is trying to gain it’s edge back as he lifts his head again, facing Matt with all the bravery Matt knows he has.
“Foggy,” Matt says, own voice rough in a near-whisper. He knows he’s trembling now by the hand he starts carefully lifting. “Stop me if I’m wrong?”
Foggy’s breath catches, his clenching fingers slipping to brace himself on the couch as Matt’s brush his cheek. Matt gives him the chance to pull away with that warning before he touches him more fully, letting his entire palm cup his jaw, thumb tracing up his cheekbone.
All the touching, the proximity makes everything smell like Foggy. The fear’s gone, even if the salt lingers, so all Matt feels is him. “Stop me,” he finds himself breathing, a martyr until the very end, as he leans in to where he knows Foggy’s mouth is parted—
And—
He reaches his mark earlier than anticipated because Foggy meets him in the middle. The crush of it is rushed yet gentle, but Foggy’s always gentle with him where it counts, where Matt doesn’t let himself be, so he shouldn’t be surprised. He is anyway. For variety’s sake.
Matt makes a low noise in his throat he can’t help, other hand coming up to frame Foggy’s face like the precious thing it is to him. Foggy’s hands wrap around Matt’s wrists, splaying them out to drag down his forearms then back up to overlap with Matt’s own. He pulls them apart, but just barely, the tips of their noses brushing. Matt feels so light, still so unbelieving, he brushes them more deliberately. It makes Foggy laugh wetly in a puff of breath against Matt’s mouth. Against Matt’s mouth.
“I didn’t know,” he says and swallows down the lump in his throat that all the bubbles in his chest are buoying up.
“I thought you did,” Foggy says, shaking his head so his bangs brush Matt’s forehead. “I thought you were just choosing to ignore it.“
Matt sucks in a breath, heartbroken. “Foggy, I wouldn’t.”
“Yeah, I know that now, asshole, but I found out you had superpowers and freaked out.” He sniffs, fingers tightening in Matt’s. One tear hits Matt’s thumb so he brushes it away. “Fuck, I can’t believe I’m crying. This sucks. This is such a stupid cliche.” He leans forward the millimeter so their foreheads are pressed together, breath hiccuping, “I was just so scared you were gonna push me away.”
“Never,” Matt swears, sacrificing their closeness to sit back so Foggy can see his face, “never, not because of this. I’d never.”
Foggy lets go of his hands to gesture between them, thankfully not making Matt let go too, “It’s what you do , Matt. You’ve already tried with me, sometimes, and I’ve already seen how you do it to the people you—” He can actually feel Foggy’s face heat in his palms this time around. “To…”
Matt drops his hands to get Foggy’s in them, effectively silencing him. He takes Foggy’s right and flattens it over his own heart, their fingers overlapping again. The left he carefully splays across his throat so Foggy’s thumb and middle fingers are nudging under either bolt of his jaw. Foggy’s breath hitches as Matt wraps his own hand over that wrist in a loose hold.
“You feel how it’s steady?” Matt asks quietly. He can feel his own voice in vibrations down Foggy’s wrist.
Foggy nods dazedly but the same motion is turned into a shake. “I know what you’re doing. I won’t even be able to tell.”
Matt gives a there and gone smile. “Humor me.” Trust me.
Foggy shifts, fingers over Matt’s heart curling slightly. He humors him.
“Not to you,” Matt says. The sincerity feels so thick in his mouth he’s surprised it’s not spilling out onto his lap. “Never to you. Not about this.”
Having Foggy like this means Matt can feel the minute tremor that runs down his body. He swallows, touching Matt’s pulse with his thumb, and starts, “There’s a lot we have to talk about,” and Matt’s already nodding. Foggy stops him by dragging that thumb up to press against his chin. It still experimentally pushes into the dip. “Including the fact that you’re not off the hook for lie detecting me.”
He pulls his hand back from Matt’s grip gently. It doesn’t go far, tapping at the leg of Matt’s glasses in question. Matt nods again. Foggy pushes them up onto his head and brushes Matt’s bangs back out from under them, lingering to stroke along his eyebrow.
“I’ll get pissed tomorrow. Right now just,” he drops the hand to hook the back of Matt’s neck, voice going lower, “maybe start making up for it—“
And what’s Matt supposed to do except do? He has a free arm now so he wraps it around Foggy’s waist and drags him forward, crushing their hands between them where they still rest on Matt’s heart. The movement makes it a little harder to track where Foggy’s mouth is but Foggy somehow anticipates that, steadying Matt’s head with the hand on his neck. He presses his smile against Matt’s readily and Matt’s never been happier to bang his teeth against someone else’s.
It does get better after a second, since neither of them are bad at it and both of them are competitive as all hell. They close their mouths, Matt taking Foggy’s bottom lip between his own and licking into it. “We definitely had Thai,” he comments and Foggy responds with a breathless, “Gross,” before kissing him again, and again, and again.
Foggy’s the next one to speak after a while. He’s chipped away at the line of neutrality by leaning into Matt’s space, still not entirely horizontal because the arm of the couch is already pressing into the small of his back. “It’s hot when you listen to me,” he says against Matt’s bruised cheek, kissing it absently as Matt mouths at the line of his jaw.
“I’m always listening to you,” Matt mutters and refrains from even joking about how that’s what got them in this situation in the first place. Too soon.
Foggy shakes his head so Matt has to bury his face into his neck to make him stop. “You’re always hearing me, there’s a difference. But between this and taking the night off, you—“ He stops. Matt worries automatically but Foggy must—does know that because he resumes where he’s petting the hair at Matt’s nape, just slightly farther away. “Did we really have our first kiss on a couch Deadpool died on?
Matt’s glad he thinks of that and not the other thing. “He didn’t die on it—“
Foggy sits up even more abruptly and Matt would complain if he doesn’t tug him along. He points a finger into a cushion, “A corpse was on this couch in the last twenty-four hours.” Matt doesn’t get the chance to confirm before he similarly points in his room’s location, “You have silk sheets.” That’s a good point. Great, even. He sets the hand on Matt’s collar, tugging it. “We’re switching locations. Fuck work.”
“Whatever you say, buddy,” Matt says easily and lets himself get pulled upright. He finds Foggy’s mouth easily as he straightens up. It’s really meant to be a chaste peck, but he gets caught up in the fact it’s Foggy and gets admittedly distracted.
Foggy stops them with a hand to Matt’s chest, “This isn’t a come on, by the way.” Matt raises an eyebrow that quickly turns into a chuckle as Foggy shoves at him, “Stop being a shit. You know it will be,” this one is a chaste peck, because Foggy has self-control, “eventually. Right now I need to fulfill every PG-13 daydream I’ve had about that bed.”
“You’ve dreamt about my bed?” Matt says with a grin, tangling their hands together as Foggy leads them there. “Was I in it?”
“Such a shit, Murdock,” Foggy repeats. “I’m not tolerating this,” he continues, tolerating it, tolerating it even further as Matt hugs him from behind and walks them forward faster.
Maybe this whole night off thing can work out.