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Dust trails behind them as the car—old and throaty, something classic Matt suspects—as they whip across the Nevada desert. It’s warmer than Matt would like, and he abandoned wearing a tie back when they’d crossed the border from California—when he’d woken up. With shirt sleeves rolled up, collar open, hair fluttering in the stream of air from the open windows, Matt considers just how much longer he should keep up his wounded duckling act for the sake of his client/captor as they take their impromptu road trip.
Matt had been surprised when he’d gotten the call, back in New York, from a UN representative handling legal teams working through case reviews of prisoners imprisoned on the Raft. Though he’d been following with interest the rumblings over international legal reforms in wake of President Ross’s incarceration, Matt hadn’t expected to become directly involved. A few loud voices from Europe, Australia, China and even the ragtag remains of Sokovia’s former political establishment had pointed out that human rights laws should in fact apply to the world’s most dangerous individuals.
The residents of the Raft.
He was still glad his short stay in Rikers hadn’t upended his career once Jen Walters had been brought out East with a call from Marci Stahl. Charges had been dropped and he’d been allowed to join the New York Bar Association again. Though Matt was still hazy on how no one knew he was Daredevil any longer.
But none of that explained why Baron Helmut Zemo was currently driving him down US Route 50—at least that was his guess, based on the change of climate. Matt had been the lead on helping to review Zemo’s case for the defense. He’d been building a case for Zemo to be allowed off the Raft under probation and heavy surveillance, and he was reasonably sure that he could have done that. It wasn’t that Zemo was innocent of what he had done that had convinced Matt to do assist on the case and even lead it. No, it was because in some ways Matt could understand why the man had done what he’d done to land himself in the prison in the first place, and because everyone deserves a chance at forgiveness, at mercy.
There was also the possibility that the various organizations in charge of the Raft didn’t know how to redact documents properly when preparing them for translation into braille. Matt was reasonably sure he knew more about Zemo’s case than he was meant to.
In the car, Zemo’s heartbeat is steady and one of the few things Matt can hear for miles around them as they continue to speed across the arid landscape. The only buzz of electronics comes from the limited wiring of the older car, and the burner phone Matt knows Zemo has on his person, the slow discharge of the battery audible to his finely honed senses.
As the trip has deepened, Matt has thought several times about overpowering Zemo and trying to call for help from the phone, but Matt knows Zemo is using a PIN, no biometrics. The keypad silent with each number press. If he over powers Zemo, he’d be stuck in the desert, with no way of calling for help, relying on some passerby to come by and save him. It wasn’t like a smartphone with an easy ability to call emergency services from a lock screen, regardless of whether you could unlock the device.
“Where are we going?” Matt asks for the first time in hours, wondering if perhaps finally he’ll get some kind of an answer.
The t-shirt Zemo is wearing, dressed far more for the weather than Matt is, rustles against the real leather of Zemo’s car seat, as the man twists a little to look at Matt. He can feel the other man taking his time to look at his profile, sense the shift of eye lashes and eye lids as he flicks his gaze between Matt and the road. Zemo shifts to looking straight ahead again, eyes on the road.
A few more minutes pass and Matt doesn’t believe he’s going to get an answer, then suddenly Zemo clears his throat.
“I have a rendezvous I must make,” Zemo explains, Sokovian accent sitting under his perfect English.
“Could this not have waited until after I got your sentence commuted?” Matt gripes, unable to keep a hint of frustration from his voice.
“No.”
“Would it have been possible for you to have escaped without bringing me along on this road trip?”
Zemo chuckles. “Perhaps, but then things would be far more dull.”
Matt’s lips thin as he tightens his jaw. “I also don’t like being made to be a human shield,” he points out.
It’s one thing to understand that the Department for Damage Control would be taking precautions to ensure no civilians were harmed during this madness. But there was no way he wanted either group currently claiming to be the Avengers to come and help, because that would inevitably end with some kind of mess and far more property damage than Matt usually managed out on patrol. Even with ninjas on his tail.
“That’s not what I read in the New York Bulletin. You shielded Wilson Fisk, by your own choice,” Zemo says with an audible smirk in his voice.
Matt laughs. “Look, I wouldn’t take one moment of madness as an indicator that I’m good at making healthy life choices. Case in point: agreeing to lead your new defense team.”
“For which I am eternally grateful. Few would offer me such a second chance.”
