Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“Oh, that’s adorable,” you breathed, your steps faltering as you both passed by the busy, brightly lit game booth. 

“What?” Matt asked, slowing to a stop, his hand still in yours. 

“It’s one of those games where you toss a ring and try to land it on some bottles. They have a bunch of giant teddy bears dressed as New York heroes for prizes like Captain America and Spiderman. They’ve got a Daredevil one, too.” The massive, fuzzy brown bear—complete with a deep red suit and a remarkably accurate horned mask—hung temptingly overhead, just out of reach above those willing to test their luck. All around the booth, blinding lights flashed and blinked, massive signs in bold script shouting,  ‘Land any ring and win choice prize!’  and  ‘Three rings per try!’  Staggered around the booth milled various people, frantically tossing rings with little success. “The bear’s cute as hell, no pun intended. Sorry, I didn't mean to stop.”

You only got two steps before there was a tug on your arm, and you jerked to a stop. You glanced back curiously at Matt, who still hadn’t moved. Instead, he’d turned his head towards the booth, his head tilted thoughtfully as if he were listening.

“Matt?”

“Do you want the bear?”

Your brow furrowed as you stepped in close. “Matt, these games are rigged. They’re borderline impossible to win.” Especially games like this. Oh, it looked simple enough—just toss the ring and hope it landed on the neck of a bottle. But anyone who’d grown up around carnival games like this knew those rings were barely a quarter of an inch larger than the bottles themselves. When combined with the intentional bounciness of the material the rings were made of, your odds of winning were slim to none.

The corner of Matt’s mouth turned up, a hint of a smirk crossing his face. “But not impossible. That would be illegal.”

“What are you up to, Devil-man?” you murmured, lifting your combined hands to brush a kiss across his knuckles.

His smile grew larger, giving him away as he tipped his head towards the booth and repeated softly, “Do you want the bear?”

You bit your lip and turned to stare up at the giant Daredevil bear, with its nubby horns and fluffy body. It was a good three feet from head to toe, and dangerously, wonderfully soft and cuddly. You had no doubt you looked just like a kid, wide-eyed and full of longing. 

You needed that bear. 

“Yes,” you whispered. “Yes, Matt, I want the Daredevil bear.”

Matt nudged a kiss against your temple before his grin abruptly morphed into an angelic smile, cane tap-tapping along the ground as he meandered towards the booth, his free hand still in yours. The man running the game watched Matt’s approach with open hunger, likely sensing an opportunity for some easy money. The looks from the other players were more sympathetic, and you did your best to look equally so. Matt kept up the act, not stopping until his cane had tapped against the wall of the booth. 

“Oh,” he said innocently, as if he were nothing but another poor, naive soul and not someone who could break every bone in a man’s hands. “Which game is this one?”

“It’s a ring toss game,” said the man working the booth, his crocodile smile only growing wider. “You toss a couple rings, see if they land on the neck of the bottles. Real simple, anyone can do it. Two bucks’ll buy you three rings. You want your girl to try?”

“But I thought you said anyone could do it?” Matt arched his brows in an almost comical amount of confusion, or at least comical to anyone who knew what he did in his spare time. It took everything in you to swallow down your own laughter, trying to retain your air of mild concern. “Don’t I just need to know where the bottles are before I throw? I’d like to try to win my partner a bear if I can.”

“Ah.” The man glanced at you where you stood next to Matt. When you didn’t do anything to stop him, he shrugged. “If you want to try, you can. Sure. Like I said, three rings for two bucks. Ten will get you ten. A whole bucket for twenty.” 

Matt fished out his wallet as you set your head on his shoulder and slid your arms around his waist, doing your best to look suitably concerned. He tabbed through the wallet and its folded bills, angling it so you could see before sighing theatrically. “Looks like I only have enough for the three rings.” There wasn’t even a hint of a lie despite the rest of the money he’d let you see in his wallet. You nuzzled into him to hide your grin as he pulled the two folded dollar bills free, exchanging them for three rings. “Maybe I’ll get lucky.”

“It’s a square grid of glass bottles, about two feet by two feet,” you said helpfully. “Right in front of you, maybe another two feet from the counter.” 

Matt nodded, swinging his head a few times. “I’m sorry, sir, but would you be able to go clap over the bottles so I know where they are?”

“Look, pal—” the man started.

“Jesus, it’s the least you can do, you fucking scam artist,” snapped a woman next to you both, chucking her own ring. It bounced away from the bottles like all the rest. “What’s it gonna hurt?”

The man rolled his eyes and went over to the bottles. He made a big show of leaning over the setup, clapping his hands loudly and slowly. The other people throwing their rings paused, their eyes falling on Matt. 

Letting his cane fall into the crook of his arm, he traced out the shape of the rings with his fingers, lifting each one and rolling it back and forth as if judging the weight. Then he tipped his head, selecting one of the rings as you moved to his side, giving him space to work.

His first ring bounced off the bottles, landing with a clatter against the far wall of the booth. 

There were a few sighs around you. The man’s face didn’t change, as confident as always. It was the easiest two bucks he’d ever made, and he was probably already considering asking if you wanted to try once Matt lost. For a moment, you were just as full of doubt, slanting a worried glance at Matt out of the corner of your eye. You were gonna feel a little bad if he wasted his money just because you’d wanted the bear. “Didn’t make it.” You cleared your throat. “Bounced off the far corner, ahead on the left.”

The tiniest hint of a smile shaped his mouth before it was gone, the innocent facade returning.

He’d…  planned for the first ring to bounce. 

His tone dipped into something almost apologetic. “Can you clap again, please?”

His second ring, like the first, bouncing off the side closest to you. It rebounded off the side of the bottles, landing on the ground where it rolled away.

He sighed before asking hopefully, “One more time? I think I have it now.”

“Why don’t you just give it to her—”

“Just do it!” shouted a man on the opposite side of the booth, holding his own half-empty bucket of rings. The worker growled and leaned over the rings to clap just once, as if it was so very difficult, before stepping back. 

Matt turned to you, distracting you from glaring daggers at the man. Now he wasn’t bothering to hide his smile. “Kiss for luck?”

You snorted, stepping in close and tipping your head up. He brushed his free hand over your shoulder, tracking the line of your body up to your face. He brushed his thumb over your lips before leaning in, pressing his mouth so very softly to yours. It worked perfectly to hide his grin as he casually tossed the last plastic ring.

Plastic bounced against glass with a quiet clink. There was a series of gasps from the onlookers as the ring spun and rattled its way across two bottles before slotting itself perfectly onto the centermost bottle.

Everyone went wild, cheering and whooping. Matt lifted his head and smiled innocently as you laughed and people clapped him on his shoulder. “Does that mean I won?”

The man stared in disbelief at the ring that had slotted down onto the bottle. “How the fuck did you—”

“Give him the bear!”  someone roared, followed by more grumbling and growls from others. There was no getting out of giving Matt his prize, and the man shot Matt a dirty look.

“Congratulations. You’ve won. Would you like me to describe the bears to you?”

Matt tugged you around until he could slide his arms around your waist, dropping his chin smugly over your shoulder. “I think she should get to choose. Which one, sweetheart?”

You stabbed your finger at the Daredevil bear with great delight, resisting the urge to bounce on your feet like a small child at Christmas. “That one! Daredevil bear! I want the Daredevil bear.”

He brushed his lips against your ear as the worker went to grab the pole needed to pull down the Daredevil bear. “Excellent choice,” he whispered. “Not that I’m biased.”

-x-

“You guys seriously got a Beardevil? Why is it in my seat?”

“Is that who that is? I thought Daredevil felt a little furrier than normal when he came to visit.”

Chapter Text

“Got me, Doll?” 

“Yup, you’re good to go.”

Bucky settled your arms a little tighter around his shoulders before he swung himself out the window, his metal arm holding tight to the sill as he slowly lowered the two of you down. 

“Tell me why we couldn’t go down the stairs again?” you groaned, burying your face against his shoulder and clinging to him as tightly as you could. It was… a lot farther down than you’d expected. Four floors sounded small in theory, but in reality, you’d definitely splat like a pancake if you were to slide free. “I feel like a baby koala.”

Maybe the compound had bouncy grass? Or anti-fall technology? 

“You know they’d give us shit if they saw us sneakin’ out this late. That ‘wellness plan’, circadian rhythm bullshit. And you’re cuter than a koala, don’t sell yourself short, doll.”

“Thank you for ranking me above small bears. I guess it’s worth it to get to the midnight showing. I really do want to see that movie,” you muttered as he slowly made his way downwards. Despite the fact that he was hauling you on his back, his movements were steady and sure, which went a long way to calm you. “Where did these handholds come from, anyway?”

“May have installed ‘em in case you and me ever needed to get out,” he said distractedly, his metal arm whirring as he moved smoothly from handhold to handhold. You were just passing the second floor’s window. Halfway there. “I know we got the exit plan, but I wanna be able to carry you out if I need to. You can’t just jump out a window like I ca—”

“Shh!” You clapped a hand over his mouth and he froze, the two of you still and unmoving as a small drone, complete with a blinking smiley face on its front screen, drifted past the window and down the interior hallway. Supposedly it was to make the wellness drone more ‘friendly’ as it chased people and gave them lectures about their wellness habits. 

You’d always thought it was a little sinister, personally. 

The drone whirred quietly, meandering onwards in a hunt for unwellness and inferior sleep habits. Bucky slowly lowered himself to the next handhold. 

A handhold which began to creak.

“Bucky,” you whispered. 

“Didn’t really intend for them to hafta hold us this long,” he muttered. 

There was the tiniest squeak as the handhold started to pull away from the wall, and Bucky quickly dropped his hand to the next in the line. But it was too late.

The drone whirled, a spotlight clicking on. That eerie blue smiley face, unblinking, merciless, locked onto the two of you, both your heads just visible through the window. 

“Hello,”  it said in a voice that was somehow both ominous and cheerful, like a rabid tiger wearing a pink bow. “I see you’re awake after the advised hour. Would you like to discuss CIRCADIAN. RHYTHMS?” 

“Hang on, Doll,” Bucky growled. You didn’t have time to reply as he shoved back from the building and dropped into freefall. 

You shrieked as you both fell through the air, your hair blowing back. The sudden stop on the ground jolted you, but Bucky only grunted, crouching to absorb the impact before he was off, sprinting for the parking area as you laughed in delight. Oh sure, you’d enjoyed watching him run and jump, but being with him while he did it was something else entirely. Now with the wind in your face, the world blurring as it flew by, you’d discovered a new level of joy. “You need to run with me koala-ing more often,” you shouted. 

Bucky’s feral grin as he tore around the garage quickly vanished in favor of a snarl, his teeth bared. 

“Doctors advise the average adult receive between seven to nine hours of sleep per night,”  the drone chirped ominously. “Based on your alarm schedule—FROSTY. HIMBO.—you will not meet the required hours for the avera—”

“Frosty himbo’s a new nickname,” you mused. “Haven’t heard that one from Stark yet.”

“Do I look like the average adult?” Bucky barked at the hovering drone. “I’m a hundred years old.” 

“Would you like me to discuss a CUSTOM. SLEEP. SCHEDULE. For you, FROSTY. HIMBO?”

“How ‘bout you go bother Sam?”

“I’m afraid you—FROSTY. HIMBO—have filed the maximum number of wellness reports for this month. You have reported HARVEY. BIRDMAN, thirty-seven times this month. Would you like to discuss INTERWORKPLACE. DISAGREEMENTS?” 

“Why the hell did you report him thirty-seven times?” you whispered as Bucky carefully sidestepped, creeping towards the garage. The drone continued to follow with a quiet whir, waiting for Bucky’s reply.

“He stole my yogurt last month. Nobody touches my fucking yogurt.”

“Would you like to discuss COMPANY. FRIDGE. PROTOCOL?” 

“Can you beat it to the compound wall?” you whispered. “We can call an uber. Would be faster than trying to get past the drone to the garage.”

The drone swiveled to face you, locking its unblinking grin on you.  “Would you like to discuss CARPOOLIN—"

“Look!” you shouted, pointing at a distant red-and-blue figure who’d just stepped out of the compound, drink in hand. “A child broke curfew!” 

“Wait, no, I was just visiting—” 

The drone spun, flicking on a small spotlight.  “Activating special protocol: WHY. AREN’T. YOU. IN. BED?” 

“Go, go, go!” you hissed, as Bucky took off. Peter sprinted in the opposite direction, the drone in hot pursuit. Two more drones flew through open windows in the compound to join the chase. “Oh god, I can’t believe I sent the wellness bots after a kid. It’s like kicking a puppy.”

“Don’t think that kinda distraction will work on these over here,” Bucky growled, pushing himself faster as two more wellness bots appeared from the gardens on either side of you. 

“Doctors recommend you avoid cardio at least one hour before bed as an aspect of good sleep hygiene, FROSTY. HIMBO. Would you like to discuss an EXERCISE. PLA—”

“Bucky, run!” you shouted, clinging to him as the drones edged closer. “Wellness is coming!”

Bucky snarled, putting on a final burst of speed. You knew what was coming, and you stabilized yourself on his back as best you could. 

“Sprints fall under the category of CARDIO. If CARDIO continues after advised hours, I will be forced to file a wellness report with the compound doc—”

Bucky kicked off the ground and hit the outer wall at almost full speed, rapidly transitioning his forward momentum into upward momentum as he powered his way up the wall. The ground quickly fell away, dropping out from under you. There was a brief second where the climb slowed, and you almost thought you both weren’t going to make it, but then Bucky grunted and gouged into the wall with his metal hand, using it to yank the two of you up the last few feet. 

Then he stood on the wall with you still on his back, the two of you grinning down at the two drones. 

“Say g’night to em, doll.”

The two of you shoved out matching middle fingers. Then Bucky backflipped off the wall, making you shriek again in laughter. 

Meanwhile, on the other side of the compound, Peter stood surrounded by five drones. 

“Come on, I even have my visitor pass—"

“SPIDER. LING. Our records indicate this time should be reserved for HOMEWORK. Or SLEEPING. Would you like to discuss—”

Chapter Text

On Sundays, you were often the one who woke up first.

Matt would have been the first up if you’d asked, and he often was during the week, but on Sundays, you liked to let him get a little extra sleep before the week started. Your plan usually involved rolling out of bed and making breakfast so he was able to wake up slowly to the scent of whatever you'd decided to whip up. That, however, could only happen if you managed to escape the winding clutches of your beloved cuddle octopus, like you were trying to do now. But even in sleep, he was reluctant to part with you. 

You wormed your way closer to the edge of the bed, trying to gently untangle yourself from the arm around your waist and the legs shoved between and around yours. There was a soft little noise of protest from behind you before you were slowly, inevitably dragged back in. Matt breathed a warm, contented sigh against the back of your neck once you were back in place. It was as if you trying to slide away was an accident, one he had now remedied. All was right in the world, once more. 

“Matt, don’t you want me to make breakfast?” You huffed a laugh, trying again to claw for the edge of the bed. You even managed to roll yourself over onto your stomach as you squirmed over. Matt, however, seemed to take that as an invitation. This time, instead of dragging you back, he simply slid up over the top of your back, happily draping his broad bulk half on top of you like a large dog unaware of its size. The combined weight of you both sank you down into the mattress and you let out a grunt as you went down, now firmly pinned. He dropped his face against the back of your neck with a sleepy rumble, his breathing still slow. 

“Stay with me,” he mumbled before yawning, adjusting one of his thick, fuzzy legs to slot between yours, getting as much skin-to-skin contact as he could.

“I’m just going to be in the kitchen.” You reached back up over your shoulder to run your fingers through his hair. His low purr resonated against your back as he tipped his head into your hand, blearily kissing your wrist before dropping his head back down to your neck. “Figured you’d want to eat when you got up.”

“Are you hungry?”

“Not particularly.”

“Then stay.” He dragged his cheek drowsily against the nape of your neck, stubble rasping along your skin. “Just for a little while longer. It’s Sunday. We don’t have anywhere to be.”

“Says the Catholic.”

“Day of rest.” He nuzzled closer, adjusting before turning his head and laying it down on your shoulder, his breathing slowing again. “Very Catholic. Rest with me.”

Well… what could it hurt? 

You let your head drop back onto your pillow as he pulled the blankets farther up over the two of you. Then his hand found yours so he could lace your fingers together. 

