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Death leaves a heartache no one can heal, love leaves a memory no one can steal.
From a headstone in Ireland
Matt Murdock took a sip of his beer. It was a stout from a brewery he had never heard of, and he closed his eyes as the earthy, chocolatey taste washed down his throat. Around him, he heard the clattering of plates, the tinkling of glasses, and the din of four dozen people trying to have a casual conversation in a small space. There was a couple near the jukebox arguing over which song to play next (“you got to pick last time, and you know I think U2 is overrated--” “you take that back!”). A guy near the back of the bar was trying to have a discreet cell phone conversation with his mistress, keeping his responses neutral to her provocative questions while his wife watched curiously. All in all, standard bar interactions. Nothing unusual.
The bar, he assumed, was probably a nicer place than Josie’s. But it wasn’t Josie’s. He had been floating between dive bars for a few weeks now, trying to see if any of them could come close to replicating what he was used to. So far, he hadn’t had any luck.
The door opened behind him, and Matt listened for the footsteps. Four dozen and one people now were in the bar. He took another sip of the stout and listened for more details about the newcomer. The new figure in the room was definitely male. Likely above six feet tall based on where he was hearing breathing sounds (was that a sigh?) originating from. Relaxed heart rate, no sudden movements. For all intents and purposes, the new guy was just here to grab a drink. The man’s footsteps grow louder as he approached the bar. The man hesitated just for a moment, then pulled out the stool next to Matt.
“This seat taken?” the man asked.
Matt shook his head, noting there were other unoccupied stools. “All yours.”
The man’s heart rate had accelerated a little, but was slowing back down again. Matt kept his facial expression neutral--what was that about?-- and he heard the man pick up a drink menu and begin to flip through the pages. For a dive bar, this place had a surprisingly robust beer selection. It had taken the bartender almost a full minute to list off all the choices to Matt. “What are you drinking?” the man asked finally. “Is it any good?”
Matt took another sip. “It’s a stout called the Double Negative. It’s pretty good, but they have a couple of beers from the same brewery on tap if you’re not a stout guy.”
“No,” he said. “I’m more of a lager or an IPA guy myself.” He continued to skim down the list, and then softly chuckled. “I’ve gotta get this one. The Tesseract. Funny enough, it’s from the same brewery as yours.”
“Why do you have to get that one?”
He chuckled again and sighed. “It’s a very long story. Plus, I like IPAs.”
Matt tapped on his glass. “Well, I’ve got this much stout left to hear it,” he said.
The man sighed again (what was up with the sighing?). “Maybe another time,” he said. “I have to admit, I’m not in much of a storytelling mood.”
“Long day?” Matt asked. He wasn’t sure why he was asking so many questions. His normal routine at these new bars was to drink alone and not talk to anyone ever. What made this guy different?
“Yeah,” the man said. “Rough day at work.”
“What kind of work do you do?” he asked.
“Construction,” the man said. Lie. It was a well-practiced lie, but a lie Matt could detect nonetheless. “I work with a small team with a focus on rebuilding projects around the city.” Half-truth? “We’re training some new team members, and it’s been a rough patch for a couple of weeks now.” Truth .
“What’s the issue?”
Another sigh. “That’s another long story, but the short version is that we used to be a much bigger team.” Truth . “We recently split up due to ideological differences.” Truth .
“Ideological differences in construction?”
He felt the man shrug next to him. “Mostly arguing about what kind of projects to take on. And disagreements over new regulatory proposals.” Truth and truth.
“How are you going to move forward?”
“I don’t know.” Truth .
The man’s beer arrived. He took several long pulls before putting his glass down.
So the man clearly wasn’t in construction, but he surely had his reasons for concealing what his true occupation was. An itching sense of curiosity almost prompted Matt to ask more questions, but he decided not to push on it more than he already had. Not today, anyway. He realized he had almost finished his beer and felt at his watch for the time. The braille told him that it was time to head home and change for the evening. “Well,” he said, scooting his stool away from the bar. “I hope you figure things out. And that you enjoy the Tesseract.” He drained the remainder of his beer in one gulp.
“Me too. And I will,” he said, extending his hand for a handshake. “Oh, sorry,” he said, retreating his hand sheepishly.