“Yeah, well I could understand the reasons behind what you’ve done in the past, but also—” Matt cuts himself off, suddenly unsure of sharing too much with Zemo. He’d read the dossiers on him that had been made available for the case review, that his cunning intellect was not to be underestimated.
“Yes?” Zemo pushes.
He can use whatever I say against me, to worm his way into my head, my way of thinking. Matt listens to Zemo’s heartbeat closely, but it’s not any faster, still steady. He decides to take a leap of faith.
“I believe you deserve a chance at forgiveness.”
Zemo’s breath stutters at that pronouncement and Matt turns towards Zemo.
“But I would be lying if I said that this situation wasn’t giving me doubts,” Matt adds.
“I have my reasons,” Zemo says and the car’s turning off the smooth asphalt and they’re bouncing along what must be some kind of dirt road.
“Your hearing was meant to start two days ago. I think you would have been out within three months at most.” Matt holds onto the door beside him as the car bounces along the dirt. Old car means less than ideal suspension but he reasons Zemo’s choice of vehicle is to reduce the risk of technology failure or hacking by pursuing parties.
Zemo snorts. “By then it would have been too late.”
“Too late for what?”
“To save her.”
“Who?”
Silence settles again, aside from the rumble of the car and its tires, and their breaths and hearts. Matt knows he’s not going to get more out of Zemo for now, at least on the why of everything.
“Couldn’t you have had the courtesy to pick me up a t-shirt and some cargo shorts before kidnapping me?” Matt grouses, fanning himself with his left hand for a moment.
The car shunts forward as Zemo applies the breaks and brings the car to a sudden stop. “Where are my manners. Come.”
With some awkwardness, Matt opens the passenger door beside him, unfolding his cane as he steps out and tapping his way carefully across the unfamiliar baked dirt. The sun beats down on them from above and Matt ponders which is worse: the humidity of the typical New York City summer, or dry broiling heat.
Tapping his way to the rear of the car, where he hears Zemo’s heart, he waits as his client opens the trunk and starts shuffling through items in what sounds like a leather weekend bag. Matt can hear the rustle of clothes, the different textures and grades of fabric.
Before he knows what he’s doing, Matt blurts out, “Please, something soft and cool. If you could.”
“Hm, I believe I have just the thing.” More rustling. “Ah, yes, this should suit you well, counselor.”
Footsteps pad towards him and Zemo slowly reaches out and stretches out Matt’s left hand and forearm before laying what feels like a silk short-sleeved shirt and shorts, the kinds one might wear beside a pool at a very expensive hotel or private island. The material feels cool and gentle on Matt’s bare forearm, while Zemo’s touch sends sparks across Matt’s skin.
“T-thank you,” Matt stutters.
More rustling ensues. “And I believe these loafers should fit just so for you as well,” Zemo suggests. He steps closer to Matt, and Matt allows himself to be shepherded towards the back seat of the car. The Baron opens the door for Matt and then heads back to the car trunk while Matt goes into the back and changes.
Matt utters a low whine in his throat as he feels the luxury of the borrowed clothes flowing over his skin. It feels so much nicer than his ripe work outfit—clean and so, so smooth. It takes Matt’s brain a moment to catch up to the sound he just made. A blush creeps up his chest and face as he folds and stows his original outfit in the back, and he prays Zemo hasn’t heard him.
Once he’s changed and back on his feet, Matt takes a moment to tap away from the car some feet away, and relieves himself before returning. Zemo is prepared for even this and presses hand sanitizer on him and Matt gingerly cleans his hands with the harsh smelling chemicals. Back in the front of the car, Zemo passes him a water bottle and a granola bar, and Matt realizes he’s hungry and thirsty.
“Thank you,” Matt says again for the second time in ten minutes. Says thank you to a man who’s killed but still fewer than even Frank Castle has, and Matt doesn’t hate Frank. Killed fewer people than Benjamin Poindexter has, and he let him go when he could have tried killing him for a second time.
“You’re welcome,” Zemo replies warmly, voice a touch huskier than it has been with Matt so far.
Starting the engine once more, they continue off across the landscape, the silence between them less empty than before. Matt hears Zemo stealing glances at him, hears the quickening of his pulse, as they drive along—and Matt wonders what he looks like in his current outfit.
The rest of their trip across the desert doesn’t seem to last nearly as long as before their rest break. Finally they’re stopping at Zemo’s intended destination. His heart is beating faster in some kind of anticipation.