“Thank you,” he whispered before he drifted off. You followed not long after, lulled into sleep by the rhythm of his breathing against your back and the slow, steady beat of his heart.

Chapter Text

“Bucky,” you said warily as he finished winding the fuses of the fireworks together. “Bucky, that’s a lot of fireworks to go off all at the same time.”

“Don’t worry, doll. We used to fuse this stuff together all the time.” He waved a hand, double-checking the rows of fireworks one by one. “Besides, if my girl wants a light show, she gets a fuckin’ light show.”

And sure, alright, you had briefly spoken wistfully of the romantic nature of fireworks to Wanda. Bucky had gotten a strange light—no pun intended—in his eye when he’d overheard, before announcing to you that no girl of his would be without fireworks on your anniversary. That was probably when the alarms in your head, the ones that went off when you caught the scent of Bucky-related chaos, should have started ringing. That ominous feeling had only grown when he’d appeared with a massive wooden crate, one absolutely covered in warning labels written in six different languages. You weren’t sure where exactly he’d gotten the box, and you hadn’t asked. All you knew was, Sam had pointedly put Redwing on Fire Detection Duty for the evening. 

Bucky waved you back a few more paces before he lit the fuse and then jogged over to you. He swung an arm down and hauled you up over his shoulder with nothing but ease and you couldn’t quite swallow back your laughter. He sauntered confidently across the grass, humming to himself before he reached some random point he apparently deemed a safe distance. Then he set you down and spun you around to watch.

You caught Sam’s eye where he stood inside the compound at a window, rolling your eyes when he mimed an explosion.

You and Bucky waited as the fuse gradually crept closer to the fireworks. Soon one spark became two, and then three, then five, multiplying faster and faster as the tied fuses split apart.

“Any second now,” Bucky whispered. 

There was a quiet hiss, the fuses disappearing. You tilted your head curiously, narrowing your eyes at the rigging Bucky had set up. “Bucky, how high do these go?”

“Well.” He scratched his chin. “Had to make a few modifications. Technically aerial stuff’s illegal so I kept ‘em low. Figured we’d be fine as long as we were far enough back.”

“How low is ‘low?'”

There was a loud crack as the fireworks began to go off, spiraling up into the air with loud, whistling shrieks. True to Bucky’s word, they didn’t go very high. 

Not very high at all. 

A massive explosion of vibrant red and pink light filled your vision, fireworks erupting in thunderous waves. The noise was so loud the windows of the compound rattled, and somewhere, a car alarm began to blare. But you, you were just mystified, your eyes wide and mouth open in delight even as you clapped your hands over your ears. 

And it just kept coming, the mortar racks firing off rocket after rocket — rich bursts of red and pink, blue and green, yellow and orange, blooming in shimmering arcs like the opening of flowers made of stardust. The shape of those blossoms were so close you almost felt like you could reach out and touch them, so close you could feel the heat of it washing across your skin. 

Wait… 

“Bucky, it’s getting closer.”

“Yeah, we should, uh, back up a little.” He dragged you back a few steps, and then a few more, nudging you further and further as the sparks and smoke began to drift towards you. Sam howled silently inside the compound window, hands on his knees as he wheezed.  “Coulda sworn the new stuff would be shittier than ours.”

“Why would you assume that?” you laughed before coughing. You ran a little faster, hoping to outrun the fragrant, thick smoke that had begun to waft towards you. 

“You have any idea the kinda ingredients we were allowed to use back then? You think we didn’t include fireworks?”

“Point taken.”

“Wait, wait!” He jerked you to a halt. You were still a little breathless, the flare of the fireworks still way too close as Bucky spun you around to look back. “Just watch, this is the best part. Got this one special.”

There was another shriek as three rockets spiraled up, and shortly after burst into three red and pink hearts, perfectly shaped and angled so that all three were on display at once. 

“Oh,” you breathed, as Bucky grinned and lifted your hand to kiss your knuckles. 

“Happy anniversary, Doll. Now we should go, cause I think one’a Stark’s bushes are on fire.”

He turned and you leapt up onto his back before he took off. You planted a kiss to his temple, still laughing. “Happy anniversary, Bucky.”

Chapter Text

“What’re you two doing out here?”

You glanced up at Din, his gleaming metal helmet tilted downwards to stare down at you and Grogu, who you had cuddled up in your arms. You took Grogu’s tiny hand and waved it. “Enjoying the scenery before we head out. We’ve still got an hour and everything’s already prepped. I don’t think he’s ever seen anything like this.”

Din considered you for a long moment, the tilt of his helmet shifting from examination to mildly puzzled. You liked to think you’d become an expert in translating Din’s unique helmeted head-tilts over the months you’d been with him. When combined with the rest of his body language, you could usually get a decent grasp on his mood. Not that you needed it this time when his confusion managed to work its way through his vocoder. “Seen what, exactly?”

Your brow furrowed a little as Grogu cooed, waving tiny gremlin hands and pointing towards the creeping edge of pink light on the horizon, frosted and pale as it began to chase away the rich blues and purples of night. “The… the sunrise. Haven’t you ever watched one here?”

He turned his helmet to consider the horizon as you slid Grogu’s goggles down. You weren’t entirely sure whether the kid’s eyes were sensitive to the sun, but the last thing you needed was for the little guy to stare directly into the sun and burn his big buggy eyes out. The merchant you’d bought the pair of goggles from had needed to make a few modifications to fit the shape of Grogu’s head and eyes, but he’d guaranteed the kid’s eyes would be protected without diminishing the color.

“Is it… different here?” Din asked quietly.

“Different?”

“The colors. Different here? Than the others?”

“I read this planet has some of the most beautiful sunrises in the Outer Rim. Pink, purple,  green, orange, red. It goes through most of the spectrum.” You reached up to tug gently at Din’s cape, and he reluctantly crouched down next to you with a quiet grunt. Grogu seemed pleased this had become a group activity, babbling excitedly before he went back to watching the sunrise with an amazing amount of focus. The misty shadows of pale pink had begun to creep across the sky, followed by the rich colors of a roaring fire blooming at the horizon’s edge, signaling the coming of the sun. “Do you really not see that?” 

“The helmet… filters out a lot of the brighter colors. Less distracting.” 

“Have you ever seen one, maybe… I don’t know. While eating? When you’ve taken the helmet off?”

“No,” he said softly, turning his head back towards the sunrise. “I haven’t.” 

The smokey clouds on the horizon began to flare into bright swaths of green and gold, the shafts of pink and purple filling the sky above you as the sun began to rise, a burning, brilliant red arc of fire. Din turned back to watch the two of you as Grogu and you gasped. 

You wished he could see it, too. 

And maybe he could see the thought on your face—the longing, the ache for him—because he quickly rose, sand scraping under his boots as he stepped away from you. You let him go, not wanting to push him into anything. He’d only just started taking his helmet off around you in the dark and when he was positioned behind you out of sight, and always, always in the ship, when you were both alone. He’d never removed it out here in the open. Even when there was no one else around, like now, you refused to ask that of him.

Maybe we can come back one day.

Sand crunched behind you and when you started to glance back, Din carefully caught your head, his hand incredibly gentle as he nudged your cheek until you were facing forward again. “Don’t turn around,” he said gruffly, settling down behind you. 

Your brow furrowed but ultimately you did as he asked, keeping your eyes straight ahead, wondering what he was up to. You thought you’d figured it out when his legs stretched out alongside yours and he slid up against your back, the scent of warm leather, beskar, and blaster residue drifting in the air around you. He’d clearly decided to take part in watching with you both even if he couldn’t quite see it the way you and Grogu could. The thought warmed you enough that you grinned, leaning back into him affectionately. 

There was a quiet hiss behind you, and then a thump as something was set in the sand. And then…

“Don’t turn around,” he whispered again, his rough voice warm and rich beside your ear—as rich as any sunrise, and full of something tender. It was a sound you’d never heard outside the Crest, and your eyes widened. You only just managed to keep your head facing forward, resisting the urge to react as he set his chin on your shoulder. His arms wound around your waist carefully, almost wary. You adjusted Grogu in your lap, who grumbled until he realized what you were doing. It took a little adjusting, but eventually, you got Grogu positioned so that Din was holding both you and his son, Grogu’s tiny hand holding tight to one of Din’s gloved fingers.

There was a startled inhale from Din, his chest expanding against your back as the sun began to fully breach the horizon line. The sky exploded into a wash of color from cloud to sky, as if the stars themselves had spilled sweeping puddles of color across the sky, swirls and elegant minglings of light and shade that took your breath away. 

Din was quiet as you reached back to stroke his cheek, your eyes still firmly settled on the horizon. He tilted just enough to brush his lips over your wrist, and then his head was back on your shoulder, as the three of you watched the sunrise together. 

Chapter Text

“Shit, remind me why I wore these today?” you muttered, pausing to lean against the corner of a building. Once you were stable, you balanced on one foot so you could lift your other leg up and rub at your ankle. God, your feet were killing you. You hadn’t intended to be on your feet all day, not in these shoes. "Suddenly I regret walking." 

“‘S cause you’re wearing fuckin’ torture devices,” Bucky said, brow furrowed as he returned to you. He settled his hand on your shoulder, helping you keep your balance as you rolled and flexed your ankle. “Sure, they look good, but they hurt.”

“They only hurt if I walk around too much,” you objected, wincing as you curled your toes inside your shoe. “Which was today. Blame shitty societal standards that demand I wear heels on days like this. It would help if I had my flats in my bag, but I left those at home. I’ll remember that next time”

“Yeah, but that don’t solve the issue of you gettin’ home now.”

“Just give me a minute,” you sighed, shaking your foot out. You’d do the other in a second. “And then I’m good, I can make it. I can—Bucky, put me down!” 

“Nope,” he announced, settling you around his shoulders as if you were just another scarf hanging around his neck, catching your leg under one arm and your arm under his metal one, the plates whirring quietly as he settled you into a fireman’s carry. “You’re lucky your feet aren’t bleedin’, doll. I’m not letting you walk home on those fuckin’ things and makin' it worse.”

A car slowed as Bucky started down the street, and you threw them an awkward smile and waved them off. “Bucky, people are staring. And that guy just took a picture with his phone.”

“I don’t give two fucks,” he said stubbornly. “Let em’ look. And when we get home, you’re puttin’ yourself in the bath and soakin’ your legs. You’re off your feet for the night.”

You sighed, relaxing even further when he tipped his head to give you a quick peck on your arm before he continued onwards. “I guess… that does sound nice.”

“I have good ideas sometimes.”

Chapter Text

Modern dating was still a bit of a mystery to Steve. 

It wasn’t like he… like he hadn’t been on dates. He had, no matter what anyone else said. He was ancient—not dead. But a good half of the places he’d have taken you to back in his time didn’t exist anymore. On top of that, how he might ask you on a date was just as confusing. What counted as old-fashioned as opposed to romantic? Flowers? A letter? Standing on your lawn with a ‘boombox’ like in that movie he’d watched? If so he was out of luck, because he was pretty sure those boxes were just as dead as his awareness of how the dating scene worked. It certainly didn’t help that once word got around that he was looking to ask you out, everyone began to hunt him down to offer advice on both how he should ask and where he should take you to.

Thor’s suggestion, given with great cheer and much back-slapping, was to take you on a hunt. 

“Seek out something large and ferocious! A beast that shall get the blood pumping, hm? At least five lengths longer than you should do. Though… No. No. Ten! Ten lengths! So there is fight enough for the both of you.” Thor clapped him on the shoulder. “Should you have no such creatures that satisfy on Midgard, I will fetch you one.” 

Steve… didn’t think that was the right way to go.

Tony’s suggestion, meanwhile, was a bit more upscale than he was comfortable with. 

“Look, I get you haven’t done this since before the stone age,” Tony said absently, tapping away at his phone. “But trust me, we’ve advanced since the days of offering a sabertooth pelt. I know a place, beautiful view of the skyline. Normally booking’s three months in advance, but between you being a Capsicle and me being, well, me, I’ll get you in. She like sushi?” He scoffed before Steve could answer. “What am I saying? This place is amazing. If she doesn’t like sushi before she goes, she’ll like it after. Sent you the link—that’s the bunch of little words and letters that are blue, not black—in your email. Just call them, let ‘em know I sent you. By the way, I really, really think we need to change that email. Steve-dot-rogers-fifty seven? Really?” 

And while a view of the skyline sounded romantic, it only took him one fumbled google search to see that it cost roughly six hundred dollars per person.  After checking to make sure his heart was still beating, he ruled that out. Even aside from the cost, it looked a little more formal than he was comfortable with.

When it came to Natasha, however, she took a different route, as she usually did. That included almost startling him out of his skin when he flicked on his light and found her seated in a chair in his living room. She blinked at him slowly, completely unruffled by his reaction. 

“Nat, God. How long have you been sitting here?”

“Too long. You’re late by about thirty-eight minutes. Unusual for you.” She flicked one hand at a stack of paper on his coffee table, one that very much hadn’t been there this morning when he’d left. “I’m not going to sit here and tell you how to ask her out, or where to take her.”

He hesitated, mildly suspicious. “I sense a ‘but’ coming.”

“But I may or may not have gone through her publicly accessible social media accounts. And talked to her friends. And her family. And accessed her S.H.I.E.L.D. file. That stack is roughly ten years of interests, hobbies, internet surveys, and locations she’s expressed interest in visiting.” 

“I can’t read this,” he objected, narrowing his eyes at the stack of paper as if it were about to bite him. “That sounds… that’s private, I can’t just—”

“One of them is literally just a, ‘My Top Tens’ survey she shared with her friends, Steve. We’re talking about what her favorite season is, not secrets.” 

“It’s still—”

“It’s got her favorite flowers, and what color they are.”

His eyes slid slowly down to the stack of paper, and for a moment, he reconsidered. 

“Just think about it. And let me know if you have anything else you want to know. I’ll find it.”

Clint’s suggestions were, perhaps, the most sensible, but they still didn’t feel quite right. 

“Take her somewhere exciting!” Clint assured him as they jogged down the hall of the Compound, alarms blaring around them. “You know, water skiing. Paragliding, with good views. Gets the adrenaline pumping. That sort of thing.”

“Is now really the time to be doing this? We don’t even know what’s going on.”

“What’s going on,” came Tony’s voice over their comms, “is that Point Break just ported in with some massive twelve-legged Cujo slash T. rex hybrid… thing, on a chain, shouted, ‘For Brother Steve!’ and let it go into the woods like it was Bambi. We need to get it before it devours a herd of school children. Or finds the zoo and decides an elephant would make a good mother.”

Clint sighed. “This is a bad day for me to have forgotten my T. rex tranq arrows, isn’t it?”

In the end, it was Bruce that gave him the best advice. 

Bruce continued working through his bowl of cereal, considering Steve as Steve groaned. He’d written down the suggestions, but each and every one he went over just seemed… off. There was just so much information from Natasha, every restaurant he looked for with a skyline view was exorbitantly expensive, he didn’t know how to water ski, and the twelve-legged, T. rex-dog hybrid had already been very reluctantly tranquilized and sent back to wherever it came from—though only after Thor had winked and loudly whispered, “a little smaller next time, Brother Steve? I understand. ‘Tis more intimate.” 

“I have a suggestion,” Bruce said quietly.

Steve scrubbed his hands down his face. “If it involves T. rexes or social media, I’m afraid it won’t work.”

Bruce paused, thinking as he poked at his bowl of Lucky Charms. “I know I’m normally the one advocating thinking, but in this case I think you might be overthinking.”

“How so?”

Bruce rolled one shoulder easily, completely calm. “She already likes you. You’ve already spent time together doing fun things you enjoy, just as friends. So just go to her as you, since that’s who you want her to date. Not Clint or Nat or Tony. As for where you go, it’s you that makes it romantic, not the location. But that’s just me.”

Which was how he found himself on your doorstep, shifting from foot to foot, flowers in one hand. It was old-fashioned, maybe, but it was also more him, and to be honest, Bruce’s advice that he go to you as himself had been the only thing that made sense when he finally dug down into it. If you wanted to go on a date with him, if you said yes, he’d take you to a movie or maybe dancing. He knew you liked movies based on how many times you’d taken him, and he… thought you might like dancing if it was with him, and even if he had to set something up himself. 

Yet his thoughts all fled the second you opened the door, your brows arching up in surprise. “Steve! Wasn’t expecting you. You here as Avengers Steve to evacuate me, or is this personal?”