“It’s fine,” Matt said, waving his hand casually. “Happens all the time.”
Matt turned to leave, and then hesitated for a moment. “Hey--do you come to this bar often? I’m trying to find a new regular spot.”
“Not really,” the man said. “I’m sort of wandering myself.”
“Well, I hope we both get lucky on that front,” he said. “My name is Matt, Matt Murdock,” he said, pulling out a new business card. “If you ever need legal representation for your construction company, give me a call.”
“Thanks,” he said. “Are you with a firm?”
Matt felt his chest tighten. “No,” he said. “I’m independent.”
“Alright. We’ll hit you up if we run into any legal issues as we’re sorting everything out. My name is Grant, by the way.”
... Lie? The hair raised on the back of Matt’s neck. Why would he need to lie about his name? “Nice to meet you, Grant,” Matt said, extending his hand this time, hoping to learn more about this mysterious man.
Grant took his hand and shook it. His grasp was firm and his hand was warm, but didn’t betray any kind of nervousness. This man was used to not using his real name, whatever his reasons were. “Nice to meet you too, Matt.”
Matt left the bar, thinking ahead to the spots he would need to check out tonight and pushing the remainder of his questions about Grant out of his mind.
~~
Matt woke with a start, realizing he was in unfamiliar surroundings; the hum of the fridge was coming from the wrong spot, and he was resting on a futon instead of a couch. Someone was making a pot of coffee, but the coffee pot was on the wrong side of the kitchen. He tried to sit up, but the sudden movement sent a shockwave of pain through his chest, and he had to lie back down immediately. He felt at his chest--he was shirtless and had a bandage wrapped around his ribcage. His mask was gone as well--someone else knew who Daredevil was.
He tried to move again, more slowly this time, but a firm hand pressed gently on his shoulder. Matt grabbed at the hand, and the owner of the hand yelped a little but kept his grip firm.
“Easy,” a voice said. “I think you cracked a rib.”
Matt turned toward the source of the voice in wonder. It took him a moment to recognize, but he could sense the man’s muscular frame nearby. “Grant?”
“Yeah. You’re safe in my apartment. I’m sorry again about what happened.”
Matt laid back down, still wary. He had no reason to trust Grant--there were too many unanswered questions from their previous meeting, and waking up shirtless in his apartment didn’t exactly help. “I don’t remember what happened.” But as he said it, bits and pieces of the evening’s events came back to him.
It had been two weeks since Matt and Grant met at the bar. Matt was out on patrol as usual, and had come across a group of muggers threatening some kids, probably no older than fifteen. He dispatched several of the muggers easily, but a few of them fled into the nearby apartment building. Fearing that they would do something stupid to the residents of the apartment complex, Matt pursued them. Fortunately, the remaining men didn’t encounter anyone unlucky enough to be in the hallways, so Matt and four men found themselves squared off on top of the apartment building’s roof. Two of them had pulled knives and most of them carried pistols, although only one had his gun trained on Matt.
He had rolled forward and swept the closest man’s legs from under him with one of his billy clubs, tossing the other at the man with the pistol. A groan of pain and a dull thud told Matt the club found his mark, and he heard the skittering of the gun dropped to the ground. One of the other men grabbed Matt from behind, pulling his arms back. The first thug took the opportunity to try to slash at Matt with the knife, but he jerked his body away at the last second, causing the man holding him to take the brunt of the blow. The man’s grip loosened as he shouted and Matt hurled him forward into his compatriot. Both went down in a heap.
Matt had then turned to face the remaining man. He remembered hearing a faint whirring sound grow louder and louder, and then suddenly his world exploded.“The last thing I remember was being on a roof in Hell’s Kitchen. How did you find me? How did I end up here?”
Matt heard the last few drips of the coffee pot as it finished brewing, and Grant went across the room to pour himself and Matt a cup. At least for now, Grant didn’t seem to have hostile intentions. “Well,” he said, blowing on his cup of coffee as he set another mug next to Matt. Matt felt him shift his weight on the couch. “I may have been the reason you fell from the roof.”
Matt blinked several times. “I fell?”
