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"Vladimir, I'm going out on patrol." The Russian grunted in acknowledgement and heaved himself off the couch. His arm wound around the vigilante's waist and tugged him into a kiss. The brunette was stiff, the mix of how new their relationship was and strict Catholic upbringing was hard to break. But eventually he did kiss back, softly, a brief pressure before he pulled away. Matt had one foot on the edge of the roof when the gun shot rang out just a street away. Behind him Vladimir's pulse spiked, heart fluttering. A flash of concern, then Matt was gone.
He thought no more of it.
*
It was nearing the end of July; the air was hot and humid, made worse by the bustle of the city and small wind movement. Matt was home, bundled in a hoodie while Vladimir lounged about the kitchen. He had come back from work with a heavy sigh and immediate displeasure at the temperature of his apartment. Living with a Russian man who preferred the thermostat on 50 degrees was not the highlight of his personal choices. But nonetheless, Vladimir had smiled and wrapped him in a hug, quick and only slightly awkward; like a dancer out of practice with a number, before sending him into a steaming shower as Vladimir headed to the kitchen.
Sitting at the bar with a plate of pancakes and bacon burnt black Matt was content. "Where did you learn to cook?" He asked in honest curiosity.
"My brat'ya" his throat sill caught at the word but not as badly as it had before, when wounds were still fresh and 'is' came before 'was'. "He vould insist I learn, said could not live on take out forever, da?" A fond smile crossed Vladimir's face.
Outside a couple of neighborhood boys struck a match, lighting a string of firecrackers left over from the 4th. The rapid-fire cracking reached the apartment easily and suddenly Vladimir's breathing stopped and his fork clattered against the plate as it fell from his fingers. Matt immediately stood to race around to where the other man sat. His breathing had returned but it was fast and shallow; panicked.
"Vladimir! Vladimir, look at me." Matt grips one tattooed hand in his own and very gently turns the Russians face toward him his two fingers. "Breathe deep Mir, it's okay." He traced the patterns formed by scar tissue and ink until Vladimir was breathing normally once more. It took nearly ten minutes before Vladimir spoke, his hand still clasped in Matt’s racked by minute tremors.
"Stupid Americans with your damned fireworks." It clicked then. The gunshot from that night and the resulting hitch of breath, the way Vladimir was suddenly reluctant to watch those movies that always play on FX and other channels, the ones with the gun fights and explosions. Matt cursed himself for not putting it together sooner. Vladimir had PTSD, or at least a form of it from the night of the explosions, the firefight in the tunnels that almost claimed his life. The Russian shakes his head and pulls his hand from Matt’s grip. “Eat , Mudak. I’m fine.”
*
The problem went unmentioned for the next few months. Vladimir refused to be coddled and Matt respected that. The vigilante, however, did take to closing the door a bit more softly; he also grew more comfortable with the casual touches Vladimir would shower him with. Waking up to fingers carding through his hair and kisses pressed across his shoulders to his neck, it became normal. Vladimir still complained about his couch, not that he was sleeping on it any longer but still, and his choice of beer, as well as how absolutely terrible his food standards were, but the words no longer held any bite. After a particularly bad night as Daredevil, Vladimir had ranted about how he would kill the (your choice of derogative here) for touching his lover. It was a stark reminder of how different the two men’s morals were. Matt still appreciated the sentiment behind the words though, as Vladimir took him to bed.
*
It was mid-September when the Storm alert came through to the employees of Nelson and Murdock Attorneys at Law. Matt and Foggy both agreed that, with the way the sky outside was turning black at 4 in the afternoon, they should all head home. Matt hailed a cab, even he wouldn’t chance getting caught in the oncoming downpour, and was about 3 minutes from his building when the first clap of thunder rung through the air. He could feel the electricity in the air; it was going to be a bad night. The next roll of thunder Matt could feel in his bones, very nearly deafening. Suddenly he felt a pang of worry go through him as he raced up toward his apartment. The rain started slow, but quickly it grew to a torrent, Matt could hear each drop battering the roof as he fumbled with his keys.
Vladimir was on the couch, feet flat on the floor and head held between his hands as he fought to breathe evenly. Matt hurried over to him; cane abandoned in the hall along with is jacket. “Vladimir,” he pushed the coffee table back so that he had room to kneel in front of the Russian.
“(I shouldn’t be so weak.)” Vladimir mumbles, as the storm picks up, bringing with it flashes of lightning and thunder. Matt pries Vladimir’s hands from his face and replaces them with his own. Matt leans forward to rest their foreheads together.
“Vladimir, what do you need me to do?”
“Stay.” He murmurs. Matt strokes his thumbs over defined cheek bones and listens. After a few moments he stands and pulls Vladimir to his feet. “What are you-” Matt doesn’t answer in words but instead leads Vladimir to the bed, laying on top of the covers and dragging the elder with him. He focuses all his senses on Vladimir and pulls him close, the sharp mint and pine scent that always lingered on his skin, the ba-dump da-dump ba-dump of his racing heart, the light brushes of air as his lashes fluttered, it all mixed together until there was nothing but Vladimir. In his arms Vladimir did the same, pressing his face into the crook of Mat’s neck, smelling the simple, plain soap he preferred to use and beneath that the smoky scent that was completely Matvey. His skin was warm, even through the silk shirt he had yet to remove.
Vladimir let himself drift, the storm fading to the background as he assured himself he was okay, that he was no longer in the warehouse, Matt was here, he was alive with the man we loved. Love such a strong word, a storm in itself. Vladimir squeezes his eyes shut and pulls Matthew closer he drowns the roaring of the thunder with the pounding of Matt’s heart and the torrent of the rain with the knowledge that it was going to work out alright.