“I… personal.” He cleared his throat, and it was only then you seemed to notice the flowers. Before he could overthink it, he continued. “Look, we… I was wondering… we’ve just spent a lot of time together, and I was wondering if you wanted to… spend more time. Together. In a more… personal way.”

Great job, Rogers.

Your smile slow grew as he spoke, tripping over his own feet, and he winced, waiting for you to laugh or maybe just shut the door in his face. 

“I would love to spend more time together, especially if by, ‘more personal’, you meant a date.”

He searched your expression, your eyes for some sign that you were joking, but you were… completely serious. Something inside him went warm, even as the tension in him began to ease because you’d said yes. “You mean it?” 

“I’ve liked you for a while now,” you confessed, carefully reaching out to take his free hand, tangling it with yours. He stared down at your twined fingers, still half in shock that it had worked. He’d known you enjoyed his company; it was one reason you’d both become friends, but he’d never expected anything like this. “Was kind of hoping this would happen, but I didn’t want to push it.” 

“That I understand,” he said quietly, stepping in just a little closer, now that he knew that his want for that kind of warmth, that kind of closeness might be reciprocated. “So… maybe we can start slow. I’d like to take you to dinner and a movie. I have a lot of those still on my list, half of which were recommended by you, so…”

“Increasing your cultural awareness is a lovely date idea,” you laughed, your free hand reaching down to brush over the flowers. “Did you plan for that tonight, since you brought flowers?”

He chuckled, holding them out to you. “Almost forgot about those. I wanted those here when I asked.” 

“How’d you know these were my favorites?” you whispered, taking them in with a quiet sigh, breathing them in. 

“Just a lucky guess.”

Chapter Text

When you learned that Frank could cook, you were momentarily struck speechless. 

Up until the moment you’d found him bothering to make an actual goddamn meal in your kitchen, you’d been convinced he ran on coffee and road gravel alone. You’d have thought he burned anything short of water. It just… seemed like the kind of person he was, this man you’d developed a strange and currently unlabeled closeness with. People like Frank, in your experience, didn’t cook unless it was, you know… shooting a bear and then roasting it on a fire or something.

He’d barely looked up from where he was rapidly dicing the bell peppers he’d laid out, one corner of his mouth quirking up. “You ever seen a knife I couldn’t use?”

“Considering what I’ve seen you eat? If there was any knife you couldn’t use, it would be one in my kitchen.”

He'd shaken his head slightly, quiet as he swiped the peppers into a sizzling pan. “Cookin’s for when you got time, or when you’re feedin’ someone. I’ll eat shit food, hell, I’ll enjoy it some days. But you don’t feed it to someone else. I know enough to get done what I need to, an’ say thank you for lettin’ me stay so often.”

And that was, mostly, where you both had left it. Just like that, Frank cooking for you both was in the rotation of Events That Somehow Occurred In Your Life, on those random nights when he showed up on your doorstep, smelling like gunpowder and blood and leather. Sometimes it was you who cooked, and sometimes… it was him. Neither of you called attention to it, beyond your quiet, thank you, which he always shrugged off. It wasn’t clear what all he knew how to cook, but just like he’d said: he knew enough.

Well, not quite enough. 

“You don’t know how to fry an egg sandwich in a cast-iron skillet?” Your brows shot up as you absently shifted the skillet around on the burner, ensuring it warmed up properly. 

“Ain’t like I got the time for that kinda upkeep,” he said in amusement, a massive mug of black coffee held in one scarred hand. Knowing how strong he liked his coffee, you were lucky it hadn’t eaten through the bottom of your mug like acid. “I may not know anything about cookin’ with cast iron but I know it needs all that love and affection shit, or you’re gonna be chewin’ rust.”

You crooked a finger at him. “Then come here. You’re at least gonna learn how to fry an egg sandwich in this one.” 

His rough laugh rolled so low, you were surprised the floors didn’t vibrate. “You givin’ me an order?”

“You bet your ass I am. Come make some fucking comfort food with me, Frank.”

He snorted quietly, rocking up to his feet and sauntering over to stand next to you. “Ma’am, yes ma’am.”

“Heat it up slowly, first off.” You tapped the handle, letting him take over as you got the eggs. “It never heats up evenly at first, and if you’re not careful, you can cook eggs way too fast if it’s too warm. If you flick a droplet of water on and it dances, you’re golden.”

“Jesus, this shit’s heavy enough to club a goddamn bear,” he muttered, nudging the pan before grasping the handle. He hefted it up the slightest bit, dark eyes dangerously thoughtful. “Good weight to it, though.”

“If you ruin the seasoning on my cast-iron skillet by getting someone’s blood on it, Frank, I’ll use it to murder you. If you’re fighting someone in my kitchen, the knives are acceptable. Not this.”

“You don’t give a shit about your knives?”

“My knives are not antiques. The pan has seniority here.”

He rumbled a thoughtful noise, dipping his fingers in the little bowl of water you’d left next to the stove to test the heat. He watched with an almost frightening amount of focus, eyes narrowed, as he flicked a single drop of water onto the pan exactly as you’d instructed. The fact that he was taking this so seriously had you stifling a grin behind your hand. He grunted as you dropped a pat of butter into the pan, and he began to roll his wrist, rotating it around. He knew that much, at least. “I can hear you fuckin’ grinnin’, kid. Don’t teach me shit if you don’t want me to learn it.” 

God, I love you. 

Not that you’d tell him that, anytime soon. 

“You always need to oil these real well. Butter or bacon fat if we’re being less healthy,” you told him, giving the egg mixture another brisk stir in its bowl. “Some people use vegetable oil, stuff like that. And some days I do, but not for this. Fried egg sandwiches are for comfort, not health. Ok, when we drop the eggs in, you’re gonna’ wanna lower the heat just a little. The skillet will keep absorbing heat, so it’ll keep cooking, but I like to help the eggs cook evenly.”

He took the bowl when you handed it to him, still gravely serious, until you caught the hint of warmth in his eyes. Something about it, about Frank looking almost… fond while standing at your stove cooking with you, hit you hard enough that you leaned up to kiss him on the chin, doing your best to return that bit of fondness you’d seen. He allowed it, the quietest little sigh leaving him. Affection was like that with him, sometimes. Most of the time his affection was conveyed in tasks, in doing things for you, but sometimes it was… this, these quiet little signs you’d have missed if you weren’t looking. 

You went back to the stove, watching carefully as he prepared to drop the eggs in. “Don’t fuck it up, Frank.”

“Fuck if I ain’t tryin’ not to.”

Chapter Text

You sighed, rubbing your eyes as you flopped down onto the couch. It had been a long week—far too long, and nothing but a nightmare the entire time. It didn’t help that Bucky was off on another mission. Your snarky, foul-mouthed super soldier had a lovely talent for cheering you up right when you needed it. Just hearing his voice would have been enough, but unfortunately, talking was out thanks to wherever he was. Texting was allowed, due to a bunch of tech garble you didn’t quite understand, but that could be hit or miss with Bucky. He’d learned a lot over the years, but that didn’t mean he was comfortable with it. Still, he tried, and that was what counted. 

You pulled out your phone, swiping over to your messages. Bucky generally preferred to send you handwritten letters but that wasn’t always an option, so he did his best to text with you when he could. Thanks to that, you had a lot of pictures from him. Most were poorly angled pictures of things he saw while out, paired with blunt messages like ‘saw this, thought of you, I love you’ without any context that might give away why he thought the poorly lit dog staring at a mannequin reminded him of you. Other times you were graced with a picture of him squinting into the lens, vaguely blurry, the background suitably bland so that if the pictures were intercepted they wouldn’t be identified. To those, he usually added, ‘I am alive, I love you.'

Always, always, 'I love you,' which you may or may not have sniffled over once or twice.

Today he’d taken a picture of a blurry cloud (‘this looks like a sock, weird’), a single glove in a gutter (‘it is alone, poor fucker’), and another predictably fuzzy picture of himself staring into the lens, though this time it was angled so only half his face was in the shot with a small white blur down behind him (‘I am alive and I found a goat, I love you’). He was at least partially smiling in that last one. You grinned, typing back. 

Text sent at 6:38 pm: good on that goat getting you to smile, grumpy soldier. I love your eyes when you do

Text received at 6:39 pm: yeah well, I love your nipples when you smile, so there 

What? 

You blinked, then blinked again. Three dots popped up, indicating he was still typing as you typed in your own reply. 

Text sent at 6:39 pm: that escalated quickly

Text received at 6:39 pm: fuck, I meant nipples

You began to snicker, your laughter quickly escalating into hysterics as the text messages kept coming. 

Text received at 6:40 pm: fuck this thing, I am trying to say dim balls

Text received at 6:41 pm: this never happened with letters and paper

Text received at 6:42 pm: I bet sam did this, he messed with my phone I think, I am sorry

Text received at 6:43 pm: he is laughing at me but I am just trying to say dimples

Text received at 6:44 pm: jesus fucking christ, finally, I am sorry for bringing your nipples into this

The text was followed shortly by an image of Sam bent double on his hotel bed laughing and Bucky’s arm extended into the shot, middle finger extended. 

Text received at 6:45 pm: he says he did nothing but I do not believe him. I am going to hide his robot birb again

Text received at 6:46 pm: goddammit, I give up

Chapter Text

“Do you cede defeat?” you bellowed, peering over the banister. Matt prowled around below you, his movements fluid and hungry as he paced across the worn floorboards. You’d only just made it over your staircase barricade—constructed from chairs and the table, along with the couch—in time to close it up behind you. Now the Devil was trapped downstairs, seemingly unwilling to destroy the furniture you’d incorporated into your barrier. It had been a cruel trick putting it all into place while he was gone, but you’d have lost the battle without it, and you weren’t above rearranging the battlefield ahead of time if it give you an advantage. 

Matt growled quietly, pillow in hand as he circled, his head tilted and predatory, focused on you above him. To your shock and delight, it wasn’t Matt that had chased after you once you’d engaged with that first pillow—a pillow he’d caught in one hand, fire blazing to life in his blank eyes before he’d grinned and whispered, “run.” That the Devil would come out to play was something unexpected but more than welcome. That darker side of him, all smoke and fire and heat, so rarely got to partake in something just for the fun of it. It… sort of made sense, though. The Devil was all about battle, even if those battles were nothing but play. But even if this War of the Feathers was just for fun, you were still a bit warmer than you’d have been going at it with anyone else. God knew you loved it when Matt moved like this, elegant and graceful, his every step smooth and whisper-quiet as he hunted.

You blew a feather out of your face, letting it float over the edge of the banister to land on the floor with all the other feathers you and Matt had left scattered around the apartment. It was going to be hell cleaning all of them up, but it was worth it. Besides, these were extras you’d purchased solely for tonight. No truly beloved pillow would be lost as collateral damage. “Come on, D. Give it up. I clocked you good with that third pillow, and now I have the high ground. You’re stuck.”

“Am I?” he murmured, his voice smokey and warm as he stopped below you, rolling his head back to grin up at you. 

You narrowed your eyes, growing suspicious. You knew that tone and the wicked curve of his smile. He was planning something.

What are you up to, D? 

“I know you can’t see per se,” you said warily, pointing a finger at the staircase, “but I also know your senses picked up my stair barricade before I put the table back in place. You’re down there. I’m up here. That’s called victory.”

“It’s also called a retreat.”

You growled and chucked your pillow at him, feathers trailing through the air. He deftly caught it in one hand, tossing it over his shoulder as if it meant nothing. You picked up the second pillow you’d hidden up by the rooftop door, rolling your wrist to spin it in a mocking circle. “Face it. I have at least one more headshot on you than you have on me. And there’s no catching up while you’re down there—”

Matt tossed his pillow in a slow arc off to the side, and you watched in confusion as it flew up and over to plop onto the first landing, just behind the stair barricade. 

Your ears picked up the faintest whisper of fabric and the quiet creak of wood. Your eyes widened in realization.

A distraction. 

“I’ll take that,” the Devil purred, snatching your pillow away as he balanced on the banister, all elegant muscle and easy grace. “What was that about victory, sweetheart?” 

The bastard had leapt up and climbed. 

And now he had your only remaining pillow. 

You turned and threw yourself at the rooftop door, scrabbling at the handle. But no matter how much you twisted the handle and threw your shoulder against the door, it failed to open, leaving you trapped. You… you could have sworn you’d left this door unlocked. 

Wait a second.

Radiant warmth spilled across your back. as if a massive and incredibly attractive bonfire had prowled up behind you. You licked your lips, your hand still on the doorknob as soft breathing stirred the fine hairs on the back of your neck.

“D,” you said, clearing your throat. “Did you go up outside before the pillow fight and lock the door?”

“I did.”

You slowly spun on your heel to face him as he stretched both arms out, planting his hands on either side of you and caging you in. The pillow still dangled from one of his hands, an open threat that he could easily plomp you with it if he felt like it. “High ground isn’t high ground if you can’t keep it,” he murmured, dipping his head until his forehead brushed against yours, smirking when you shivered. This close, you could still see the fire burning in his dark eyes as they slid sightlessly around you, the scent of him heady and sweet. “The barricade was a nice try, but now it’s your turn to give up. There’s nowhere to run.” He shifted his hand to swing the pillow, letting it brush feather-light against the side of your head. “And now I’ve hit you again, which means we’re tied. I’ll let that stalemate stand if you give yourself up.”

As if. 

You still had one card left to play.

“Is that a promise?” you whispered warmly, tilting your head up and trying to lure him in as you brushed your mouth against his chin. You knew this side of him just as well as you knew Matt Murdock. The Devil was always hungry for something, and that very much included you. Your kiss to his chin got you a warm rumble, and he lowered his head slowly, clearly tempted.

Come on, D. 

He stepped in closer until he could slide his body up against yours, a line of burning heat that left you flushed. He’d lost his suit jacket at the door, and the button-up shirt did little to mask the warmth of him. You trailed your fingers up from his hips, dragging lightly over his sides. That was a vulnerable area for him, and touching those spots always seemed to get him going. Sure enough, he let out a low groan before slotting his mouth hungrily to yours, herding you back again the door. As he did, his arms began to lower.

Two can play the distraction game. 

The second his lips fully settled against yours, you shot one hand out and snatched the pillow—one within easy reach, now that his arms had come down. You ripped it from his hand, doing your best to swing as his iron grip closed around your wrist. He growled, his body snapping forward to pin you harder against the door. He clearly wasn’t expecting you to let go of the pillow, allowing momentum to carry it the rest of the way.

It smacked against the side of his head with a quiet floomp before falling to the ground. 

And he… froze there, the most baffled look you’d ever seen on the Devil’s face. 

You barked out a triumphant, “Ha!” before leaning up to kiss him delightedly, relishing the bewildered slant of his mouth under yours. “What was that about a tie? Cause I’m pretty sure I just beat you again.”

He was quiet for another long moment, blinking in confusion before a grin slowly broke out across his face, the expression almost… proud. You didn’t expect him to lift his hands up to cup your face as he laughed, the sound of it still smokey and rough before he kissed you hard, pulling you in and wrapping himself around you.  You grinned into the kiss, raking your fingers in his hair to knock loose some of the feathers that had gotten stuck, downy little tufts of white floating to the ground. “So I did?” you managed between the fond passes of his lips. “I got you?”

“Yeah. Yeah, you did. And I love you for it.”

Chapter Text

He found the first note stuck to the wall in his apartment, a few steps past his front door.

It was positioned so that his hand would pass over it as he navigated down the hallway, his fingertips sliding along the wall to help him orient. The height of it was just a little low, which was probably why he’d missed it until now. The sudden appearance of it under his fingers—that unexpected array of bumps—startled him so much that he froze for a moment, tracing out those first few letters. 

Braille? 

He traced the outside edges of it, first, following the shape of it. It didn’t feel all that long, and the faint scent of adhesive reached him as he picked at the edge. A label. It had to be. You’d bought a braille label maker, he knew, some time ago. And now, you’d used it to leave this note here for him. How long had it been since you’d left this here?

You weren’t there to ask.

He hesitantly ran his fingers over the series of dots, his breath hitching as he did.

‘Welcome home.’ 

“Thank you,” he whispered. “I miss you.”

He left the note there and made sure to brush it every time he came home. 

He found the next note on one of his cabinets near the sink, a few days later. He tilted his head, gently passing his fingers across the new note. As he did, he soaked in the faint trace of your scent stirred up by the passage of his fingers across the note’s surface. It was as if you’d left more than just your words for him—you’d left pieces of yourself, too.