Grant sighed. “I was tracking some of the men you were fighting tonight. I was trying to get information about old Hydra cells, and one of the guys was someone who still had ties to them.”
“Hydra?” Matt repeated. “What do you want to do with Hydra?”
Matt felt Grant shift his weight uncomfortably. “I’m, uh. Well.” He scratched the back of his head. “My name isn’t Grant. It’s Steve. My full name is Steven Grant Rogers. Making sure Hydra is gone is kind of what I do.”
Matt closed his eyes. Grant--no, Steve--appeared to be telling the truth. “You’re Captain America?”
“In the flesh.”
Matt leaned back a little and closed his eyes. This wasn’t at all the kind of secrets he had been expecting Grant--no, Steve--to hide. Unconventional job? Sure. Criminal past to hide his name? Why not? But being Captain freaking America? Not in the realm of his imagination. “That’s news to me.”
Steve shrugged. “I’m sorry for hiding my identity from you. There aren’t a lot of people I can be honest with right now.”
Matt had heard about the disasters surrounding the Sokovia Accords, and at one point had briefly considered pursuing leads on Bucky Barnes. To Matt’s knowledge, Bucky hadn’t been involved in any of the dealings around Hell’s Kitchen, but having an assassin on the loose that could be swayed by the money and power of someone like Fisk was a liability he couldn’t afford to have in his neighborhood. But, as quickly as the manhunt started for Barnes, it was over. Barnes had escaped and reports indicated that he was no longer in the country, and in the end Steve Rogers was a wanted man along with Barnes.
“What are you doing here in New York City?”
“I told you, I’m looking for Hydra leads. And… I’m also looking for enhanced individuals to join us.”
“Recruiting? I thought you were no longer with the Avengers? That’s what I’ve heard anyway,” Matt said, taking a sip of coffee.
“I’m not,” Steve said. “We split up. There’s a few of us left that don’t agree with the way Sokovia Accords are handled, so we’re operating separately.”
“Who is we?”
Matt felt Steve staring at him. “I don’t know if we trust each other well enough to discuss that yet,” he said. “But, for what it’s worth, I think you’d get along with just about everyone.”
“What makes you say that?”
He heard Steve chuckle. “I think there’s a certain alignment of attitude that matches what I know of my team and what I know about you. Plus, I mean, come on--the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen working with fugitive vigilante Avengers? I can almost see the Daily Bugle headlines now.”
Matt laughed in relief--if anyone understood being discreet with secret identities, Steve Rogers did. He also realized it felt like a while since he had laughed.
“Truthfully,” Matt said, “I tend to work better alone.” He winced, hoping Steve would read it as pain from his injuries. In reality, he was thinking of all the people he had pushed away in the last year alone--Foggy, Karen, Claire, Stick, Elektra…
Elektra…
“Wait,” Matt said, sitting up with some effort. “Let’s go back to earlier, when you said you knocked me off the roof of that building. What happened?”
He felt a flush of heat rush to Steve’s face. “Right. That.” Steve sighed. “As you’re probably aware, I use a shield made of vibranium in combat.”
“Yeah,” Matt said. “I’ve read the New York incident files pretty thoroughly.” He decided not to mention the reason, which was studying how much collateral damage had been caused in Hell’s Kitchen during the Avengers’ battle with the Chitauri. Truthfully, he’d been angry with the Avengers for a while after the incident, but sitting here face to face with Steve Rogers felt like it had changed his perspective.
“Well,” he said. “You’re blind, right? How do you detect everything around you the way you do?”
“Mostly through sounds. Why?”
Steve scratched the back of his head. Matt felt heat on Steve’s cheeks as he blushed. “Like I said, I was tracking Hydra informants, and I used my shield to incapacitate a few of the other guys around you. Vibranium absorbs all vibrations, including sound, so I think the velocity of the shield combined with the lack of sound gave you some kind of sensory overload. You lost your balance and fell off the side of the rooftop before I could reach you. You were lucky there was a balcony below you.” He paused. “I was lucky, too.”
Matt considered this. “Well,” he said, “that isn’t something I’ve encountered before.”
