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It starts with a high-pitched whirring noise that leads into an explosion.
“Get out of the way!”
“I can’t fucking believe it’s happening again.”
“I’m gonna die, I’m gonna die—”
Matt’s already on rooftops, rushing to the most critical points of entry. No matter how far his senses reach, he has never moved as fast. But he pushes, and he pushes—and he practically tears debris off the gravel and broken glass coming from blaring cars crunches beneath his feet. It’s happening again.
And really, he doesn’t know what they look like. He listens from Hell’s Kitchen to Manhattan, then round back to Brooklyn. He catches short, horrified descriptions of events and visuals, and Matt will never be able to envision them quite like that, but he gets the gist.
He tries to focus, even though he’s overwhelmed by screaming and crying. There are people running, trying to get out of New York by any means necessary, and more than once, he hears people ask themselves why they still give New York a chance.
“You’ll be okay,” he reassures someone he’s just saved, probably lying through his teeth. He can smell the blood, it’s free-flowing. “There’s an EMT four blocks from here,” he informs their more ambulatory friend. “Don’t stop for anything, just go.”
Matt pauses for a brief second, just barely catching a fly-by super reporting on the situation. He doesn’t recognize all of the heroes ever—the Titans alone are hard enough to identify without throwing in the League and Avengers in the mix—but he’s pretty sure he hears at least five working with the Avengers now.
Not like he’s never been part of a team before, and he’s still unsure if they ever considered them a fully-fledged team—but he does his best to listen in where he can anyway. No one else is coming by Hell’s Kitchen, but he can coordinate. He can redirect civilians to medical tents and police; he can identify slowing heartbeats trapped under collapsed buildings and filter out the alarms blaring and giving him the biggest migraine he’s ever experienced.
But then he hears more aliens zip by above him, hardly sparing the people below a glance, and he prays that they continue to leave his people alone. Matt is pulling out from a four-story building when he hears one of those heroes talking, familiar and angry, and coming in hot.
“You bastards don’t know when to quit!”
Matt nearly missteps as the words zip from one distant end to another, only to crash right into the building across the street.
His feet move before he even thinks about it. He has no wings, he does not have super speed. Matt monitors Red Hood’s vitals with every second he comes closer and holds onto the vigilante’s heartbeat the entire way.
Loud and clear.
He takes care of the alien that survived the crash and burn, promptly throwing them out of the torn wall, and ducks besides Red Hood.
Alive but unconscious.
Matt was relatively content with only being able to hear the hero teams talk and not talk to them, but that was twenty minutes ago. Now, right this second, all he can think about is how Red Hood has always told him that he works alone—exceptions only took the form of the Outlaws, sensitive information pulled from the vigilante after a particularly gruesome case they worked on—but surely one of the Titans would know Red Hood? They should be in the right age group, if anything.
“Hood. Hood, sitrep. Talk to me.”
The disembodied voice continues to ask for a status update. It’s mechanical and static at the edges, just enough to grate on Matt’s ears the more he listens to it, but it’s hope in a way. Someone knows Red Hood; is concerned enough to check in. Matt tries his hand at getting to the voice, assuming it’s some kind of bluetooth-like device.
It’s incredibly risky. Anyone would tell him that it isn’t worth getting potentially blown up. But Matt knows Red Hood doesn’t have that rumored bomb in his helmet, at least not anymore. He makes the same clicks and pushes Red Hood’s listless fingers up and under the unlocking mechanism, and Bob's your uncle.
He hears the mechanical voice start getting desperate, if that’s even possible. It’s clearly not an automated voice or some kind of AI. It’s the sound of a worried person, perhaps a teammate, and Matt nearly shoves the intercom device in his own ear in his haste. It’s an instant mistake. He hates the static, the layers upon layers beating into his eardrums—and sometimes he just wishes the world would go quiet.
“Stop—It’s Daredevil.”
“What?” He’s about to elaborate when he hears fast, sharp typing, and then it abruptly stops. “Devil of Hell’s Kitchen. I’m familiar. What’s Red Hood’s status?”
It’s a relief that he isn’t questioned. He still doesn’t know who this person on the other end is, but he’s got more pressing matters to deal with. “Red Hood is down, unconscious. Heartbeats strong, breathing’s fine. I might not be able to move him if the situation gets worse.” This building could collapse.