‘Remember to eat.’ 

“Watching out for me?” he huffed, the corner of his mouth tipping upwards until he was smiling. He left that note, too. 

Over the days and weeks that followed, he found many more such notes. You’d planted them everywhere—almost always in unexpected locations, and never on anything he’d already labeled. No, you’d only placed them where his hand might brush against them accidentally or without thought, quiet reminders of your affection that he treasured.

There was the note on the coffee mug you always used, a mug he often touched fondly before reaching for one of his own: ‘My favorite. Take care of it.’ 

There was another note on one of the bottles of beer in his fridge, the feel of it wet with condensation: ‘This is not food, Matt.’ 

The first night he was hurt badly enough to need his first aid kit, he found your note inside the bag, positioned near the suture kit: ‘I’m sorry you’re hurting, sweetheart.’ 

And then there was the note inside the trunk he kept his suit in, gently pressed to the side so that his hand would brush against it as he reached down inside: ‘Be careful, my Devil.’ 

It took him a little longer to find some of the other notes, like the small one positioned on the underside of your pillow. It was as if you knew that, inevitably, he’d begin to sleep on your side of the bed with your pillow, chasing after the fading scent of you—one that grew fainter every day.

‘ I miss you.’ 

“I miss you, too,” he told you quietly, as if you were laying next to him. He sighed, burying his face in your pillow, tracing out the shape of the label on the other side. “So much, sweetheart.”

He found, ‘I love you,’ more than once: over the edge of his mattress, where he tended to hang his hand; stuck to the bottle of scotch in the cupboard; down inside the sleeve of one of his hoodies, the one he usually wore when his skin felt too sensitive, when his senses seemed heightened to the point of pain. 

You’d left, ‘I love you,’ scattered all around, small reminders of your affection that remained even as your scent faded. And every time, his response was the same.

“I love you, too.”

-x-

There was a label on his front door a month later. His breath caught as he ran his fingers over it, hands trembling. Because this note... this note was new, and so was the scent on the air. 

‘Come in.’ 

He shoved the door open, heart pounding wildly as he reached out to run his hand along the wall. There were more labels now, more notes, his hand passing over them with regularity.

‘I missed you.’ 

‘Keep walking.’

‘Almost there.’

'A little further.'

“Hey, Matt. Miss me?”

He let out a shaky laugh, reaching for the heat of you and dragging you in. He pressed his forehead to yours, cupping your face and swiping his thumbs across your cheeks, wiping away the tear he felt brush against his skin. A slow inhale filled his lungs with the scent of you—fresh, rich, here, and he couldn’t completely erase the waver in his voice. “You’re back.”

“I didn’t know the case would take that long, I’m so sorry,” you whispered, touched with regret. You ran your fingers through his hair and then down the side of his face, the touch gentle and light, his eyes falling closed in sheer, aching relief. His skin seemed to hum under your touch, his whole body shivering. He hadn’t… had this kind of touch, since you’d been gone, and his body wasn’t quite sure what to do with the affection. But it would remember, eventually, and even if his skin didn’t remember, his mind did. He leaned into your hand, sighing, soaking in your voice and touch as you continued.  “S.H.I.E.L.D. couldn’t say, and I couldn’t call, so—”

He shook his head, stepping in even closer, letting his hands slide down until he could pass his thumbs over the feel of your pulse, life flowing beneath his hands. There was always something about being able to feel that you were alright, and when you drew in a deep breath, he felt the shape of it beneath his fingertips. He dragged in his own breath, letting his body fall into rhythm with yours. “It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t—you’re back now. That’s all I need. Nothing to be sorry for.”

You tugged him down, kissing him softly on the mouth. He moaned quietly, soaking in the scent and taste of you, the feel of your lips against his, for the first time in over a month. With his mouth on yours, there was no missing the way you started to smile, the shape of it something he traced with his own lips, tasted on his tongue. He chuckled against you, feeling light and airy, drunk on the returning feel of your body and affection against him, his kisses growing more eager even as he managed a slurred, “What?” against your lips.

“Did you—mmph—feel the last note?” you murmured between his kisses, your smile growing into a grin. 

“Which one?” 

You took his hand, and guided it out to the wall, just at the end of the hallway. His fingers passed over one final note, one he’d missed as he’d come down the hall. 

‘I’m home.’

Chapter Text

You only just woke when Matt finally climbed into bed. 

The sheets rustled as he pulled the covers back, the bed creaking as he crawled up behind you before he pulled the blankets back up with a sigh. Like always, his next step was to slide his cheek against your shoulder and your neck, and you instinctively tipped your head back to facilitate this part of his ritual. He went through the process, rough stubble rasping along the bare skin of your shoulder and then up to your throat where he lingered for a moment. This time, though, there was a notable absence of all the little happy noises he usually made. That done, he flopped gracelessly down behind you with a tired groan, throwing his arm over you to drag you in and curl up around you, legs tucked up behind yours. 

You yawned and rolled over to face him, wrapping yourself around him and tangling your legs with his, twitching a little when the fuzziness of his calves and thighs tickled your skin. You let your eyes stay closed as you blearily kissed his bare chest. “How late is it?”

He yawned too, rucking his hand up under your shirt to lay flat against your spine before he nuzzled into your hair. “Four-thirty, I think.”

“Out late tonight.” You tipped your head up, fumbled a kiss onto his chin. “Busy?”

“Too many people committing robberies this week,” he mumbled. His eyes were already closed when you slid up and kissed the corner of his mouth, the faint scent of mint and bloody copper more than familiar by now. “And then we have the new tenancy case, first on the docket tomorrow at court. Have to be up by six-thirty.”

God, you’d forgotten about that. Some weeks, some months were relatively quiet. Others, like this one, were so busy Matt ran himself ragged trying to help everyone he could. You’d have to talk to Foggy and Karen about it. It was a three-person job trying to make sure Matt took care of himself on weeks like this.

You kissed the dark circles under his eyes, affection he sleepily leaned into as you made your way down to his lips. But it wasn’t until you stroked your fingers gently through his hair that he gave the softest little moan, melting under your mouth and your hands. You swallowed the sound, letting your nails scrape lightly against his scalp as his breathing slowed, his face going slack and peaceful under the warmth of your kiss and the drag of your fingers. 

“Sleep, Matt.”

He dropped off before you’d finished speaking, wound around you, warm and safe as he ever was.

Chapter Text

“Okay?” he always asked. 

It was something you’d found odd, at first—this quiet, hesitant, almost wary question he posed every time you both found yourself in bed, your bodies cooling. The first time it had happened when you were both still a little unsure of what this was, it had made sense. He'd wanted to make sure you were alright.

The second time, well… it was probably just nerves.

But the fourth time? The sixth? The tenth? It had left you puzzled, to say the least.

You’d thought you’d made it clear that you were fine—more than fine. You were happier than you’d been in… a long time. Had you not been clear enough? You’d hoped it had become obvious by that point just how much you enjoyed being with him, touching him, being touched by him. You spent hours, days puzzling over it, twisting yourself into a knot searching for what you could have done that had left him filled with doubt when it came to how you felt. 

But you finally figured it out one night when he wrapped himself around you, nuzzling sleepily into your hair in the dark. He was even more tired than he usually was thanks to a long hunt, one that had left little time for sleep. And now that sleep was rapidly approaching, his words had grown slurred and sleepy enough to make you grin against his neck. The daze he was in, that hazy twilight realm between sleeping and waking, however, wound up playing to your advantage. Because for once? For once, he asked more than just, ‘Okay?’

“You okay? Need anything?” 

And just like that, it clicked.

The soft voice, the tender edges of syllables that felt like silk across your skin; the way he dragged his scarred, rough fingers gently down your back; the way he always shifted a little, like he was preparing in case he had to get up. It all made sense. 

He didn’t think you were unhappy. Oh, maybe he’d been worried about that at first, but eventually, as time passed, ‘Okay?’ had stopped meaning, ‘Are you okay with this?’ in Din-speak. At some point—not all at once, but rather in the slow, unhurried creep of the ocean wearing away the shore, as so many things changed—it had come to mean, instead, ‘Are you still okay? And what can I do to keep you okay?’

You’d kick yourself for it later. It wasn’t all that surprising, really. You’d become pretty fluent in the language of Din over the months, a language composed predominantly of grunts and growls and terse words that had gradually become a lot less terse and a lot more fond in the ensuing months. That he managed to say so much with so little had always surprised you. On top of that, you knew how he thought, how he tried to show you he cared. He felt all too awkward with words, clumsy. Affection, however, came in other forms—in little touches, bowls of dinner slid in front of you when you’d forgotten, mornings he let you sleep without you even having to ask. He wanted to make sure you knew he cared, if there was some action he could take, some action he had missed. 

The only thing that surprised you about his question now was that you hadn’t realized what it meant sooner. 

You tipped your head back, eyes instinctively searching the dark for the vague shape of him. “Can I kiss you?”

“You can always kiss me,” he mumbled sleepily, dipping his head down. He nuzzled around for a moment, trying to find your mouth. It made you laugh even as he grumbled and finally reached up to run his hand over your face until he got a better sense of how you were positioned before his mouth pressed to yours, stubble rough on your skin, the taste of him warm and sweet. “Didn’t say if you were okay though.”

You slithered up until you could get your arms around his neck, your fingers in his hair until he groaned quietly against your mouth. “I’m okay,” you whispered against his mouth, kissing him slow and easy there in the dark, perfectly happy and determined to communicate. “And I promise I’ll let you know when I’m not. Are you okay?”

“Me?” He seemed a little puzzled by the question, the word dragged out and slurred once you began to knead at the back of his neck. He always got a little drunk off soft physical contact, but you didn’t think he wanted you to stop. 

“Mhm. You.” You spoke slowly, with just a hint of amusement as he started to melt into something like a puddle. “Din Djarin. Big, broad, favorite man. Okay?”

“‘M not that tired,” he muttered, sensing your teasing as he rolled his head back into your hand. “Why?”

“Because I want to know if you’re okay, too. In case you weren’t aware, I’m kind of crazy in love with you. So your okay-ness is directly related to my well-being.”

You were pretty sure he was going to answer, but then you turned your hand and dug your fingers into the knots he always carried right at the base of his skull—likely from wearing that heavy-ass helmet all day. The sudden release of tension seemed to flip a Talk switch somewhere in his brain. The groan that tore from his throat was practically orgasmic. “O-okay. ‘M really okay. You make me okay. Stars, I love you.”

“Works for me.”

Chapter Text

He had only vague memories of going dancing. 

Some of those memories were ones that came back over time, but most were less memories, and more just… fragmented sensations, shattered images and sounds. He remembered the rapid scuff of leather across smooth floors, the sound of laughter, rhythms and musical notes he could never quite place. He’d… liked dancing, he thought, something quick and fast, the kind where he could sweep a girl off her feet, the kind where his heart raced and sweat rolled down his temple, the kind where snuck kisses between moves burned him from head to toe. 

He wasn’t sure if he liked that kind of dancing, anymore. He’d certainly never had the inclination to find out. That kind of chaos, full of spinning and noise and people moving too quickly… the thought of that sounded less like fun and more like stress.

This, though, was different. The weight of your head on his shoulder felt soothing, rather than something that stirred him to wariness. Your hand in his was warm and relaxed, the two of you pressed close as you swayed. You hadn’t even flinched at his metal arm around you, and the soft music covered the whir of gears and plates when he pulled you in. For a moment, as he dropped his head to brush a kiss to your hair—so gently he was almost certain you didn’t feel it—he felt… normal. You were just two people, swaying and dancing, and enjoying each other’s touch. He’d felt a little silly asking you to dance with him here in the apartment, but it was worth every awkward second he’d spent fumbling out his request to you. 

“I love you, you know that?” he murmured, sighing as he slowly spun you. “So much, doll.”

You nuzzled in closer, just as happy and somehow in perfect step with him. “And I love you. Any time you wanna dance, Sarge, you just ask.”

Chapter Text

The pebble thing started out as a joke. 

It was a bit of inside humor between you and Matt, after Foggy had referred to you both as penguins courting by gifting stones. Those stones were, in reality, all the bits and pieces of your lives you couldn’t help but give to one another—Matt’s shirts that you wore to help you sleep, the Devil mug you kept in the cupboard just for him, and eventually, the shape of his key you wore around your neck. His life and yours, shared in stones that weren’t stones, stones that were instead small steps and gentle touches, affection that was still too large, too frightening to be given a name, until… until you took the leap, and he kissed you on a snowy rooftop. 

It wasn’t long before an actual rock became involved.  

You still didn’t know where he’d found that red geode, the one he’d given to you on a visit to the zoo. All you knew was that it brightened your day like nothing else when you woke to find it moved from the top of your dresser to your bedside table, right by your alarm so you saw it when you woke up. He had an early trial that morning and had left before you'd woken up, but the message that stone sent was clear and you spent the rest of the morning grinning over it.

Of course, you had to return the favor.

That was how the red geode found its way into Matt’s cupboard, right next to his coffee cup, on the morning after he’d had a rough night as Daredevil.

After that, it became routine. Every time one of you needed cheering up or a reminder that you were cared for, the little red stone found a new resting place. Sometimes those moments were sweet, like when you found it rattling around inside a box of your favorite cereal—cereal you only ate when you’d had a particularly bad day.  Sometimes they were designed more to amuse, like when you’d been in your office, finished a frustrating phone call, and rolled your head back on a frustrated groan only to find the stone taped to the ceiling above your chair. How he’d done it remained a mystery. Your office door was always locked when you left, and it was positioned fairly high up in a multi-story office building, with no easy access save the front door, and no ladder in sight that might have helped him reach your ceiling.

You did your best to give him a run for his money, at least when it came to surprising him. You may not have had his athletic ability to reach strange places, or his ability to sneak, but you weren’t above using his blindness to your benefit. As long as he didn’t sense you placing the stone, and the stone stayed still—barring after the cereal incident, when it smelled like sugar and he’d noticed it right away—then he was unlikely to notice it until his fingers bumped into it. That meant you could leave it right in the open, and simply wait for him to touch it by mistake. His momentary bafflement when he found it delicately balanced atop his jar of honey was priceless considering it had already been there for three days. He just hadn’t had a reason to use the honey until then, his hands coming within inches whenever he reached for another condiment. But he’d needed the comfort that day, the comfort of tea and honey. The delighted smile that had blossomed across his face was something you treasured, sealing the memory away in your mind.

Between the two of you, that little stone traveled all over Hell’s Kitchen. 

It touched every last surface in both your apartments and your offices. It was there for him in the courtroom at the bottom of his bag and tucked away inside your drawer at work. For every bad night of his you couldn’t be there for, for every difficult day he couldn’t be beside you, that stone served as a reminder. 

You carried it with you, and slept with it beside your too-empty bed when you thought him lost beneath Midland Circle… At least until you slipped beneath an old church to slide it carefully into one of his pockets while he slept, his bloody nights once more spent in shadowed black. You weren’t there to see the way it struck him when he slipped his hands into his pockets and found the stone, nor were you there to witness his shuddered inhalation, the way he caught himself against the bed as his knees went weak, one hand clutched so tightly around the stone he almost added his blood to its jagged red edges. The idea that this… this ridiculous, silly game the two of you were playing was still going on yanked the world out from under him, and now, that game, that stone, carried an additional meaning: 

‘When you’re ready, I’m still here.’  

It found its way back to you eventually, and this time it wasn’t left somewhere for you to find. Instead, it was pressed into your palm, his hands squeezing yours before he lifted your face and touched his lips gently to yours, his thumbs wiping the tears off your cheeks as you began to cry. “I’m sorry I tried to push you away,” he whispered, his voice cracking. “I’m so sorry, sweetheart. If you still want me, I’m here.” 

The stone began to travel again after that, taking up its familiar pattern. It moved back and forth between offices, between bookshelves and dressers and cupboards, sometimes leaving your shared apartment and your offices for wilder locations. How Matt always knew which chair you’d sit in at a restaurant or which rooftop you’d find your way up was something you simply accepted as its own form of magic.

All told, that stone moved for months, for years. 

“I’m serious!” Foggy told you, staring in disbelief at the stone sitting on the corner of your desk. You took a sip of your coffee, your other hand under the desk. “How long is that gonna go on? You two just keep exchanging this rock, instead of exchanging—”

You slowly held up your hand, finally letting your mug fall away to reveal your grin. You wiggled your fingers meaningfully, tearing up a little. “Thought he told you. Two rocks, now. I found this new one inside the old one last night.” 