“We are here,” Zemo explains, cutting the engine and getting out. “Come.”
Matt follows, cane out and unfolded again, tapping as he walks across uneven dirt and rocks.
“May I guide you?” Zemo asks, reaching Matt’s left side, laying a hand gently on the exposed skin of his arm.
Swallowing, Matt nods his head, red glasses rattling against his face. “I would appreciate that.” He folds his cane and allows Zemo to guide him safely across the parched ground.
At their backs, Matt can feel the sun starting to set towards the horizon and for a moment he wonders if Zemo has anything to help with incoming chill of the deep night. A minutes pass and then Matt begins to feel the hums of some structure, electricity pulsing under its surface.
“Where are we?” Matt asks.
“A medical facility,” Zemo states.
“I’m guessing not one I’ll find on any maps.” Matt focuses on the weight and pull of Zemo’s arm and hand on his own, on the quickening beat of the other man’s heart.
“Correct.”
An automated security system opens a heavy set of sliding doors to them and they walk inside, the sounds and smells of the place suddenly rushing into Matt, drowning his senses, his mind, and he stumbles and cringes against Zemo. The days of near silence have caused Matt’s focus to wane and he’s unable to shore himself up quickly enough against the deluge.
“Too loud! Too much!” Matt whimpers.
“Mr Murdock! Matthew!” shouts Zemo, alarm fading into the rush battering Matt as he sinks down to the floor and curls up, hands over his ears even though it never does anything.
In among all the sensations flooding his senses, he’s dimly aware of a needle pressing into his skin and he disappears.
***
“Matthew?” a calm, Eastern European, Sokovian, voice calls to Matt.
Slowly, his senses slide into relief and Matt cringes as he tries to bring order to the sounds, touch and smells—medical and human—that surround him. The sheets around him are silk, as is the medical gown that covers him. There’s an IV in his left hand and he keenly feels the cold feed of saline that pushes through it. Bit by bit, he blocks the unnecessary off and finds the heartbeat of the speaker beside him and zones in on it.
“Z-Zemo, where am I?” Matt croaks.
“The medical facility we arrived at three days ago. I am sorry but for your own protection we had to keep you sedated. You tried to scratch out your own ear drums at one point. The room you’re in now has extra shielding in place, reducing the impact of environmental stimuli.” Zemo shifts on the chair he’s using beside Matt, cold unyielding steel, and Matt hears the clothes of the other man scratch across some bandage on his right thigh.
That Matt had tried to hurt himself didn’t surprise him. It was funny, in an embarrassing way, how moving from one extreme to the other could sometimes throw him so badly. If Stick were still alive, Matt’s thoughts begin and then with an effort he forces himself not to think on what his old mentor would have said.
“What happened to you?” Matt points towards Zemo’s bandaged thigh without thinking.
Matt hears the other man’s clothes shift as he regards Matt with curiosity. “You can tell?”
Swallowing hard, Matt nods.
“I made a bone marrow donation for a very sick Sokovian child, Aldona. Thanks to my donation, she will have a chance at life still. There aren’t many of us left, as I’m sure you understand.”
“That’s why you couldn’t wait for your case to be reviewed.”
“Indeed. Should I have waited and hoped for a positive conclusion to my own situation, she wouldn’t have survived. The legal process can be agonizingly slow much of the time… and unfair.”
“It can be,” Matt agrees, experience making his voice bitter.
Zemo licks his lips and Matt focuses in on the sound, his own heart rate increasing, a monitor beeping in observance of this. “Your senses, they are… enhanced,” Zemo says slowly.
The case files Matt wasn’t meant to have full access to, come to the forefront of his thoughts. That Zemo had killed several super soldiers in his time—enhanced people—and the previous Black Panther.
“Not by choice,” Matt grits out, “but as a result of the accident that claimed my sight. I still can’t see. That cane? I do need that, depending on how my day is going or where I am, to stop the world drowning me. And as you saw, my senses can be a hindrance as much as a help. I’m no Steve Rogers or Bucky Barnes. I’m no Avenger. I have to deal with prejudice every day. Have to deal with feeling my city hurt in a way no one else can.”
Zemo’s steady heartbeat that Matt’s been focusing on begins to pick up, as a waft of musk is pulled through Matt’s nose, the other man’s face flushes. Getting up from the chair, its feet scraping on smooth floor tiles, Zemo leans over Matt, hands either side of Matt’s head, and whispers into his left ear, “Matthew Murdock, are you Daredevil?”
