Work Text:
When Natasha first meets him, he is Daredevil, and she is no one.
When Natasha first meets Daredevil, she is also about to get beat up in one of the many back alleys of Hell’s Kitchen.
At least, that’s what the men cornering her at its end think. The very opposite is true, of course, but they don’t know that yet, and a second before they find out, Daredevil shows up.
Natasha feels a flash of annoyance as he lands between the three Russians and her. She is geared for a fight, to get the information that she wants and maybe to bruise her knuckles in the process. And, as helpful and nice as Daredevil is trying to be, he is royally messing up her plan for the evening.
Once her would-be attackers scatter after a few blows, Daredevil turns to her.
Instead of letting her frustration show on her face, Natasha clutches the gaudy purse she selected for her “disguise.” She isn’t going to give it up so soon.
“Oh, thank you so much,” she gushes breathily, letting fake relief and appreciation flood into her words. “I don’t know what I would have done without you - they were going to-”
His head tilts to the side and towards the ground. Daredevil simply stands there as Natasha prattles on, the epitome of a scared-senseless young woman.
She wonders if she’s overdoing it, just a little.
When she lets her words trail off a little, he takes a step forward.
Natasha doesn’t twitch a muscle.
“Interesting,” he says, his voice rough.
Not very much of a disguise, but he could still be any of the thousands of inhabitants of Hell’s Kitchen.
“What?” Natasha asks.
“You’re angry.”
Natasha isn’t quite sure how to take that, but she doesn’t have the time to question him because he’s gone in the next instant, moving with the smoothness of a predator as he works his way up the fire escape.
He leaves her with more questions, ones that she wants answers to because she isn’t stupid. She is a spy trained in the Red Room, and she can certainly read someone well enough to know
Daredevil shouldn’t be possible.
…
It’s quite by accident that she finds him again.
Really, Natasha isn’t one for cataloging every single person she runs across in New York, but the man stands out.
Same stance, same tilt of the head, jawline - the only differences are his clothing, the red-tinted sunglasses, and the white cane he holds loosely in his hands as he stands, just off to the main influx of traffic on the sidewalk.
It’s an odd occurrence.
Natasha finds herself staring at him.
Maybe he isn’t who she thinks he is.
But it won’t hurt for her to find out. She likes finding out things, little nuggets only she knows and can tuck safely away for a later date if the need arises
As she passes him, his head follows her. He isn’t looking at her, per say. It’s more as though he is aware of her presence.
Natasha isn’t used to being noticed, being picked out in a throng, and she isn’t quite sure she likes it, either.
His knuckles are bruised.
As soon as she passes him, he mingles into the crowd, walking in the opposite direction at a brisk pace, almost as though he were hoping he avoided her detection.
So, even though it’s a mite childish and held no reason, Natasha turns around and follows him.
…
Natasha sits down on the bench next to the suited figure.
“Daredevil,” she greets him without turning her head.
For his credit, someone with less training wouldn’t notice the tiny way he flinches.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” he replies evenly. “I think you have the wrong person.” To prove his point, he lightly taps the folded-up cane resting in his lap.
Natasha snorts. “Don’t worry. I’m not going to tell anyone. Not yet.”
“Not yet?”
“It depends.”
He tilts his head to the side. “You weren’t scared.”
“No, I wasn’t.” Natasha smiles coldly to herself.
Side by side, they sit for a few minutes before Natasha stands and leaves.
…
It would only take Natasha a few minutes to discover Daredevil’s real name if she digs around, but she likes the game that ensues.
It’s unusual - for years, Natasha has felt alone in where she came from and how she developed into the person she is, but here’s another mystery like her. He isn’t perfectly righteous. He bruises cheeks and breaks bones. He relishes in it while being utterly ashamed of himself. Even if he doesn’t say anything, Natasha can tell from the tightness of his shoulders and the clench of his jaw underneath the mask.
Sometimes, Natasha feels wound up, too, as though she could snap in the next instant and let out decades’ worth of rage on her surroundings. She understands why the devil would prowl Hell’s Kitchen.
(Maybe he understands this because the second time Natasha crossed his path, he simply told her, “West Street, third building, rooftop, tonight.”)
(Daredevil isn’t one for words.)
Since that first night, Natasha burns.
…
Since she feels like being nice, she gives him her “other” name since he seems to be clueless, otherwise.
“Daredevil.”
“Black Widow.” He nods at her.
They don’t share another word the entire evening.
…
Or the next.
…
But somewhere, amid grunts and punches and concussions, silence turns into sentences.
…
“What color is your hair?”
Natasha pauses. It’s Daredevil’s first admittance to his blindness in front of her even though she knew from the get-go, and it’s a sign that he trusts her. Or so she likes to think.
Natasha isn’t sure he should.
“Red,” she answers. “Sometimes blonde, if it needs to be. But mostly red.”
“Ah.”
“Your suit is red.”
“So I’ve been told.”
“It’s...disagreeable to the eyes.”
“So I have also been told.”
…
“Red.”
“Red.” Natasha nods back.
…
Normally, Natasha would be slightly concerned about bleeding, but at the moment, she doesn’t really care as she stares up at the stars. The concrete of the rooftop is rough against her back, but she doesn’t want to move from where she is.
She’s known him for a while now.
It’s funny, too, because no one at SHIELD can make the connection. Not even Clint is aware of Daredevil’s close proximity to Natasha, just that he’s one of dozens of vigilantes popping up around New York.
She even knows a little bit about him.
How he became blind, how he can sense the world around him, his mentor. Bits and pieces that make him more into a person, someone she understands and recognizes that she is like, than a man running around in a red costume on television.
They work well together.
They comprehend each other.
Natasha wants to trust him.
…
“It’s Natasha.”
“Matt Murdock.”
…
It continues, and Natasha is almost scared to admit that it is one of the best things that has happened to her because she certainly doesn’t deserve it.
…
“Matt.”
“Nat.” Underneath the mask, he smiles.
Natasha lets the corner of her mouth quirk upwards in return.