Steve laughed. “I’ve got the only vibranium shield in the world, so that makes sense. So. I’m really sorry about that. If we’re ever beating up the same thugs again, I’ll be more careful where I throw my shield,” he said, pouring more coffee. Matt didn’t need super hearing to detect the sarcasm.
“On a more serious note,” Steve said, gently setting his hand on Matt’s leg, “we could use someone with your combat skills on our team. The more the merrier.”
Matt took another sip after blowing on the hot liquid. “I don’t know,” he said. “I’m used to being alone.”
“You don’t have to be,” Steve said quietly, withdrawing his hand. As Steve moved his hand away, Matt was surprised at how welcome his touch was. He felt a sense of lightness in his stomach that he hadn’t felt in a long time. “It’s not something you have to decide right now. Just something to think about. I’d love to have you on board.”
Matt sighed. “I don’t know if I can give you a firm answer right now. Let me sleep on it.”
Steve stood up. “Fair enough,” he said. He walked over to the closet and pulled out something Matt couldn’t identify. He felt warm as Steve covered him with a blanket, and heard him settle into the chair next to him. “I assumed given your vigilante hero stuff you wouldn’t be interested in going to the hospital. I learned basic first aid in the army, but if you want to go to someone with real credentials I’m happy to take you.”
Matt shook his head. “I’m fine. I’ve been through worse with less medical attention.”
Steve chuckled. “Still, I’m going to sleep out here tonight in case anything happens.”
“That’s not necessary--”
“I insist.”
Matt smiled a little. “Alright. Night, Steve.”
Steve flicked the lamp off. “Night, Matt.”
~~
This is a terrible idea, Matt thought, taking his tenth sip of wine. It had been a few days since he had woken up in Steve’s apartment, and he decided the best way to repay Steve for his kindness was to cook him dinner. Then Steve wouldn’t have to worry about being recognized in public as long as they were safe in Matt’s place. The issue was that it had been probably a good few months since he cooked anything remotely fancy at home, instead opting for either quick, simple dishes or takeout. Tonight, though, he wanted to impress Steve, and that meant taking some culinary risks. It wasn’t just about repaying Steve for his hospitality--he couldn’t quite place why he needed Steve to recognize him and his talents outside of combat, but the need was definitely present.
Momentarily setting down his wine, he felt in the fridge for where he had left the steaks last night to marinate. After successfully locating the meat, he found the bundle of asparagus (chopping vegetables was doable, but sauteeing whole asparagus would be much easier) and butter for the baked potatoes. He grabbed a few cloves of garlic from the bowl above his toaster and smashed them before throwing them into the pan of hot oil. His apartment immediately began to smell like an Italian restaurant, and Matt drained the last of the pinot noir while he waited for the garlic to cook through.
A series of quick soft knocks at the door alerted Matt to Steve’s arrival. He wiped his hands on a towel and walked over to open the door.
Steve stood in the door sheepishly, hesitating just a moment before entering. “It smells great in here,” he said. “Are you cooking? I thought we were ordering something.”
“That’s just garlic and oil,” Matt said. “And I never said we were getting takeout.” Would takeout be easier? Yes. Would it make me look as cool? No.
“I hope I’m not being rude by asking this,” Steve said, putting down his jacket. He paused for a moment as he searched for the right phrasing. “But...how does a blind man cook?”
Matt laughed. “Not rude at all. Valid question.” He walked back over to the kitchen near the stovetop. “I use a lot of sound and smell, shockingly enough. For example, garlic smells different when it starts being cooked, when it’s fully cooked, and when it’s overcooked. There’s a sweet spot with cooking garlic just before it starts to get bitter, and that’s happening… now.” He moved the steaks into the pan along with the garlic with a satisfying sizzle. “I also try to keep things in the same spot. Makes it easier to find things and not mix up spices if I always know where the jars are. When I don’t pay attention is when I tend to screw things up--you only switch salt and sugar once to learn that lesson.”
“That’s really impressive,” Steve said. “I cooked a lot when I was a kid but I can’t imagine doing it blind.”
“To be fair,” Matt said, “I can also beat people up blind. Cooking blind isn’t as challenging for me as it might be for others.”