“Does he have a concussion? Check his pupils.” Matt has never had to explain that he couldn’t see while in the mask, at least not like that. “Maybe a sternum rub. I don’t think we can spare anyone right now. Even the Birds of Prey have their hands full.”
How many teams are there?
“Would you be able to get him to the medical tent on—”
The building rocks with another explosion. He should’ve been paying more attention. He shouldn’t even be staying in one place. There are so many people to get to.
“Daredevil, get Hood out.” The voice is typing away again. “Please.” The plea is as desperate as it was before, maybe more.
“I have the Kitchen to protect,” he says, but he’s already planning on how to carry Red Hood out. He knows the vigilante has a grapple gun, Matt’s even been taken on a ride with it once, despite his added weight, but he doesn’t know how to use one. Would it survive being used as a pulley?
There’s a beat, maybe a curse. These things don’t pick up as much as he can. “I’ll send someone over, just get Hood out.”
“You said you couldn’t spare anyone.”
“Priorities, Devil. One of the supers can extend their reach.” But nobody to spare to rescue an unconscious vigilante.
Matt breathes through it. He wasn’t going to leave Red Hood here anyway, but he doesn’t think he can reach the tent the voice tells him about next. Anywhere close is still a hotbed for these aliens. “I’ve got someone we can go to, a nurse.”
He tries not to think too hard about how he’s only ever coming to Claire for help. Matt’s really got to make it up to her somehow.
“I’ll bring this device along, but can you turn it off?”
“I’m not turning this off,” the voice says, defensive.
“Then mute it. I can’t focus,” he snaps. He’s distracted enough as it is. He’s simultaneously breathing calmly and clenched hard enough to shatter.
Matt stops hearing the static a moment later and gets to work.
For as long as he’s known him, Red Hood’s always been a big dude. In and out of the suit and jacket. He remembers telling Red Hood how he thought there was extra padding in his shoulders when he stripped it off of him. Red Hood chuckled and told him he was natural plus. No idea what it meant, not really, but Matt knew no steroids were involved.
Matt’s turning his back on Red Hood for the moment, distracted by the screams in this very building. As much as he wants to help his sort-of-kind-of lover, this immediate area is clear for now. The moment he gets down to the right floor, the intercom comes back to life. It’s a quick, annoyingly painful and static-y, “Daredevil, what are—” but absolutely clear in his ears, before it’s cut off again.
He can’t pay attention to that right now, not when another one of those aliens comes crashing into the pavement below, and Matt needs to get people away—so far away, because he knows most of them are back for a second round of this bullshit. He can’t say he’s particularly joyous about it either.
And honestly, he’s not listening for it—his senses are going haywire enough for today—but surprisingly, he recognizes Red Hood groaning and getting back up on his feet. He feels as if a thread’s been released and his steps feel just a bit lighter. Distantly, he hears the vigilante talk out loud. That static, mechanical voice is back, but it’s a lot further away from here at this point and thereby more tolerable.
“Are you actually good to go, or are you just lying again?”
“Does it look like we’re in the position to choose, Oracle?” Red Hood says, voice a lot less modular than usual, but just as gruff as Matt recalls. The helmet must be off, then.
“I’m going to try and—”
“Fuck that, O, you know we’re stretched thin enough as it is.” Red Hood is standing now, right up against the hole in the wall that was the initial crash. His voice is a lot clearer now, but his heartbeat’s running wild. “You said Daredevil helped me out, yeah? I see him. I’ll stick with him, alright?”
Something about the tone in his voice screams relief, or maybe he’s projecting. Matt doesn’t have the brain power to think too hard about it.
All in all, when Red Hood comes grappling down to Matt, there’s a distinct lack of electricity and wiring that he associates with the helmet. He can’t say he’s sorry about that. But he does stay close to Red Hood, even without the man telling him so.
It’s minutes later, and things are getting precarious in terms of energy levels and the great resignation of the unknown. Logically, Matt knows this alien business is being worked on. The Avengers or the League are making deals or plans, what-have-you. But he’s on the street, he can only metaphorically see what’s in front of him, and what he knows is that they keep on coming.
The lack of sleep and probably proper sustenance is what he eventually blames it on.