Matt heard Foggy’s shriek of, ‘Finally!’ from two blocks away, and he couldn’t hide his grin. 

And for the rest of your lives, that little red rock never stopped moving.

Chapter Text

“You ever wonder if this bunk is too small?” you mumbled.

“No,” he grunted, adjusting where he was half draped over you, an arm thrown over your back and his head between your shoulder blades. “Why?” He was probably trying to avoid the metal struts jabbing into his sore back now that his pillow was taken. That still wasn’t enough, though, and he finally gave up and just crawled up on top of you. Then it was your turn to grunt as you sank down into the thin mattress. Din wasn’t exactly a small guy—he was broad and bulky with a bit of softness around the middle, a body shaped lovingly by time and walking around in a massive amount of armor. You normally didn’t mind all that much. Stars, no. You loved his body, every last bit of it, from the hidden little curve of his belly to the massive breadth of his shoulders. You were just having a little trouble breathing like this.  

A huge green ear, covered in fine, wispy little hairs, poked you in the eye, directed at you from the pillow next to you. The jab to your eye was followed by a gurgled coo, and you lifted your leg to rap Din with your heel until he rose enough that you could roll over. He settled back down on top of you, pillowing his head on your chest with a sleepy little snuffle, and a quiet hum when you reached down to fondly scratch through his curling hair. It took you both a minute to arrange your legs comfortably, but eventually you managed the proper tangling arrangement. That big ear up by your head was still part of the equation, but at least now it was nudging at your temple rather than attempting to poke your eye out. 

Huh. You were always a little surprised when you managed to end up comfortable with all three of you, this odd little collection of souls that shouldn’t have worked. Yet here you were, happy, with tiny gremlin snores drifting into your ear and Din acting as your big, scarred blanket. Somehow the lot of you had managed, forming this patchwork quilt, this patchwork life, into something that left you… peaceful, and content.

“No reason,” you murmured, closing your eyes when Din nuzzled affectionately at your chest, his own breathing slowing. “No reason at all.” 

Chapter Text

“The loth-cat?”

“Eyes are too small,” Din said, his vocoder crackling with the weight of his mild concern. “He might choke if he chews them off. The bantha?”

“Eh.” You ran your finger over the material, wrinkling your nose in displeasure. “Gonna be hard to wash this fabric if he throws up blue cookies on it. That’s how we lost the last one. This tauntaun isn’t bad, though. It’s fluffy, but the screen says it’s easy to clean.” 

Din grunted agreeably, and you held the plush, googly-eyed tauntaun up to Grogu, currently sniffling in his father’s arms. “Hey, gremlin,” you murmured, letting your voice lilt into something apologetic and soothing. “I’m sorry we lost your little fathier, may he rest in peace. But how about this one? He’s pretty cute and fluffy.”

Grogu blinked his huge, watery eyes at you, his lower lip still trembling.

“I think that’s a no.”

Din’s helmet slowly tipped down until he could look at Grogu. “Sure, kid?”

The trembling of Grogu’s lower lip transitioned into an open-mouth expression, a tiny, high-pitched noise leaving him that meant he was about thirty seconds from a full-on cryfest that was liable to last for at least an hour.    

Shit. 

You frantically dug through the shelf, knocking and shoving aside plushies in search of a new toy. Din did the same with the higher shelves, the two of you offering up toys in rapid succession. 

Porg? No.

Krayt dragon? No. 

Dewback? No. 

“There’s nothing else on the top shelf,” Din growled. “Tell me you’ve got something.”

“I’m trying, I’m trying,” you groaned, your upper half-buried between two shelves as you dug around in the dark for a new toy. Grogu’s tiny cry had progressed to a low wail, well on its way to an absolute monster of a fit, big fat tears already sliding down his face, his tiny chest hiccuping between each wail. “Stars, you’d think it would be easier to find a fucking fathier, but no, nothing but porgs. He’s never going to fall asleep tonight. Wait, hang on…”

Your hand brushed up against something new, something different. The shape wasn’t like any of the plush toys you’d pulled out so far and you slowly drew it out, turning to hold it up to the light. 

Then you stared… as the crying stopped, Grogu fixating on the big, chunky round shape in your hand. 

“No,” Din said firmly as you brought it closer. “Absolutely not.”

“He likes it.” You held your ground, waggling the creature around, bouncing it in front of Grogu temptingly. Grogu slowly reached out a tiny hand, still sniffling. “He can cuddle with it. Its eyes are the right size, it’s washable. It’s clearly his pick. What’s the issue?”

“The issue is I hate them.” 

“You really gonna turn your son down? Look at his little face. Look, Mando.” You pointed, but Din steadfastly kept his helmet turned up even as Grogu whined. “Look at him, Mando.” 

There was a long silence before Din finally looked down at Grogu, who’d begun to squirm and make grabby hands.

There was no fighting it. You and him both knew he had a weak spot when it came to his son. At last, he grunted in agreement, and you offered the plush to Grogu. The kid took it with a tiny sniffle, holding it tight and mashing his face against it. You didn’t know why the blurrg could replace the fathier. They looked nothing alike beyond their color. But at least the kid was happy.  

And…

“You know there’s a saddle on that thing,” you said, your brows rising in delight as the wheels in your mind began to turn. “I could make a tiny Mandalorian being bucked off—”

“No.”

Chapter Text

“Oh my god,” Foggy whispered, barely audible beneath the sounds of the party. “She didn’t!”

“Who didn't do what?” Matt laughed, tilting his head and trying to parse through all the noise. The party was already in full swing, clients and friends mingling and having a good time. One of Nelson and Murdock’s clients had generously donated the use of their restaurant for the Halloween party, and the tables out along the edges of the room groaned under the weight of food and drink the guests had brought, the air rich with laughter and the scent of homemade meals. With this much sensory information to process, it was a little hard for him to pick out anything specific without more of a clue. It sounded like everyone was having a good time, no one seeming down or unhappy.  

Your laughter drifted through the air to him, and he paused to listen as he always did when he heard you. It didn’t matter how crowded, how noisy a room was—he could always find you, honing in on your laugh or the beat of your heart or the sweet scent of you, even when everything else felt like noise and chaos. It sounded, tonight, like you’d come in with Karen. A few other people were laughing with you as you posed, showing off your costume. You hadn’t told him what your Halloween costume was going to be tonight, but whatever it was, people liked it.  

Foggy chortled, adjusting his Jedi robe sleeves. “Bold move, springing this on you. And yet somehow fitting.”

Matt frowned and focused on you again, trying to dig down a bit further past the surrounding noise. Based on the sounds of your movements, and the muffled beat of your heart, you were wearing the classic foam and fake leather construction that a lot of other cheap, full-body costumes were made of. Whatever design was on it was likely painted or patched on, rather than molded hard pieces. But it wasn’t until he tried to work out the shape of your outline, flickering swirls of heat and air currents, that he started to sense something… strange.

You wouldn’t. 

You moved closer, the scent of you growing stronger as Foggy whistled. “Well, people like it and seem to think it’s hysterical, so good call on her part. Something to be said for taking refuge in audacity, I guess. Hey, I’m gonna go say hi to Karen. Be right back.” 

“Right, tell her… I said hi,” he mumbled, brow still furrowed in distraction. What was that thing on your head? And why did the shape of it… seem so… 

Familiar? 

Someone you passed snorted in disbelief, and there was only one person who could pack that much sarcasm into such a small sound. “Really?” Jessica said, who according to Foggy, was wearing a shirt that said, ‘This is my costume. Now leave me alone.’  Matt was pretty sure she’d only accepted the invitation because she was promised free booze. “You decided on the dorky ears, too?”

“Gotta show solidarity when it comes to my favorite hero,” you said with what sounded like a grin. “Figured I’d represent.”

He knew why that shape on your head felt so familiar now.

You made a beeline right for him, your steps light and eager. With all the noise and people around him radiating heat, he couldn’t quite tell what your expression was, but knowing you, it was likely a smirk or a grin.

You made a show of dipping to squint at his shirt once you’d stopped in front of him. “‘I’m not Daredevil’, huh?”

“I thought it needed to be said,” he said with a shrug, barely fighting back his own grin. “Apparently it was the right shirt to choose if you’re wearing what I think you’re wearing.” 

“And what do you think I’m wearing, man who is definitely not Daredevil?”

He reached out until his hands bumped into your hips, tracing his fingers down the outside of your thighs before making a face. “Those are nothing like the real ones,” he said, doing his best to sound offended. 

“You’re right. Mine are bigger. Mine are also wooden dowel rods and they only cost me two dollars. Hush.” 

His fingers reversed direction, making their way up your side. He’d been right—you were indeed in a foam bodysuit, one plastered with sewn-on patches meant to feel like fake leather. The suit was notably tight around the chest and ribcage, and he arched a brow, hooking a faux-leather panel and tugging a little. “And this?”

“You’d think,” you complained, reaching up to pat your chest, “given how big Daredevil’s deliciously thick chest is, there’d be more room here for my breasts, but sadly no. Unfortunately, it was either this suit or the, and I quote, ‘Sexy Devil Hero Suit Dress’  that looked like something out of a porno. In fairness, Daredevil’s suit is already plenty sexy, but you know how these things go.” 

“I’ll be sure to tell him if I hear him how much you appreciate both his suit and his chest,” he said dryly, making you laugh before he finally reached up and brushed his fingers over the shape of your mask. Despite what Jessica had said, those were not ears. 

“Although I might not have to wait long to tell him. Is that… Is that Daredevil I feel?” he said innocently. “Were you listening this whole time?”

“It is and I was, handsome citizen,” you declared, pitching your voice ridiculously low in an attempt to match his Devil voice. If he’d been drinking, he’d have been at risk of spitting it out, and his chest hitched as he swallowed down his laughter. “Here to protect my beloved city. And by that, I actually mean my neighborhood since Hell’s Kitchen is only twenty-five blocks.”

“Daredevil sounds nothing like that… or so I’m told.”

“I sound like different things to different people,” you announced, completely unruffled by his declaration. “For I, the noble and reckless Daredevil, the Man Without Fear, have many voices. I move like a very angry red cat, I am Devilish night, I have the best ass in the city. Am I selling this?”

“Not even tourists would buy this.”

“Damn it.” You sighed as he caught your suit’s collar with one finger and started to tug you in, wrinkling his nose at the scratch of the foam. “And here I practiced being Daredevil in front of the mirror and everything.”

“You probably should've been practicing in front of something that could playback audio.”

“Oh, that’s mean, Matthew. Mean.” 

“I’m just saying, if Daredevil tries to sue you for tarnishing his image—”

“I would never sue someone for helping to hide my identity! I am Dare—”

He rolled his eyes fondly, nudged up his glasses, and kissed you, swallowing what was no doubt a long and ridiculous monologue. You huffed a laugh against his lips, nipping at the shape of his grin as he chuckled, tilting his head.

“If you come home with me later,” you whispered against his mouth as he pulled away just enough to press his forehead to yours, “I’ll let you know my secret identity.”

He let his voice dip down into a purr, chasing the warm, sweet register that always made you shiver. “Only if you promise to burn this thing or throw it out the window.”

“You’re very bold in confessing a potential crime to a vigilante. Littering’s against the law, you know.”

“I’ve been known to take a risk or two,” he hummed, dipping to kiss you again.

A piece of popcorn plunked against his head, and he lifted his head, startled. 

Jessica leveled a stare at him, a bottle of whiskey in hand. He didn’t remember anyone bringing it, including her, but he’d learned that Jessica could find booze just about anywhere. “Most people wouldn’t jump right into making out with themselves in public,” Jessica said, just loudly enough that you and Matt could hear it. Despite her outward disgust, there was just a hint of amusement leaking through. “Might want to keep your goddamn kinks to yourself, pervert.” 

“His shirt clearly says he’s not Daredevil,” you pointed out innocently. “I see no ethical issues here. And I would know. I fight unethical people.”

“As the only one here who went to law school, I believe I’m the one best qualified to make that decision.” Matt pursed his lips before breaking into a grin when you wound your arm around his waist. “I stand by her argument.”

“You two idiots are perfect for each other and it disgusts me. I’m gonna drink this just so I have something to throw up on you.”

Chapter Text

You’d always been told that getting flowers was… old-fashioned. 

You’d never demanded any, and you’d certainly never gotten angry when they weren’t offered. It was something small in the grand scheme of things. Still, you could never quite forget how you’d felt as a kid on Valentine’s day, watching your teacher accept a bouquet of flowers she’d been sent. You’d stared at them all day, all week, even as the flowers slowly wilted and dried. When you’d heard they’d be taken out at the end of the week, you made sure to slip past while no one was looking and take one lone, fragile little petal. That petal wound up in a jewelry box at home. It stayed there for years, dried and with its edges curled over. Every now and then you’d touched it, hoping someone would give you flowers like that one day.

Thoughts like those were put away, as you grew older. Flowers would be nice to have, but you’d heard the same refrain, over and over—old-fashioned, demanding, out of style, only happens in movies. Dates came and went, dates you enjoyed, partners who were kind and perfectly romantic. No flowers came, and you let that small dream slip away, as so many childhood dreams are let go over the years, buried slowly beneath layers of thick, hard soil, beneath life and adulthood and the realization that things don’t always turn out the way you’d hoped. 

Until, that is, Bucky Barnes wound up at your door, nervous as all hell, for your first date. You knew who he was and what he’d been through, of course. You knew his real age, this old warrior with the young face and the striking blue eyes that had seen far too much. But you hadn’t expected this, not from him—your gruff, grumpy, snarky old soldier.

You took the bouquet of flowers gently, reverently, staring in disbelief at the endless array of colors, petals soft as velvet when you brushed one fingertip across the soft shape of them. 

“I know it’s old-fashioned,” he said roughly, his eyes skittering away in nervousness. “But I figured, ya know. They were nice, and you might… like ‘em. Let me know and I won’t bring any more. For all I know, you’re fuckin’ allergic or somethin’.”

Your breath hitched as you pulled the flowers closer. “No, they’re… they’re perfect. Thank you, Bucky.”

“So… those are good tears, and not allergies? Cause your eyes are waterin’ a little.”

You laughed quietly, leaning up to kiss his cheek fondly, feeling the shape of his smile. “Good tears. Very, very good tears.” 

Chapter Text

If you asked him, he’d done a pretty good job of hiding how he felt. 

He never stared at you for too long, but he made sure, too, that he didn’t avoid your gaze. He just avoided, you know… lingering. Lingering would have been a dead giveaway, in either direction. Lingering also may have been something he watched others for. Just in case.

He wasn’t sure what he’d have done if he caught someone else staring at you lingering…ly. He just knew it was something to keep an eye out for. 

He kept all the fondness he felt for you out of his voice. Well, no, he kept some of it out. Not all. He didn’t want you to think he hated you. No, that wouldn’t work. He liked to think, instead, that he always sounded pretty damned interested in what you had to say, without seeming… overly enthusiastic. He’d admittedly didn’t really do enthusiasm, but if there was anyone he’d accidentally step into enthusiasm with, it would be you.

He tried hard to ensure that subtlety carried over into other interactions with you, and into his excuses. He was pretty damned proud of some of them, in fact. He knew what to say when he let you wear his coat… 

“It’s forty fuckin’ degrees out, doll. You’ll freeze. Here, just take it.”

…and for why he sat next to you on the couch…  

“Literally the most comfortable spot right here. Not my fault you’re next to it. ‘Spose I can warm you up at least.” 

…and for why he needed your picture in his phone… 

“I need that picture. I don’t know how this shit works and I won’t know it’s you callin’ otherwise.”

In hindsight, all those attempts at subtlety were what did him in.

“You can’t be serious,” he said, staring down at the top of your head in disbelief.

“Perfectly serious,” you snorted before nuzzling in against his bare chest. He had to resist the urge to shiver, still unused to that kind of affectionate touch. “You were really, really obvious.”

“How? I was fuckin’ careful.”

“And that was your giveaway.” You started to laugh, giggling to yourself as you lifted your head to kiss his scowling mouth. “Bucky, you’re as blunt as a goddamn sledgehammer. When are you careful with anyone?” 

His mouth, open and ready to argue with you, snapped closed. 

