Chapter Text
It was mid-autumn and the leaves on the trees were a mix of brown, red and gold. A chill hugged the air – a wordless promise of a cold winter just around the corner. The sky was a flawless blue, a few plump white clouds drifted across the seemingly endless expanse, like ships at sea. There was still some warmth in the bright sunshine that glowed through the leaves, casting dappled light on the green grass. It was all in all a beautiful day, perhaps one of the last for some months. Soon the miserable rains would pour and the bitter wind would blow. If they were lucky it would snow, at least the white ice held beauty, be it a cold one.
The graveyard sat on the edge of the city, enclosed by a stone wall with only one metal gate to pass in and out of. Narrow paths weaved their way past marble headstones, tall crosses and pale-stoned angels. It wasn’t particularly large, the graveyard, nor was it as bleak as most. The grass was a lush green and in the spring daisies, buttercups and other wild flowers grew. For a few short weeks bluebells blossomed around the bases of the large trees that were dotted around. The whole thing seemed somewhat out of place on the edge of Hell’s Kitchen.
No, it wasn’t an ugly place to be buried, but it was still a graveyard.
Vladimir stood beneath a large oak tree, the sun through the leaves cast a fiery light upon his black suit and coat. A soft breezed stirred, rustling the canopy and he pulled up the collar of his coat, though not because he was cold, he had grown up in one of the coldest places on the planet, but because he didn’t want any passersby to see his face. He moved out from beneath the tree and towards the grave.
Anatoly had been buried yesterday but Vladimir hadn’t attended the service. Everyone thought he was dead, it was better if it stayed that way. He had powerful enemies in the city; he wasn’t strong enough yet to face them.
The headstone was simple, a large slab of grey marble, polished until the lighter veins of silver which snaked through it gleamed in the sunlight. Underneath Anatoly’s date of birth and death was inscribed his favourite quote from the Russian author, Nabokov:
‘Жизньбольшим сюрпризом . Я не понимаю, почему смерть должна бытьдаже большей.’
//
Matt had lost track of all the times he and Anatoly had sat in a coffee shop in the early hours of the morning, not even talking all the time. Matt had often gone to 24/7 coffee shops when he was studying law; he preferred to sit in the calm, quiet environment – he found it better than an empty apartment with too little noise. Here, it was quiet, there wasn’t too much noise.
Ah, Matt remembered the first time he had been sitting there, pouring over his law books, sipping a latte as his fingers went over the Braille. It had been peaceful, not too loud, not distracting – not like Foggy’s snores as he mumbled in his sleep – when the chair opposite him had been scraped across the floor, causing Matt’s fingers to fall still.
“Sorry... I do not mean bother... Everywhere else is full. I was hoping I could sit..?”
The broken English, cured with the Russian accent made Matt chuckle a little.
“No bother, no bother at all. Feel free to.”
A mumbled thanks came from the other man and Matt’s fingers continued across the letters of the page. There was no talking at all before the man opposite cleared his throat.
“I am Anatoly... I just thought you would like to know my name.”
Matt looked up, eyebrow raising a little.
“I’m Matt, pleasure to meet you.”
He assumed the other would be holding his hand out, and his own hand extended. There was a shuffling before Matt felt another hand take his. They shook, Matt noting the soft scars on the other’s palm before the contact was dropped and silence fell again.
//
For a long moment Vladimir stood staring at the grave, his eyes burning with the threat of tears, but none fell.
The whole city was talking about how Fisk had been arrested, Vladimir wished he hadn’t been, he wanted to look into the man’s eyes as he took his life...
“Mne zhal',” Vladimir whispered to the gravestone, continuing in Russian, “I have failed you, brother, Fisk is behind bars...I – I cannot avenge you.”
His wound was beginning to ache again. Vladimir grimaced and pressed his hand to his right side. He could feel the raised scar tissue through the thin material of his shirt. It have been excruciating when the surgeon – a man named Iosif, Vladimir’s last surviving Russian contact he knew wasn’t a snake - had reopened his cauterised wound, cutting the burned flesh and digging in between his ribs to find the bullet still lodged inside. The hideous wound surrounded by burned skin had only just begun to lose its angry redness, the stitches removed a week ago and the incision finally healed over. It would take the burns longer to heal but at least he could now walk around freely without feeling as if someone was shoving a red-hot knife into his lung.