One thing leads to another, and Red Hood seems to pull out some kind of wiring. Matt’s confused about it—where did it come from? The vehicles the aliens are using or the aliens themselves? How could he not hear regular electricity movement coming from the aliens if that were the case?
Debris nearly takes him out, catching himself before his humiliating crash and burn, when some kind of liquid splashes onto the pavement and—now, Red Hood is screaming. What.
Matt hears several people scream into the intercoms, both his pilfered one and Red Hood’s. It’s not just that mysterious Oracle; multiple voices are cutting in and out, trying to ask what would get the Red Hood to scream in pain like that. Then it’s back to just Oracle. They’re trying to get Red Hood to talk, to answer all of these questions.
He quickly makes his way back to Red Hood when he fails to reply, breathing laboriously and tumbling back until he slams against an abandoned car.
“Daredevil, tell me what’s going on.” Oracle is sterner than before. Everything about this is disorienting.
As much as Matt would love to tell them what happened, even he doesn’t fully understand; he doesn’t have any answers to give.
He ends up grabbing onto Red Hood’s shoulders, keeping him still, and absentmindedly telling Oracle to send somebody—quite literally anybody—to the Kitchen so he can go find medical help. Compounding effects? Something exacerbated the issue?
Distantly, he manages to tune out O’s rushed typing and the quick, “I’ve called on the Birds of Prey.”
Distantly, he thinks that this is the first time he’s heard Red Hood cry.
“You better take care of Jason, Daredevil,” Oracle parts with him.
Matt packs away the name and how familiar it is, and heads to Claire’s.
When Jason wakes up, it’s like a rocket launch. No slow transition between sleep and wakefulness, no. One moment, he’s lost in the abyss, and the next, he’s shooting up into awareness. His heartbeat’s going crazy in his ears. His fingers are trembling. His skin feels sensitive to the light breeze.
What’s most notable is how a scream tears out of him when he tries to open his eyes.
“Hey, hey. Jason, stop.” Hands are on him in an instant, and now he’s got two things to worry about. “Just stop for like two seconds.”
Jason’s heart is in his ears, or his throat—the point is, he’s feeling lightheaded and stupid. He normally wouldn’t panic this hard to be somewhere he doesn’t recognize, but ever since… waking up… he hasn’t taken to the darkness all too well.
Normally, he’d have a light nearby. The street lamp. His phone screen. The small hallway light he indulged himself into getting.
Normally, he’d wake up alone and in one of his many safehouses. There wouldn’t be anybody to touch him and tell him to stop.
“Why am I here?” He asks through gritted teeth. “Where am I?”
The touch remains, trying to push him down but not forcefully so. Whoever they are, they’re kneeling. They’re about the same level as he is sitting down, maybe a little shorter.
He’s about to make another stink, when another voice comes ever closer. “Look, I’m no doctor. In fact, I’m a nurse. But Red here didn’t want to take you to the hospital, so here we are.”
“Where is here exactly?”
“My apartment. I’m Claire,” and she sounds downright exhausted and resigned, and it’s in that moment that he recalls the metallic-looking aliens coming at them in waves. “I recommend getting a specialist for your eyes. It’s not pretty.”
“What?”
“Just don’t open your eyes for now,” Daredevi—Matt—says, because now that he’s focused on it, he can tell right away. It’s the same voice he’s been obsessed over for god knows how long at this point. So much so that he nearly gives himself away every time they meet up. “We’ll figure it out.”
“What do you mean we? What happened to me?” There’s a desperate edge to his voice, now that he knows he’s safer than expected.
“I’m not entirely sure,” Matt admits with some hesitance. “I heard something wet hit the pavement, and the next thing I knew, you were screaming out in pain. I didn’t know what happened.”
Jason fights the urge to blink. He feels all too aware of his own eyeballs right this moment.
“It was green,” Claire chimes in, and Jason has so many concerns as he snaps towards her general direction. “Based on what I could see on the street, it might’ve been those aliens’ blood.”
The thought of those—it was—and it was green—“I think I’m gonna throw up.”
It’s later, when Matt and Jason gang up on Claire enough to let them go—promises to head to a trusted doctor lacing their lips—that Jason has the wherewithal to reflect.
He allows Matt to take Jason to one of his safe houses here in New York. It’s somewhere on the cusp between boroughs, but most definitely considered within Hell’s Kitchen.