You laughed again as you climbed up to sit astride him, and he settled his hands on your hips, doing a sort-of, marginally successful job of retaining his focus now that your naked body was once more in front of him. “At first I thought you didn’t like me and were trying not to say something mean. Then I saw you around someone you actually didn’t like, and I realized you would just tell me if you didn’t like me. That’s when I started noticing how careful you were, trying to sit close but not too close, your tone all gruff but not too much. It was adorable.”

“Alright, alright,” he muttered, tipping his head up. “Just kiss me and put me outta my misery. Thought I was bein’ fucking stealthy. Was real proud.”

“I’ll just have to make sure you have other opportunities to be stealthy.”

Chapter Text

You’d never been hesitant about touching his metal arm.

Your comfort and nonchalance was something he didn’t quite understand. How could you be so calm when brushing your fingers over a tool used for so much violence? This was hard metal, bathed in soot and ash and blood, soaked and forged in fire and death. There was nothing soft or affectionate or safe about it, and yet… still, you touched, without any sign of fear. 

You worked him into it gradually, those touches. You always asked, in the beginning, wondering if you could hold his hand when you found yourself on that side of his body. Those were requests he only warily, stiffly granted, allowing you to slide your hand down to tangle with his. He’d wait for the rejection, rejection he knew was coming—surely you’d tell him his metal hand was too cold or too hard, too uncomfortable. You’d tell him you’d changed your mind, that it was too frightening when it would take him only the slightest effort to crush the delicate bones of your hand in his. 

Those comments never came. You just… held his hand, as if it were normal. As if it were just another part of him.

But the first time you really threw him for a loop came later. He was sprawled out on the couch reading, with you tucked up against his side reading your own book. It was something peaceful and quiet, his body relaxed for once, floating happily on swirls of dopamine and oxytocin. That contentment was a fire fed steadily by the warmth of you against him, the feeling of affection, and the way you trusted him enough to curl up like this, vulnerable and half-asleep.

“Might close my eyes for a bit,” you mumbled, adjusting sleepily as you set your book aside. 

He tilted his head to absently kiss at your hair, his eyes still half on his book, held in his flesh hand opposite you. “Go ahead, doll. You need rest. I’ll carry you to bed in a second. Just one more chapter.”

You sighed happily, turning and snuggling into him, wrapping around him like he was a toy. The feel of it got a smile from him, his lips quirking up. And then, you reached back and took his metal arm where it was stretched out on the back of the couch, and pulled it around you as his breath caught.

But you didn’t stop there. 

You lifted his metal hand and, his heart now racing in his chest, brushed a kiss against the cold metal of his knuckles. The sensors in it relayed back every last bit of detail—the precise pressure with which your lips softly brushed against the metal, the moisture in your breath, your soft sigh. Then your paired hands dropped, and you buried your face against his neck sleepily. You drifted off no more than a few seconds later, completely unaware of how you’d just yanked the world out from under his feet. 

You’d… done it without even thinking. You’d kissed him like that before on his flesh hand, where it was warm and soft, if somewhat scarred. He stared down at his metal hand, your fingers still tangled with his, your breathing slow, your body tucked under what he so often saw as nothing but a weapon. You’d kissed it, and now you were asleep under it, full of nothing but trust.

The sensors in his arms told him the metal was still cold, but somehow, it felt like his hand burned for hours afterwards.

Chapter Text

“And if you run your fingers over this line right here,” he murmured into your ear, using his warm hand to gently glide your fingers across the array of tiny bumps, “this section of your contract is very clear about involving third parties.”

You sighed as if in disappointment, tilting your head ever so slightly until your cheek brushed his. He had his head over your shoulder, the heat of him radiant along the line of your spine like the roar of a bonfire, so you didn’t have all that far to go for you to touch him. “That’s unfortunate. Nothing you can do on that clause? You are my lawyer, and you’re… quite charming. I was hoping you could talk your way around it.”

“Mm, I’m afraid you’re backed into a corner on this one,” he breathed, leaning in until his chest was pressed to your back, all hard muscle and burning warmth, faintly scented like cinnamon and copper. He only got closer when you reached up to catch his tie, slowly pulling him in closer until he’d slotted up against you fully, doing the best he could with the chair’s back between you. His voice warmed to a purr. “At present, there are no exceptions contractually, even for someone as beautiful-sounding as you.”

“You guys realize I’m still here, right?” Foggy said loudly, rolling his eyes and tapping your contract, which was also in front of him. “Cause I am. Been here the whole time. For an hour. We solved your contractual issue forty minutes ago, in fact, before you two started dragging this review out, line-by-line, like some kind of weird legal foreplay.”

“It doesn’t hurt to be thorough, and we have at least thirty minutes left.” Matt’s voice was nothing but innocence, his brows arching in almost comical disbelief that did nothing to distract from his widening grin. “We wouldn’t want a clause to slip past us, and certainly not for our best client. We have a reputation to maintain, Foggy.”

“And after all,” you told Foggy solemnly, tugging on Matt’s tie again until he leaned down to nuzzle against your neck with an eager hum, “Mr. Murdock told me that Nelson and Murdock takes every case… very personally.”

“So personally that one of them marries a client and then they become my nightmare,” Foggy scoffed, rolling his eyes again when Matt dragged his cheek across your neck, blatantly scent-marking you without making any effort to pretend otherwise. 

“I think he’s insinuating something, Mr. Murdock,” you told Matt with a theatrical frown.

He chuckled against your skin, winding one arm around your waist and rocking you a little. “I assure you, Mrs. Murdock, he would never. We’re fine, upstanding citizens here.” 

“I’m about to up-stand and leave this room,” Foggy groaned. “Newlyweds. God.” 

Chapter Text

It wasn’t your fault, really, that you wound up getting kidnapped.

The ironic part was—not only was Din not with you, it wasn’t even about him. You were just… in the wrong place at the wrong time, grabbing a drink when you’d been swept up with the rest of the patrons by some dumbass crew convinced they’d discovered a get-rich-quick scheme.

You’d managed to take out two of them with your blaster before a blow to the back of your head sent you crashing to the ground, your thoughts muddled and out of reach as you'd tried not to retch onto the spinning floor. It had been all too easy after that to round you up with the rest of the hostages and transport you to Stars only knew where. Now you were sitting in a cell, waiting as the kidnappers worked their way through relatives and friends, hunting for those willing to pay for the return of their loved ones.

Idiots, you thought with a distant sense of amusement, probing at the split on your lip with your tongue. You’d come through that fight in better shape than expected, all things considered. You had a blaster burn on one shoulder, a cut on the back of your head where you’d been hit, and some bumps, bruises, and cuts from rough handling. The blow to the head was probably the worst of the injuries, leaving you a little woozy and uncoordinated, but it could have been worse. Their injuries would be far worse once Din figured out where you were. You’d made sure of that.

“Tell us who to contact. They pay up, you walk. That’s how this works, so don’t bother screaming for help.”

“…I have someone you can contact. You leave a message for him and I promise you he’ll take care of this.”

You’d mostly been dozing for the past few hours, your back to the cell door. The floors were too hard to be all that comfortable, filthy and covered in dust, but you’d slept on worse, even before you’d joined up with Din.

“Is she really sleeping?”

“Whoever we contacted for her must be some rich prick who can afford the ransom.”

With you facing the wall, they couldn’t see your grin, or the way you had to hold back your laughter. That you’d managed to take down two of their men told you they weren’t all that competent, despite where you’d wound up. They’d find that out soon enough, and all you had to do now was wait.

You all have no idea who you fucked with.

You didn’t have to wait all that long.

Without any way to track time, there was no telling how long you were in that cell, exactly—you just knew it was close to dusk by the time you woke up. You were just as unsure of where Din got what sounded like explosives—ones big enough to rattle the cell you were in. Those explosions were followed by the sounds of distant screams and panicked blaster fire, frantic and wild. You sat up sleepily, dusting your clothes off. There was nothing to be done about the blood that had trickled from the back of your head and your lip, or the clumsiness of your motions, but you wanted to make it clear to Din that you were mostly alright. He’d probably be a little concerned when he—

Another explosion, closer this time, shook the ground below you. You sneezed when dust came drifting down from the ceiling, the lights abruptly flickering out. Now the only light came from your small cell window, dust motes floating lazily amidst the watery shaft of weak sunlight, hints of dusky purple and deep blues in the sky beyond your window.

You eyed the ceiling, mildly concerned now. Maybe this wasn’t him. Maybe this was just… someone looking to bring the building down—a rival group, or someone wanting revenge. You crawled quietly to your cell door, trying to get a look down the hall. It was too dark to see anything but vague silhouettes, murky outlines in the shadows as the guards took off down the hall. They yanked open the door, allowing words from the next room to reach you.

“—ucking tin can here in Stars-damned beskar—”

“—every ship we own and blew a hole in the front door!”

Yup, you were good.

It took you time, and a few more sneezes, to blearily get to your feet. Fuck, what you wouldn’t give for the Crest’s bunk right now, somewhere to just crash for a while, warm and tucked away under blankets and the broad shape of Din sprawled on top of you. Hopefully that was sometime in your near future, you thought as you leaned tiredly against the cell door.

And then, you waited.

You may have dozed off for a bit despite standing upright, but in your defense, it had been a long day and your head kinda still hurt, as did your shoulder where you’d been burned. That snatch of sleep didn’t last long though—you woke to the sound of the door at the end of the hall being wrenched open, slamming against the wall so hard you’d have been surprised if it hadn’t cracked.

Silence.

The other captives were clearly terrified, quiet, muffled sobs and whispers drifting out from the other cells. The sounds of the explosions and blasterfire had stopped, the air still rich with smoke and blaster residue. You pressed yourself against the bars, trying to look down the hall again, but with little success. You couldn’t see very far, not through the pitch-black murk of the darkened hallway.

Someone stepped into the hall, their step something prowling and heavy—the heavy movements of someone in armor.

You knew that walk. That sound.

You pushed your hand through the bars and held it out, waiting. There was little sunlight left, but what remained speared through the dark, the tips of your fingers just barely illuminated. The burn on your shoulder hurt like this, throbbing painfully where you were forced to press against the cell door, but you ignored it.

The steps gradually grew closer. Still you waited, waited until… a shaky hand in leather passed through the softness of waning sunlight, and tangled its fingers with yours.

Your eyes searched the darkness, tracing his silhouette as the light faded. His glove felt hot, almost burning when you tightened your hand against his. You may not have been able to see him all that well, but he could see you with his helmet. “Hey, Mando,” you whispered. “You ok?”

You were greeted with more silence, the quiet only broken by rasps of static as his chest heaved, his vocoder crackling with the sound. Still not speaking, he tipped his head slowly to the cell door, the last thing you saw before the day finally fled, and you were left in true darkness.

The handle of the cell door rattled as he tried to work it open. The sound grew louder and louder as his motions grew more frustrated, more frantic and furious. Eventually, he gave up, snarling as he stepped back. The flash of blaster fire was so bright that it almost blinded you, though not before you caught the briefest glimpse of his armored form, massive and wreathed in smoke, the reflected crimson light of his blaster turning the beskar blood-red. Then the lock was broken and it was dark again.

The door was wrenched open, a motion painted in sound rather than in sight.

His hands were on you before you could blink, the shaking in him growing worse as he took you by the arms. You could just barely make out his silhouette as he tipped his head, staring. He was panting in bursts of white noise, the sound so very loud and almost panicked as he caught your chin, tugging it down to examine the wound on the back of your head.

“Mando, I’m ok.”

He ignored you, pushing you back a step so he could examine the blaster burn on your shoulder. He growled, so very furious as he hunted for injuries. With every second, with every additional bruise and cut and wound, his movements grew sharper, more wild, the energy in the room rapidly rising.

“I’m alri—”

“You’re not!” he snarled, his vocoder cracking with the force of it as he slammed one fist against the cell doors. It sounded like the ringing of a bell, like he wanted to beat and slam against the cell door until he’d broken the whole thing to pieces. “You’re hurt!”

“I am hurt,” you admitted softly, reaching up to fondly tap one finger against his heaving chest plate. “But you came and got me, just like I knew you would. That’s why I’m ok. Because you’re here now, and I’m alright. Now hug me, please, just for a second, because that was… kind of scary, and I just—”

Oh. Yup, there it was, the first little shiver down your spine. You’d been absolutely confident that he was coming to get you, but it didn’t change the fact that you were hurt and dusty and tired, and it had been scary, even if you’d been more than sure of how it would turn out. You’d put all that aside while you were here, but now you just…

He drew in a shuddering breath, edged with a low groan, and then he yanked you into his arms. You buried your face in his cloak, burrowing in against the cloth around his throat that smelled like beskar and blaster residue, sweat and some faint hint of warmth that reminded you of dry sand and spices. You let out your own relieved, shaky sigh as he held you close, tension finally easing. You’d always thought this should be more uncomfortable, hugging him when he was covered in this much armor, but it never was, the two of you always managing to fit together just right. He tipped his head, brushing his helmet against you over and over, quick sweeps like he sometimes did with his lips in the dark of the Crest. His arms held you tight, twined around you as if he might never let go, cradling you against the broad shape of him, safe and protected.

“You’re… you’re ok,” he whispered. “I’ve got you. You’re ok, aren’t you?”

“I’m ok. I promise.”

Chapter Text

When it started to rain, you almost called the game off.

You played Devil-hunt, this wild version of hide-and-seek, often enough that it wouldn’t have been some great loss if you’d both decided to stay in for the night instead. You’d have missed the fun of it, of course—there was something about hunting for a good hiding place in the entirety of Hell’s Kitchen, knowing Matt would use every last one of his heightened senses to track you down, that left you eager and breathless. Besides, a light rain could actually help him as he hunted for you—something about it, he’d told you, helped stir up scent, making it easier for him to follow a trail.

You’d decided against it. You were already wet by that point, soaked by the rain, and there was still a chance you’d chosen a decent hiding place. Tonight you’d chosen the inner courtyard of a small, empty apartment building under construction. Though you hadn’t been able to get into the building itself—instead using the fire escape outside to climb up to the roof, cross over, and then clamber down the scaffolding—you’d hoped the surrounding walls of concrete and wood might help block your scent and your sound, muffling the signals your body gave off. You were out of the way, and suitably hidden.

You should have known he’d find you anyway.

Fortunately for you, that was also the moment the light rain became a downpour, the heavens above opening wide. And that seemed to throw him off.

You forced your breathing to flow slowly and calmly, remaining as still as possible as he swept the courtyard, hunting for you. He tilted his head, moving like liquid shadow and huffing at the air in great exhalations of steam, the image calling to mind an ancient predator, hungry and wanting. He was searching for your scent, you knew—a scent now struck from the air, drenched and splattered down across the cracked flagstones by the flood of water. You had at least three minutes left on your timer, and the amount of rain coming down was only increasing, pouring from the sky in great, heavy buckets. It rattled and rang along the metal scaffolding around you, poured from half-built gutters to spatter loudly onto the ground. It was just enough noise to hide the racing of your heart and the unsteadiness of your breathing. But this kind of disguise would only work if you stayed calm and didn’t make any more noise than you were right now.

He prowled past you, coming with inches, a heat you could feel as he moved by. You didn’t turn your head, didn’t dare move a muscle to keep him in sight when the creak of bone and sinew might give you away. You’d even flattened your hands against your thighs so the water that trailed down your arms transferred to your legs rather than dripping off the tips of your fingers.

He circled the courtyard again, hunting endlessly.

I’ve got him this time.

He stopped, maybe ten feet in front of you, tipping his head back to inhale slowly. He hadn’t replaced his ruined red Daredevil suit yet, which meant he was once more in sleek, form-fitting black cloth. In the rain, that fabric hugged him even more tightly, clinging to each and every muscle. That definition was only enhanced by the way he was standing—legs apart, his head back as if he were simply enjoying the rain, his powerful, broad chest expanding on a deep inhale before he breathed out a swirling trail of steam. Running hot, even in the rain.

God, your Devil was beautiful. Part of you wanted him to catch you just so you could kiss him in the rain when he was like this, primal and wild and somehow, all yours.

And that was enough to give you away.

The tiniest shiver ran down your spine. That motion was enough to stir up the droplets that had collected on your skin, sending a fresh shower of water falling to the ground. That, combined with the heavy skip of your heart, produced more noise than the surrounding rain. It wouldn’t have been enough for anyone else, but this wasn’t anyone else. 