“It depends,” Matt whispers back, “who do you want to screw more: me or the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen?” He pulls out the IV in his left hand, rips off the electrodes on his chest and gently reaches up to Zemo, touching him with his right hand. If he wanted me dead, he wouldn’t have given me silk, Matt understands. Zemo turns off the heart monitor before a flatlining sound can startle Matt.
His captor presses into the touch, a needy moan rippling from his throat, as Matt pulls him down into a kiss. Zemo shoves the bed sheets off of Matt and climbs up on the hospital bed, slotting between Matt’s thighs.
They kiss more, tentatively at first and then more hurriedly, as if there isn’t much time left for whatever this has become. A part of Matt is aware this could be some kind of capture bonding he’s feeling, but he can’t bring himself to care as he teases open Zemo’s mouth with his tongue. The kiss is messy and slick, and Matt grows hard as Zemo plunders Matt’s mouth in return and grinds against him with his own full cock.
“N-need you,” Matt whimpers between kisses.
The bed shifts with Zemo as he pulls slightly back so that he can kneel and then unzips his pants to just above his knees. There’s a sound of some kind of medical lube dispenser being pressed from a table beside Matt’s bed, and then Zemo’s right hand slides under Matt’s medical gown, gripping both of their dicks as he covers Matt with his body and begins to stroke.
“Matthew,” Zemo moans as he chases Matt’s mouth and puts his weight on his left arm so he can kiss Matt breathless as he strips their hard, leaking cocks.
All Matt can feel, taste, touch and hear is Zemo as his hand and mouth pull him apart and put him back together again. Matt gasps and pushes his thighs up towards Zemo’s hand, trying to fuck into the grip in time with the motion. Together they chase a release that their close proximity had been promising all the way back on the road. Every touch having written a future that was becoming real now.
Distantly, there are loud noises happening beyond Matt’s sealed room, but Matt only has time for what is happening with Zemo right now. He hungrily begins to fuck up into Zemo’s hand in earnest, causing the other man to keen as they work to match each other’s rhythm.
Zemo leans in for a particularly brutal kiss, teeth and tongue, stealing Matt’s air and then Matt is done, his release causing him to swear and buck erratically as a few moments later Zemo comes hotly between them as well. They both make a mess of Matt’s medical gown which Matt can’t bring himself to care about as Zemo crashes down against him, bliss leaving him loose limbed and easy.
For some minutes they stay like that and then Zemo finally climbs off. Like a gentleman, he helps clean Matt up and helps him into another hospital gown, before sitting down beside him again on the steel chair.
“When can I wear some real clothes again?” Matt queries as Zemo holds his hand on top of the bed sheets.
“When the Avengers have ‘rescued’ you,” Zemo states sadly.
The noises outside Matt’s room come into sharper relief and he frowns, as the unexpected bubble of calm he’d found begins to pop.
“Which ones?” Matt asks.
Zemo lifts up Matt’s hand and presses a kiss to it. “Barnes’s team.”
A loud thud disperses against the thick door shielding Matt’s room.
“I don’t know if I’ll be able to get your sentence commuted after this or it will take longer instead,” Matt says in an annoyed voice.
“Aldona has a chance now. And I met you.” Zemo shrugs, the movement traveling through his arm to Matt’s hand. “It has all been worth it.”
The door begins to scrape open as its locking mechanism fails. Zemo withdraws his hand from Matt’s and Matt instantly misses the contact.
Noises and smells begin to flood into the space and Matt fights to keep his senses under control as his “rescuers” arrive.
“Zemo, step back from Murdock,” growls the voice of Bucky Barnes. Matt cringes at the absence of sound created or bouncing off of the super soldier’s vibranium arm.
Matt wants to focus on Zemo’s heartbeat, wants to anchor to him as he fights to keep his senses from spilling out of him, but he can’t because Zemo won’t be with him for long enough. He tries to use his own heart but it’s hard to focus as the Avengers stalk into the room and trade barbs with Zemo.
“I’m sure I will see you soon enough, counselor,” Zemo whispers, only loud enough for Matt to hear.
Despite everything, Matt has already forgiven Zemo and he holds onto that as his rescuers push his senses into overdrive and leave him succumbing to darkness yet again.