And so the travel leaves him to think—Matt used his name at least once earlier. It’s shocking, but he doesn’t quite have a solid identity to tie that back to at the moment. Matt, though? The Devil of Hell’s Kitchen moonlights as lawyer Matthew Murdock. Jason only found out about three weeks after they started kind-of-sort-of seeing each other, and his paranoia could hardly be kept away from sleuthing.
But the thing is: They aren’t boyfriends or partners, not really. They’re still getting to know each other.
And Matt, who he’s known for a grand total of two months now, had called him by his actual name.
Jason wonders what gave him away.
But things tempered off from there. The disastrous noise from beyond the window panes had come to a halt. Jason hasn’t once touched his com—too afraid, too tired, too everything.
Instead, Claire impresses upon him the importance of an eye specialist in echoes. Instead, Matt fails to leave him alone to wallow at night, if only for brief intervals between his own patrol. Instead, Jason tries very hard not to hate the rations he placed in his own pantry, as they were the only things he could safely prepare and consume.
As much as Foggy or Karen or both would like him to take a day off, he needed to get back out there as Daredevil, now more than ever. So many of his people have been displaced from the destruction that’s touched Hell’s Kitchen.
It’s late the next day when Matt gets news. He’s by the window when he gets a call, announcing itself as ‘No Caller ID’. Not suspicious at all. But even though he’s not expecting any calls from unknown persons, he answers the call anyway.
“Oh good, you picked up,” greets the mysterious O.
“Right,” he drawls, reaching up to massage the tension in his neck and leaning against the window sill, “and what can I do for you?” Matt can keep going, keep pushing his body past its limits, as long as he doesn’t stop. But the second he gets a brief respite and thinks about something else, he has to hold himself up from collapsing.
“Just wanted to keep you in the loop a bit here—the JL and Titans are busy with city-wide clean-up. Iron Man sent in Damage Control to fill in the gaps.”
Putting more weight on the wall, he allows his senses to wander and verify the information as much as he can. He immediately catches several fly-bys and at least one speedster. He quirks a small smile when he recognizes Hawkeye’s familiar banter. Although he can primarily sense what’s publicly available and live action on the ground, Matt soon smells the slight ozone that comes with Zeta Tube usage.
“So, how’s our boy doing?”
Matt hums in acknowledgement. He already knows that Jason’s awake at that moment and crossing his safe house’s length. He’s been sliding over the floorboards, tapping on walls and furniture, and cursing up a storm whenever he hits something. He’s been at it for the past three hours.
Honestly, he remembers trying to get used to his own house again when he first lost his own. It was as if it were another world entirely. Nothing about the space felt familiar or comforting—and subsequently, everything else in the world felt like the enemy.
“Why don’t you ask him yourself?”
“I know where he is, and I can make as many inferences as I want, but that all doesn’t tell me anything.” Oracle sighs. “Not when he won’t pick up the phone and no one’s around to check up on him for me.”
Idly, he wonders why Oracle can’t make the trip themself. He doesn’t ask—doesn’t even get the chance to.
Like a glitch in his senses, he stopped paying attention for merely a second, and the next thing he knows, he hears, in quick succession:
A choked sob.
Palms hitting a wooden table.
Cabinets opening.
Glass hitting the counter.
The distinct, unmistakable stretch of vodka.
Now, far be it for him to judge another person’s drinking habits. Jason’s just been through an ordeal, and Matt’s own coping mechanisms weren’t necessarily therapist-approved. But—
“I have to go,” he abruptly says, cutting off any additional dialogue Oracle deigned to voice.
Daredevil is up and across the neighborhood so fast, he’s giving the speedsters a run for their money.
The closer he gets, the more his adrenaline spikes. Jason shouldn’t be alone right now with nothing but alcohol for company—and Matt may not be the best person to handle this, but he’s present and he cares, and the stakes feel a bit too personal.
Jason’s head hits the bottom cabinets in the kitchen the same moment Matt slides the window open.
“Go away.” Thankfully, Jason doesn’t sound slurred, but Matt’s always figured that Red Hood was some kind of superhuman. “Tell O or whoever sent you to leave me alone, too.”
“Just me,” he reassures, but in the interest of nothing lying: “Oracle called and asked me about you, but I don’t think they know what’s going on.”
“Then how do you explain—” Jason gestures aggressively in Matt’s general direction.