He supposed he should be grateful to the man in the mask – or Daredevil as the media had started calling him – if he hadn’t burned shut the wound he would have bled to death. But the truth was he felt something far more to the vigilante of Hell’s Kitchen than just gratitude - admiration. Vladimir did not hold a grudge against him for abandoning him in the tunnels to face Fisk’s men – it had been his idea after all. Ever since he had been strong enough to stand he had considered seeking the masked man out. Yet something had held him back. The vigilante wasn’t his ally and he most certainly wasn’t his friend. Vladimir wasn’t a fool, he knew the type of man the Mask thought him to be, he was well aware of the things he had done, the crimes he had committed, the lives he had destroyed. The Mask would be only too happy to hand him over to the police, tie up another loose end of Fisk’s criminal web. He should be thanking his lucky stars that he wasn’t rotting away behind bars like Fisk.
Yet Vladimir, though he did not care to admit it, felt lost. Other than Iosif, all his people were gone, most of them killed in the bombings. Vladimir had no one left to turn to. He had a place to stay at least, a small apartment he rented under a different name that only Anatoly had known about, and enough money stashed away to last him a few months – maybe six if he careful. His business was gone, everything he and Anatoly had built over the past six years since they came to America, burned to the ground. It hadn’t been the empire he had promised his brother, but it had been a start. Now he had nothing, no people, no business, no plan...
“I don’t know what I am to do,” he told the gravestone, “Without you by my side all our dreams seem...hollow. I do not want to rule alone, Anatoly, I do not want to be a lone king.”
A tear slipped from his right eye, following the valley the scar down his cheek made.
“I-I think I may go back to Moscow, as you wanted...” Vladimir trailed off, the hairs on the back of his neck prickling as he sensed he was being watched.
Not taking his eyes off the grave of his brother, he slid his hand into the folds of his coat and wrapped his fingers around the butt of the gun holstered beneath his arm. Slowly, his heartbeat accelerating, Vladimir looked around, scanning the lines of graves, half expecting a ghostly shape to rise from them. He frowned, his hand loosening on his gun. Then he heard a twig snap underfoot a few feet behind him and, acting on pure instinct, he threw himself back against the large oak tree he had been standing beneath. Pressing his back against the rough bark, Vladimir peered around its bulk and saw a young man carrying a bunch of flowers slowly making his way towards him.
//
Matt walked through the leaves of the grave yard, feeling the breeze on his face. It was calming, chilly, but calming. The flowers were tight in his hand as he walked through the graves. How he was going to find one grave in the masses of them... He had no idea. He hoped there was no one else present in the area he thought more suiting – if his memory served, this would likely be the place that the Russians had buried Anatoly. There was a view of Hell’s Kitchen, bright and cheery in the summer. He was sure this was the section he was in.
Matt hesitated, turning to his left. It was the only direction the graves could be facing him and slowly, slowly he moved forward before crouching. His fingers moved gently over the grained stone, searching for the words.
Thomas Jacobs
Matt shook his head a little, moving over to the next one as best he could.
Jennifer Slater
He grimaced as he shifted over again. How many more till he found the grave? If need be, he could easily return to the office, have Karen or Foggy bring him here. Find the right grave, pay his respects.
Enrique Abano
One more try. One more try and then he would leave back for the office.
Жизньбольшим сюрпризом . Я не понимаю, почему смерть должна бытьдаже большей
A soft smile came onto Matt’s face. This must have been it, this- this had to be Anatoly. There was no name, no name that he could tell.
Gently, he lay the flowers down against the smooth marble and stayed crouched where he was. There was no way he could bring his words out. He cleared his throat a little, opening his mouth a few times before shaking his head.
“I’m sorry.”
It was all he could say, all he could hope to say. At the current moment in time, anyway.
//
Vladimir watched the stranger crouch down in front of his brother’s grave, confusion sinking its teeth into his stomach. The man wore small, round glasses which glinted in the sun as he raised his head and ran his fingers over the words etched into the marble. Vladimir recognised the type of glasses and realised with a jolt the man was blind. So not a threat, he thought suspiciously, but how did he know Anatoly? Even though his brother was dead Vladimir still felt a surge of protectiveness towards him and he stepped out from beneath the shade of the tree.
//
“What- What are you reading?”
Matt’s fingers faltered over the Braille once more before he looked up, at what he hoped was Anatoly.
“Law books. I’m studying at law school.”
A smile decorated the student’s face.
“A lawyer? Interesting.”
Matt chuckled.
“What about you? What do you do?”
“My brother and I live off family money.”
Matt nodded as his fingers went back over the Braille.
“You’re from Russia?”
“Moscow... Yourself?”
“Hell’s Kitchen, born and raised.”
“A native?”
“Mhm... New in town?”
“You could say so.”
“Maybe I could show you around?”
There was silence, causing Matt to chuckle.
“I may be blind, but believe me, I have my ways of seeing.”
“Maybe then, maybe. I did not mean to prejudice-”
“I get it a lot, believe me. I’m used to it.”
//
“Who the hell are you?”