Matt’s lips curled up as he slowly rolled his head back down to face you. The mask might have hidden most of his face, but you knew his blank eyes were staring right at you.

You tried to run, you did, but you didn’t get far. He skidded through the puddles, sliding across wet stone until he was in front of you. He growled playfully, snapping his teeth as you yelped and tore off in the opposite direction, your breath caught in your throat, your adrenaline surging. It was instinctive to run, not because you were afraid but just because, just to see if you could, just because it was fun to see how far you could get when you had the Devil at your heels.

There was no outrunning him. Not here in the courtyard, not when he was already so close, not when your feet made so much noise splashing through puddles.

You didn’t get more than two steps before he had you. Powerful arms snaked around you and promptly scooped you up off your feet with ease, despite your struggling, his voice low and warm as he laughed in your ear. “Mm-mm, found you.” He swung you around in a circle, raindrops scattering as your alarm went off and you let out your own laugh. “Found you, sweetheart. All mine, now.”

You squirmed around to face him, wrapping your arms around his broad shoulders and getting your legs around his waist, soaking in the rasp of stubble as he kissed and nuzzled at your throat with a satisfied purr, lapping away the droplets of rainwater, drinking from your skin. You tugged on the end of his mask until he willingly tipped his head back, chuckling warmly as you kissed him. You pushed in closer, nudged and nipped until he parted his lips for you with a quiet hum, letting you in. He tasted like rainwater and cinnamon, tinges of burning, molten copper on his tongue. You sighed happily, pulling back until you could breathe against his lips, one of his hands sliding up under the back of your shirt so he could stroke the back of his fingers fondly down your spine. Like this, your clothes both soaked, your bodies pressed close, he somehow felt warmer, the lack of space between you all the more intimate.

“My Devil,” you murmured, kissing him again as he held you tighter. “I’m gonna beat you at this, one day.”

“I’m looking forward to it.”

Chapter Text

God, your day had been shit. 

Your movements were clumsy with exhaustion as you kicked your shoes off at the door and hung your jacket up, your purse thrown on the same hook with just as little care. At this point, if it was off the floor, that was good enough. If only I could hang my day up on the hook and walk from that, too. You shuffled down the hall, honing in on Matt’s soft greeting where he was sitting on the couch. 

Despite having his laptop out, he quickly set it aside and pulled his earpiece out, lifting his arm for you before you were even across the room. 

“You’re busy,” you objected, almost embarrassed at just how close you were to crying now that you were home and he was here. 

He shook his head. “Never too busy for this. Come here, sweetheart.”

Your day had been too shitty to argue, and you… really did need this right now. So instead of fighting it, you crawled onto the couch with him, tucking yourself up against the burning warmth of his side. He seemed to sense you needed more, though, and he made a sympathetic noise before pulling you up onto his lap, letting you bury your face against his neck. He rubbed his cheek gently against whatever part of you he could reach, running his fingers through your hair as you sniffled and hooked your fingers in his worn t-shirt, the fabric faded and soft and scented like him. 

“Bad day?”

“The worst,” you mumbled, closing your eyes when his chest rumbled under your ear, a quiet, soothing noise that told you you were safe and warm and cared for. “It was miserable and I hated it. Nothing went right, no matter what I did.”

“I’m sorry,” he said softly as he pulled you in tighter, cradling you against his chest. The hand not in your hair swept warmly up and down your arm before sliding over to tangle his fingers with yours. He lifted your clasped hands to his mouth, brushing a kiss against your skin. “Do you want to talk about it? Or I could make you something, if you’re hungry.”

“Maybe… maybe later. I just… want to sit here for a little while. Is that ok?” 

“Always.” His hand in your hair dipped down far enough to wipe away one of the tears that had slid free of your eye. “We’ll stay like this for as long as you need. I’ve got you now.”

“Love you.”

“Love you, too.”

Chapter Text

“You show me yours,” you challenged. 

“I asked to see yours first,” he grunted, crossing his arms. Somehow, he’d gotten paint on his nose. You didn’t know when or how, but it was… really adorable. “I’m tryin’ to be supportive. Don’t you wanna show me?”

You rolled your eyes, and flipped around your canvas. 

Bucky’s face went… completely blank, all of his expression vanishing at once. It was nothing like his usual grumpy face, or his, ‘I’m actually comfortable admitting I’m happy’ face, and your brows furrowed the slightest bit. This… wasn’t the reaction you’d been expecting.

Then you saw his chest hitch as he breathed. 

He was trying not to laugh. 

“You asshole!”

“I think,” he said, with only the tiniest tremor around the edges of his voice, “that it’s a beautiful… seagull muppet.”

Shit, maybe your osprey did look a bit like a seagull. And a muppet. The eyes were kind of… googly. 

“How do you even know about muppets?!" 

"Sam said muppets were culture.” He blinked, the slightest crinkles appearing at the corner of his eyes. “Which is how I recognize that your bird… is a muppet.”

“This is not my medium,” you sniffed, “But I’ll have you know, this osprey—” Bucky shivered again in a way that looked suspiciously like someone forcing back laughter, “may or may not have been raised by… seagull muppets, and he wanted to look like his family when he sat for his painting. I’ll be throwing this away, don’t worry.”

He finally cracked just a little, a quiet chortle as he reached over and snatched the painting before you could stop him. “Oh no, this shit’s going on the wall, doll. My girl made the most beautiful fucking seagull muppet I’ve ever seen.” 

You grabbed for it but he held it up above your head, at least until you reached for his canvas. He snatched that, too, holding both above his head and out of your reach. “Mine’s no good, it’s got, uh… paint on it. I spilled paint on it.”

“That’s what a painting is, Bucky.”

“I ruined it,” he said sternly, growling when you swept the paintbrushes and easels aside before bouncing up onto the table. The only thing stronger than Bucky’s desire to keep shit like this out of your hands was his desire to protect you, and you weren’t above using that to your advantage. “Doll, get off the table, before you—”

You leapt at him.

He dropped your painting without hesitation, using his metal arm to scoop you out of the air. Before he could blink, you’d scrambled up his body like a squirrel and snatched his canvas, turning it to face you. 

You stared for a long moment, as he slowly lowered you back onto your feet. 

“It was supposed to be you,” he muttered. “Was hopin’ it’d be nicer lookin’ than that. And not like a—”

“Another muppet,” you choked out, starting to wheeze so hard in laughter tears came to your eyes. “This is muppet me. Bucky, we painted muppets. And if we’re hanging my seagull muppet, I want this muppet on the wall, too. I swear to god.”

“You really like it that much?”

You held the canvas up to your face and he rolled his eyes, but you could see the smirk he was trying to hide. “I think this is the most accurate approximation of me as a muppet that I’ve ever seen. Now I just need to paint a muppet you.”

“Wait, what?”

Chapter Text

You sighed and stared up at the flurry of white, soft snowflakes drifting down from thick, entirely unrepentant clouds.

You hadn’t planned on snow today. That was partly your fault since you hadn’t glanced at the weather, but in your defense, you also hadn’t intended to go out today. Unfortunately, you’d also been too busy to go shopping this week. Takeout was your only option if you wanted to eat. At least Bucky had come with you, offering to escort you and your bag of Chinese food back to your apartment. That should have been exciting—you were happy for any excuse to spend time with him, after all—but it was a little hard to be all that joyous when the snow had come and you were out in nothing but a long-sleeve shirt and jeans, the temperature rapidly falling.

Your shiver caught his notice and he frowned at you. “Hey, you’re shiverin’, doll.”

“I’m cold,” you admitted reluctantly as another shiver ran through you, the bag of Chinese food in your hand rustling with the force of it. You took a few hopping steps, bouncing as you tried to warm yourself up. Maybe you should hold the bag of food against your chest. It was probably warmer than you were at the moment. “Need to get back soon or I’m gonna be an icicle.”

Bucky grunted in acknowledgement, likely grumbling internally about how you hadn’t bothered to check the weather. Your super-soldier, always playing at being grumpy. Or… well—not your soldier. Not… not yet, even if there was something there the two of you hadn’t quite defined yet.

Cold, cold, cold. You huffed, the shape of it swirling up and away like a puff of smoke, drifting in lazy spirals as you picked up the pace. It was just a few more blocks and then you’d be home, curled up and cozy. Maybe Bucky would sit on the couch with you and let you steal some body heat—

“Hey, stop for a second.”

You lurched to a halt, though you continued bouncing on your feet, trying to stay warm. “Bucky, what—”

He took the Chinese food bag from you before shoving his jacket into your hands, his gaze skittering away awkwardly. “Here, have my jacket. Yer’ gonna freeze before we make it another block,” he muttered. Snow had already collected in his hair, brilliant, glittering spots of white dusted through dark strands. More still had clumped together on his shirt, clinging to the fabric.

“I can’t just take your jacket, Bucky,” you argued, trying to push it back at him.

He ignored your attempts to give it back, growling at your objection. “Take it. I’ll shove your arms in myself and carry you if I have to so you can’t go wigglin’ out of it. Not havin’ you turn into an ice cube.”

“But what about… you…”

He slowly raised his brows.

You cleared your throat awkwardly. “Right.”

“No, no,” he said, a smirk growing on his face. “I think it’s adorable, you thinkin’ I have to be worried about the cold. Go on, doll.”

You huffed at his teasing as you threw on the jacket. He slung his arm around your shoulders the second you were settled, the bag of Chinese food held in his other hand. It was your turn to arch a brow.

“Figured I’d help keep you warm,” he said stiffly, almost nervous as he glanced away. “You’re always tellin’ me I’m a heater.”

You hadn’t been lying. The heat radiating off of him, some quirk of the serum, may as well have been a warm fire you’d stepped close to after a long day in the cold. Not only was he a heater, but he was also a heater that smelled good. The scent of his jacket, of him, was all warm leather and frost, something clean like pine, and a faint hint of sweetness, almost like maple syrup or maybe waffles, hidden down beneath the sharper scents. You purred a little, burrowing down happily into the jacket, one far too big for you but delightfully warm and cozy, worn down to a buttery softness by his body.

“Jesus,” he mumbled, his cheeks a little pink. “If I’d know my jacket’d make you that happy, I’d have handed it over sooner.”

“Anytime you want to share it again, I won’t argue.”

“‘M gonna remember that.”

Chapter Text

“Din, there’s no one else here.”

He continued to circle, cagey and restless, his helmet turned out towards the distant horizon. You folded your arms and set them on the stone lip of the hot spring, raising your brows at him. It wasn’t every day you were lucky enough that a quarry camped out on a planet low in population and covered in hot springs. You’d been the first to advocate taking advantage of it now that the target was in carbonite and the coast was clear.

You tried to tempt him again. “You scanned with the Crest. No one’s around.”

Din grunted, the modulated sound somehow still suspicious, reluctant. But he also had that stiffness in his walk that told you his back was hurting him something fierce, and no amount of sonic showers would work that ache free, especially considering just how much beskar he walked around in on a daily basis. He’d shown you his face, so you knew that you weren’t the issue—it was others he was wary of, someone who might stumble upon this little oasis, despite it being out in the middle of nowhere and a good hour by flight from anywhere close to populated. You understood that, and normally you’d have left him be. But dammit, he deserved to be able to dip down and soak his poor, aching back after the way he’d been bashed around this week.

“I could close my eyes,” you offered.

He slowly turned to face you, managing to look sarcastic even in his expressionless helmet. Maybe it was the disbelieving tilt of the helmet or the hands on his hips, but sometimes you just knew. There was an arched brow under that helmet, that was a starsdamned fact. Din Djarin was at least fifty-percent sarcasm beneath all that beskar.

“You could just jump in,” you tried again. “Heat might still come through the armor.”

He continued to stare, then said, bluntly, “I sink.”

You pursed your lips thoughtfully, drumming your fingers against the warm stone. “You could leave the helmet on then, maybe? And only take off the rest of it. Come on, I felt the knots in your back last week, and I know they’ve only gotten worse. I know my massages are amazing but they’re not a substitute for this.”

He tipped his head up to consider the hot spring again. It wasn’t all that huge, maybe twenty paces from one side to the other, just deep enough in the center that you could fully submerge, but it was clean and untouched, the water the perfect temperature for soaking. You and him both knew it was better than anything he could get from the Crest.

One last try.

“I’m naked, too,” you sang, tapping your bare shoulder in emphasis. “Have I mentioned that? Just… so naked in here.”

He turned back to you, the helmet tipping slowly down to consider you… and your body under the water.

Come on, Din.

There was a long silence, and you were about ready to give up when he grunted in agreement. “Alright. But be ready to jump out if someone comes.”

You saluted him gleefully as he began to strip himself of his armor, each piece set down carefully and reverently against the stone. Despite your pushing, you understood why he was reluctant. It wasn’t just about not letting people see him—it was also about just how long it took to take off or put on all that armor, a time in which he was decidedly vulnerable, exposed. For someone who’d spent most of his life in his armor, this was not something to be done lightly. But you had confidence in him, and in the Crest’s scans of the area. It was safe for the time being, and you could take a while to to enjoy yourselves. Which was why you took a long, dangerously delicious moment to admire him as he crept closer to the hot springs, his helmet still on but everywhere else delightfully bare.

“You’re staring,” he said dryly, a soft huff of laughter whispering through the vocoder. The sound was far more comfortable, more natural now than it had been when you’d first met him, when a laugh was something unpracticed, rough and unfamiliar, as if his vocal cords were learning the shape of something altogether new. You liked to think you’d helped with that over the months you’d been with him.

“Yes, I am, and I’m staring at something beautiful, in my opinion,” you announced firmly, flicking water at him and watching how the droplets clung before rolling downwards.

“Just a body. Does what it needs to.”

“You’re selling yourself short,” you said, as he sank with a loud groan into the hot water, all the way up to his neck. “Thoughts?”

He made a noise so guttural it morphed into a burst of static through the modulator—one part having the air knocked out of him, one part pain, and one part orgasmic. You snorted in amusement as he stretched out, trying to get comfortable. “Din, just take the helmet off and come over here.”

“Why over there?”

Stars, he looked like he was melting, his helmeted head beginning to roll back. “Because for one thing, if you melt I need to hold you up.” That got you a scoff, but you ignored it and continued, “I also happened to find a nice little outcropping that’s working like a seat. And the helmet can come off because I figure if you sit in front of me and put your head back on my shoulder, you’ll be comfortable.”

“Hm.”

“Have I mentioned already that I’m naked?”

“May have,” he huffed another soft laugh, making his way towards you. Then he stood, looming up over you for a moment. And Stars, you loved the shape of him, especially this close—that bit of softness around the middle, the rest of him so very muscled and broad, scarred and rough and wonderful. You kissed the curve of his abdomen fondly, kissed at scars and a dusting of hair, nipped affectionately at softness and skin as he grunted, setting the helmet down behind you where he’d be able to easily reach it if he needed to. His muscles jumped under your ministrations, a shiver running through him. “Watch it, Cyar’ika.”

“I am.” You kissed him again, kissed at skin that slowly disappeared beneath the water as he slid back down. He caught you briefly against the back of the hot spring, humming as he pressed his mouth warmly to yours, nudging soft affection against your lips. You kissed him back just as fondly, tangling your fingers in damp, dark hair, breathing the scent of him in. He’d probably have been happy to stay there, kiss you for hours if you’d let him, but that wasn’t what he needed at the moment.

You tapped him lightly and he grumbled before pulling away and turning around. He was clearly trying to be careful as he settled on the edge of the little outcropping you were seated on, wary of just collapsing back on top of you. You rolled your eyes and wound your arms around him, yanking him back until his back was pressed to your front, all scarred skin and roiling water. As he finally settled in, dropping his head back against your shoulder with a sigh, you wormed a hand between his back and your front, digging your knuckles into the knots in his back until they began to unravel. Between the hot water and the pressure of your hands, any plans he’d had not to turn into a puddle were hopeless. He practically went liquid in your arms, body going pliant and slack. He turned his head clumsily, nuzzling your neck as he groaned.

“Told you,” you murmured.

“Stars, quarry should hide here more often.”

Chapter Text

The two of you had been far too busy.

Your conflicting schedules at work had kept you both on your feet and away from your shared apartment for three weeks now, leaving you with little free time for each other. It was neither of your faults, really, that your time together had grown limited to the early morning hour before you both left for the day, and those late-night moments just after he came back from patrolling the city and just before you fell back to sleep, his exhausted form curled around yours. Hell, you hadn’t even seen him that much in the past three days—you’d been so tired you hadn’t woken up when he’d come in, and you’d been forced to leave before him each morning. It was time to fix that.