Steve laughed. Matt found himself momentarily distracted from the steaks. Steve’s laugh was like his handshake--warm, inviting, and making Matt curious to learn more. “While you’re here, though,” Matt said, “I could certainly use some help. Want to chop up some chives? Chive butter is superior to regular butter when it comes to baked potatoes.”
Steve was an extremely competent sous chef. He was responsive to Matt’s instructions and kept the wine glasses filled, which was an essential part of Matt’s cooking experience. Steve also suggested throwing some of the chive butter on the steaks, which turned out to be an excellent idea.
As they ate, Matt found himself more at ease than he had been in a long time. They swapped stories about their friends and teammates. Maybe it was the wine, maybe it was Steve, but talking about the good times he’d had with Foggy and Karen seemed less painful to remember than they had been before. Likewise, Matt sensed some relief when Steve talked about Bucky, and a bit more lightness than he’d felt in their earlier conversations.
“Well,” Matt said, draining the pinot. “Looks like we killed the pinot. Want another red?”
Steve shrugged. “I can’t get drunk unless it’s refined Asgardian mead, so if you have a preference that’s fine with me.”
Matt shot him a quizzical look as he retrieved the corkscrew. “Sounds like there’s a story there.”
Steve laughed. “Let’s just say it was a bad experience for everyone. Hangovers of cosmic proportions.”
Matt laughed as he refilled the glasses, patting Steve gently on the shoulder. He felt a hint of giddiness inside again, especially when Steve placed his hand on Matt’s hand.
A few glasses of wine later and Steve finally said, “Thank you for dinner,” he said. “It was fantastic. Unfortunately, I’ve got to head out for the evening. I’m flying to DC until Tuesday tomorrow morning and I need to pack.”
Matt was pleased. “I’m glad you liked dinner.” Also, I like you. Wait, what? Steve picked up his jacket and started to walk toward the door. Matt’s thoughts began to race and his heartbeat began to accelerate. He felt his hands tremble for just a moment before taking a deep breath. For the first time in a while, he felt understood. He felt a sense of camaraderie with Steve that he hadn’t felt with anyone before. Their intentions were more closely aligned than his and Elektra’s, their activities were more similar than his and Foggy or Karen’s. Steve was leaving and Matt hadn’t been able to articulate any of this yet. He wondered if Steve felt any of the same things, or if he was reading way too much into their connection.
“Wait,” Matt said. Fuck it. Let’s go for it.
“Thanks for coming over, and thanks again for rescuing me the other night,” he said, giving Steve a quick peck on the cheek and praying he didn’t misread things.
He felt the heat of Steve’s face rise and his heart rate increase, and immediately started panicking again. Shitfuckdamn I screwed up everything, Steve is gonna leave here thinking I’m a psychopath who cooks people steak and then kisses them and makes things weird--
And then he felt Steve close the gap between them and then they were kissing. Steve’s lips were soft but firm, and Matt didn’t consciously remember wrapping his arms around the taller man’s chest, but there they were. Steve pulled away for a moment. “You sure this is a good idea? I mean, you destroyed most of the wine.”
Matt laughed. “Please, I’m Irish. Two bottles of wine is like a warm-up.”
Steve laughed and kissed Matt on the nose. Matt put a hand on the nape of Steve’s neck and pulled him closer as they kissed. He felt the warmth of Steve’s breath, smelled the subtle undertones of his cologne, and felt the beginning of stubble appearing on his otherwise clean-shaven jaw.
“I don’t suppose you’d like to stay the night,” Matt suggested between kisses.
Steve laughed, and to Matt’s surprise felt his hand drift lower down his back. “Not tonight,” he said. “My flight out of LaGuardia is really early tomorrow.”
Matt tried to mask his disappointment, but Steve laughed again. “How about I cook you dinner when I get back? We can pick up where we left off.”
Matt nodded. “That would be great. And I can get there conscious this time.”
Steve smiled and gave him a final kiss, threading his fingers through Matt’s hair and leaving him breathless as he drew away. “See you around, Matt Murdock.”
Matt grinned and held the door open for Steve. “See you around, Steve Rogers.”
He closed the door behind Steve and retreated to his couch, considering the possibility of going back to that bar with Steve once he returned. It might not have been Josie’s, but now it meant something to him, and for that he was grateful.