Fortunately, you knew where the Devil liked to hang out.

It took time, of course. Your own job occasionally brought you up here to the rooftops, though, and you’d bumped into him up here before, up above the hard, bloodied streets and the chaos of traffic and pedestrians hurrying this way and that. Here, the air was a little cleaner and the breeze could whisper along your skin; here, scents could carry to him, sounds not so cluttered, muffled by brick and cement. Sure enough, it wasn’t long before you spotted him four buildings over, prowling along his own rooftop. He was moving slowly, his pace steady and even. He wasn’t hurt, you didn’t think. He was just… listening, alert for some sign of danger, some call for help. You were downwind, so he hadn’t caught your scent yet, unaware of your presence. You grabbed a metal pipe lying nearby and rapped it against the brick in a familiar rhythm—one he and you had worked out early on.

Tap-tap-tap. Tap. Tap-tap.

The Devil paused before tilting his head towards you, the distant glow of the red eyes in his Devil mask almost eerie where they reflected the light.

Tap-tap-tap. Tap. Tap-tap.

The horned head still wasn’t moving.

“D, come here,” you said, not bothering to raise your voice. “I have something to ask you. It’s important.”

He was too far away for you to see his expression, but you got the feeling he was amused as he started towards you. He was all smooth, casual grace tonight, a sinuous prowl that confirmed you were definitely interacting with Devil Matt at the moment. As he often did when he was out at night, he moved in absolute silence even when leaping across wide gaps, vaulting easily over obstacles with the lazy air of someone taking an evening summer stroll and not someone parkouring across frighteningly massive openings between buildings. And with every leap, that broad, deep-red shadow came closer, growing larger and larger, tinted lenses in the mask glowing whenever they caught the ambient light of the city just right. It would have been intimidating if you hadn’t known him and if he hadn’t been yours.

His landing on your rooftop was made without a sound, his body dropping into a crouch to absorb the impact along hard lines of muscle and bone. You tossed the pipe aside, keeping your eyes on him as he tipped his head, the quirk of his mouth a clear, ‘yes?’

He was toying with you tonight.

You cleared your throat and crossed your arms. “I called you over because I want a kiss. Kiss me and then you can go back to what you were doing.”

He remained in a crouch, the silence somehow more baffled.

“It’s been three days,” you continued awkwardly, suddenly unsure. You… had interrupted him, after all. What if he’d been doing something important? Chasing someone, hunting down some robber or murderer. He did the Daredevil thing for a reason, after all. Jesus, why did you have to tell him it was important? But there was no way to back out of this now, not when he was here. “I’m… it’s kiss withdrawal. I just need one, and then you can… you know. Devil on, or whatever.”

He rose smoothly to his feet, the slant of his mouth unreadable. He lowered his head as he stalked towards you, the motion almost predatory, and you took an instinctive step back. It wasn’t that you were afraid of him, afraid he might hurt you. It was just that this stance generally only happened with you when he was chasing you in play, the hungry Devil snapping at your heels as you did your best to pretend you didn’t want him to catch you. Your body reacted without thought, responding to his energy, retreating from every slow, slinking step he took until your back hit cool brick, trapping you.

He kept coming, a slow inhale deepening the broad line of his chest as he licked his lips once, tasting the air. Whatever feedback he received must have been enough for him. He hummed thoughtfully, stepping in closer until he could brace his hands on either side of you, a massive wall of heat and smoke and red leather hemming you in.

He paused there over you, the glimmering lenses of his mask completely opaque, the color of blood and heat and passion. All you had to read him was his mouth, and he wasn’t giving you much to go on there. You stared up at him a little nervously, unsure if you’d stepped over a line somewhere. “So is that a yes or a no on the kiss thing?”

He tilted your chin up gently with one finger, the corner of his lips at last quirking up into a crooked smile. “Always a yes for you,” he murmured, before slanting his mouth warmly against yours.

Kissing Matt at night—kissing the Devil—was always a little different than kissing him during the day, at his office or in the lazy morning hours. The kiss was a little rougher at times like this, sharper around the edges, sharp like glass and city streets, touched with hunger that sang like embers on your tongue. Each and every time, it felt like you’d somehow caught lightning in your hands, against your mouth—something wild and primal, fire trapped in human skin. Yet despite it all, this kiss was about as gentle, warm and affectionate, as the Devil could manage. He took his time as he caught first your upper lip and then your lower lip between his, breathing fire and life and heat into your lungs, air shared from him to you, your arms wound around him.

He rumbled softly, leaning into you until his weight had pinned you back against the brick, one of his gloved hands sliding up along your throat to cradle the shape of your quiet moan. His other hand went further, cupping your face, his thumb dragging fondly back and forth along your skin like yours were doing to his suit, your fingers tracing the shape of hidden muscle beneath warm leather. His bite to your lower lip was light, almost playful, the sting soothed by a swipe of his tongue that quickly turned into a languid, affectionate lap into your open mouth. You melted at the familiar drag of his tongue, sighing happily at the first taste of him you’d had in three days.

“Missed you,” you whispered when he pulled away. He dipped his head to your throat and you rolled your head back, giving him room. “Missed you so much, Matt.”

He made a low, rough noise of agreement before he bit carefully at your neck. He held there for a moment, a faint sting making you ache as he worked his throat, sucking hard. Your eyes fell shut and you shivered, your fingers curling against the suit, your nails scraping. Only once he was satisfied that he’d re-marked you did he purr quietly, lapping fondly at the mark he’d just left. “Three days is too long,” he murmured. “I’m sorry.”

“Me, too.”

Chapter Text

You found him on the couch, curled up small under one of the softest blankets in the apartment.

That and the hoodie he was wearing—the one that was soft as sin—let you know that today hadn’t been the greatest day for him.

“Hey,” you murmured, your voice soft and low as you knelt by the couch. He blinked his eyes open slowly when you ran your fingers gently down his cheek. You watched his reaction closely, looking for any hint of pain or discomfort at your touch. On bad days, his heightened senses seemed to spike, increasing in strength until he struggled to shut things out. On those days, your touch or your voice could cause him pain if you weren’t careful, the brush of your fingertips like sandpaper unless you stroked him very gently. “Rough day?”

“Just hurts today.” He let his eyes close again, adjusting the slightest bit in invitation until you stroked down his cheek and then along his neck, making him sigh now that he finally had something to counteract the pain. “Probably from a couple days ago.”

Figures.

That was generally what happened when you were hit by a car while chasing down a team of men who’d robbed a bank. This had been his first day back at work, at his own insistence. He was likely exhausted, and even his body couldn’t heal that fast.

“You need anything?” you asked, dodging bruises and cuts as you rotated your hand, lightly brushing the backs of your fingers down his face. “I know you’re probably determined to go out tonight, but until then?”

“Sit with me?”

That was an easy enough request all things considered, so you crawled up onto the couch without hesitation. You suspected his cracked rib hurt something awful, or else you’d have gone for the standard, wrapped around him pose. Instead, you sat up by his head, and he rolled over with a pained groan, wearily dragging himself up until he could put his head in your lap. The effort clearly hurt even with your assistance, his every movement stiff, a quiet hiss leaving him before he finally found a comfortable position for his body. He shivered and buried his face against the softness of your stomach, curling his fingers against the skin of your hip where your shirt had ridden up.

You ran your fingers through his hair, light drags of your nails meant to help calm and distract him from the hurt. He sighed quietly, still curled up small, the lines around his mouth and eyes tight with pain. He made a soft noise of objection when your fingers left his hair. “Just pulling the blanket up,” you told him, adjusting it so he was covered again from the neck down. Then your fingers were back in his hair, combing through the messy strands. “You can sleep for a bit if you want.”

“I have to get up in a few hours, though. Go out for the night.” He curled into your tighter, tangling his fingers in your shirt as if he were afraid you’d leave, afraid that he’d get dragged away the second he dipped down. “Can’t sleep too long.”

“Then I can wake you up. You’re allowed to rest, Matt.”

“Hurts,” he whispered. “Don’t know if I can.”

Your heart broke for him in that moment, as it so often did when he was hurt like this, wounded and struggling to hold his pieces together—the pieces he hadn’t already sacrificed for a city that didn’t appreciate him anywhere near enough. And there was nothing you could do but give him a place where he could safely lay those pieces down.

“I know. Just try.” You slipped your hand down to knead carefully at the back of his neck before sliding your fingers back up through his hair, his eyes fluttering shut as he shivered, his breath hitching at the soft, affectionate touch. “I’ve got you, D.”

It took time for him to relax—a good half hour of your fingers in his hair, of his breathing slowly, gradually easing down. Eventually, however, the fidgeting motions of his fingers against your hip stilled and he nuzzled into you, just once, before falling asleep.

Chapter Text

“Here are the rules,” you said sternly, crossing your arms.

You all were positioned in the entryway of a building, off to the side and safely out of the way of the hordes of people shopping for the holidays, the sidewalk a sea of pedestrians.

“I know the rules, mia cara,” Ciro objected. “I invented the rules! This is my tradition.”

“You need to hear the rules again or you’ll skate right around them and say you forgot,” you challenged, throwing him a look. “We break apart into groups of two and go off to buy gifts for one another. Then we rotate until we’ve each got a special gift for everyone. One day only, so we’re on a clock.”

“I should go with Sophia,” Ciro said firmly.

“And I should go with you, sweetheart.” Matt threw you an innocent grin, just a little stiff around the edges. He’d been notably reluctant, as had Ciro, about taking part in this little holiday tradition. You’d had to bribe Matt with kisses just to get him out of bed this morning. You kinda did that every morning, but it was the principle of the thing.

“Wrong!” you barked, just as Sophia, hanging on to your arm, echoed, “Incorrect.” You nudged Sophia. “Sophia, next rule.”

“This is about family bonding,” she said, enunciating very clearly, her face suitably solemn. “We need to be able to help each other pick presents. Matt doesn’t know us as good, so he needs to bond with you or me, Papi. And I want to hang out with Jane first.”

“In other words, this doesn’t work if we just shop with who we know really well,” you said firmly. “Me and Matt are bonded, and so are Ciro and Sophia. So this time it’s girls and boys. In ninety minutes we’ll swap again, so you can go shopping with me, Ciro, and Matt, you can shop with Sophia.”

Sophia tugged your arm, dragging you off into the crowds as she shouted back, “Remember to tell him I like big spiders, Papi!”

“And play nice!” you called over your shoulder, just before the two of you disappeared into the waves of holiday shoppers, vanishing from sight and from senses.

Ciro and Matt stood there, the tension thick enough to cut with a knife.

“Ho ho ho?” said the man in the Santa suit ten feet away, ringing his bell somewhat nervously as he inched away.

Ciro finally growled quietly and offered Matt his arm, which Matt stiffly took. “For her,” Ciro said, “we will… bond.”

“For her,” Matt muttered in agreement. “And then we won’t have to do this until next Christmas.”

“Are you not coming for Easter next year? I thought we’d agreed you would visit. You would not deny me my dear one on the day of the resurrection of our savior, would you Matthew? That is not very Catholic of you.”

“And murder’s not very Catholic of you.”

“The bible is full of justified murders, Matthew. Mine are no different.”

“You literally committed arson last month.”

“Allegedly, and that building was used by very bad people, who were also quite rude. Allegedly.”

“Let’s just shop.”

“Agreed. I say we visit these shops up the street.”

“There’s nothing there. South is our best bet.”

“Così comincia. Fine. Tap your stick and lead us on, Matthew.”

-x-

“Is that really what you intend to buy her? It is an… interesting choice.”

“She likes them,” Matt said tersely, his hand tightening around the fleecy round shape of the penguin. “It’s an inside joke. You wouldn’t understand.”

“She is my dear one. And you choose to provide her with a chubby waterfowl, one with oversized eyes. Do explain.”

“She can sleep with it when I’m working late.”

“Oh, you mean it shall stare at her in the dark, Matthew, with its dead google eyes? Is this the tone you wish to set for your bedroom?”

“Googly. And our bedroom tone is none of your business.”

“I am simply following the rules of the game, Matthew. I am here to advise on gifts. Nothing more.”

-x-

“It is an element of culture.”

“Is it?” Matt asked innocently, slowly raising his brows.

“It is humorous, Matthew. Must I truly explain myself? You are a smart enough man to understand it.”

“A puppy statue doesn’t really match the energy of her office. Not that you’d know.”

“It is not a puppy statue, it is a Cerberus statue. She is the Hound, she is in Hell. This is a play on words, which will make her smile. You do not understand the humor we share.”

“It’s literally drooling. I ran my fingers over its mouth. Are you implying she’s also a drooling, slobbering dog? Seems a long way to go for a joke, but I suppose you knew her best… years ago.”

“It is dripping hellfire, not saliva. It is a sign of her strong bite. As you would know if she ever bothered to bite yo—do not dare pull your collar down, Matthew, I do not wish to know if she bites you.”

-x-

Matt stopped when Ciro did, the two of them slowing to a stop in front of a store window. The faintest trace of paint told Matt it was likely some sort of art gallery, though it was hard to tell when there were this many people around him.

He waited stiffly for Ciro to turn away from the store, but instead, he took a step closer, examining something through the glass window. And he didn’t like the man, didn’t trust him, but he couldn’t quite stop himself from asking, “Ciro? What is it?”

“There is… a small painting of a beach,” he said softly, his voice thoughtful. “It is not dissimilar from one we spent time on when she lived with Sophia and me. I am simply struck by the familiarity. The sand, the stones, the color of the water.”

“Oh.”

“You do not wish to mock me?” There was a quiet rhythm of thumps, as Ciro patted his own chest. “Will you not call me an old man, tell me that she is long past such things?”

Matt clenched his jaw, turning his head away. He knew how much you’d loved those few years you’d spent in Los Angeles, and just how much your time on those beaches had meant to you. “She wouldn’t want me to. Not for something like this. And she would… like that if you got it for her. If that’s what you’re wondering.”

“You tell me this even when you do not like me, and when I have attempted to sabotage your waterfowl gift. Why?”

“Because it would make her happy, and I love her. I want her to be happy.” He turned back to face Ciro, unable to meet Ciro’s eye but doing his best behind his glasses. “She misses you, you know. The painting would be nice for her to look at.”

Ciro was silent for a long moment. Matt waited, still stiff as the crowd flowed around them.

Then Ciro let out a slow sigh of exasperation through his nose, offering his arm. “I will buy the painting. And then I believe I will show you something I saw, too, that she might like if the waterfowl have meaning to you. I would… not be averse to hearing why she enjoys such new things.”

“And I’d be… open to hearing about the beaches she visited, while we look for Sophia’s gifts.”

“Of course. If you know of a shop that has something to do with spiders, I would… be appreciative. The Spider-Man is also acceptable. She is fond of him for obvious reasons.”

“I think I can help with that.”

-x-

“Hey,” you whispered, twining yourself around him. The sheets rustled as he lifted an arm letting you spoon up against his back. He sighed happily, laying his arm back down over yours and tangling your fingers together. “Still awake?”

“Always will be, for you.”

“I didn’t get a chance to say thank you earlier.” You turned your head to lay your cheek against the back of his neck, rubbing your thumb fondly back and forth across his bare chest, movements that matched the steady thud of his heart. “I know you and Ciro… it meant a lot that we all did this. The family thing. Sophia was really happy, too. Did it… go well with you and Ciro?”

He was quiet for a long moment, thinking of stories of beaches, of you with the wind in your hair on rocky shores; of the small black pendant, shaped loosely like a penguin, with a little red stone at its center; of the painting of your old home you’d have on the apartment wall, once Ciro gifted it to you in a few days. There wasn’t… peace exactly, between him and Ciro. There never would be, not as long as Ciro did what he did, and Matt did what he did. But…

“Yeah. Yeah, it did, surprisingly.”

“I’m glad.” You pressed a fond kiss to the back of his neck, sighing in relief. “Any way I can find out what that massive round thing under the tree is?”

“You’ll just have to wait and see,” he huffed, arching a little when you tickled at his chest. “You can bribe me for a lot of things, but I know how to keep a secret.”

“Fine, fine. I give up. What did you get Sophia, out of curiosity?”

-x-

“Hey. Are you, uh, are you Sophia?”

“PAPI, SPIDER-MAN’S OUTSIDE MY WINDOW!”