“I heard you, sensed you.”
It’s silent for a beat before Jason’s back to drinking. Matt doesn’t stop him, but he does step closer until he’s sitting down right beside Jason.
“Whatever the case may be, whether it’s the exhaustion, the frustration, the…” He doesn’t know how to talk about this, no more than he knows how to tell Jason that the world’s on fire and he just had to live with it.
And so they sit.
They sit side by side, and something about Jason in his civvies while Matt’s in his suit makes it terribly disorienting, but he’s dealing with it. He’s being present. He’s being a warm body that Jason, eventually, allows himself to lean against.
And when the silent tears pour out of damaged eyes, Matt quietly takes the vodka away and holds Jason on the kitchen floor.
Admitting fault is one thing.
Admitting to yourself and the world at large that you are unable to do basic tasks is quite another.
Jason had spent hours just walking around, getting used to his own spaces again. Not that this safe house in New York was anything familiar or comfortable, but it was still his. It was bare with essentials and had MREs in the pantry he didn’t care to touch. He was coming up on day three when Matt crashed back into his life and sat with him as he cried.
He would be embarrassed, except it hurt like a bitch to cry, too. He can’t even cry normally.
Secret ID or not, the moment he stopped, Matt offered up his own place for Jason to crash. Then he said something like, “I can’t put you out like that, Matt,” and suddenly Matt’s got him packing up whatever he needed and they were gone.
So, that’s how their secret identities got out. I guess.
More notably, this was how he ended up standing in an open-plan apartment in the heart of Hell’s Kitchen—cold floors and the breeze coming in from an opened window. He nearly shivers.
“What the hell?” he whispers. “Show me where the kitchen is, Matt,” he says out loud.
It’s comical. He’s seen Matt move with such grace and precision, catching strays before Jason even sees them. But he huffs out a little laugh when Matt misses his hand and takes him by the forearm instead.
“You have a working stove,” he states into the ether. “How do you have a working stove?”
“There are specially-made stoves that help prevent you from burning yourself.”
“Something tells me this isn’t one of them.”
“No, it is not. Couldn’t afford it.” Matt pulls him over to the fridge next. “Not like I use it much besides.”
As the kitchen tour continues, Jason quickly finds how everything is easy to eat right away or with minimal prep. The cabinets are in no way bursting, and he doesn’t once clock a single spice other than the typical salt and pepper, but it’s all labeled. They’re in braille—and he could’ve sworn Bruce knew braille, yet Jason never learned it—but they’re absolutely organized and labeled, and this is a relatively functioning kitchen.
One that Matt just doesn’t make much use of.
Matt doesn’t go too far. In fact, he leans against the edge of the kitchen counter. But he more or less lets Jason be as he navigates the space again on his own. He continues to let Jason be when he tries to boil some water in a saucepan because that’s all Matt has.
He nearly pokes the stove with a pair of scissors, trying to cut some sauce packets. His heart leaps out of his chest once for that and twice when Matt takes it from him. He wants to cry again, but disrespectfully, fuck that noise.
Jason lets Matt finish up, while he tells himself that he’ll get it next time.
All things considered, the rest of the day doesn’t get worse—thank the heavens—but it doesn’t necessarily get better either.
“Would you mind accompanying me somewhere?” Jason vaguely asks, because no hero or vigilante he’s ever met or seen has ever met a “can you help me?” without resistance.
Matt readily agrees, thankful for something to help Jason with. He may know what works for himself, what coping mechanisms he regularly buys into, but he can’t make up someone else’s. He’s just surprised when Jason tells him that it’s the Clinton Church. Even more when he brings up Father Lantom, the name leaving his lips with ease. So, maybe not a regular, but familiar nonetheless.
On the outside, it’s the blind leading the blind. He honestly gets the urges the independent two passerbys have to offer their help. Though, he really doesn’t get why one of them scoffs and throws them a “suit yourself” when they decline.
He has to hold Jason back from throwing a punch there, but they get to the church unscathed.
Father Lantom finds them both sitting on the pew, but he doesn’t seem all that surprised by their presence. He’s surprised by Jason’s new developments.
Before Matt can safely go somewhere else to give them some privacy, Jason grips his wrist just a little. The plea, ‘Don’t leave me’, practically written in the wind.
He doesn’t leave. He stays right beside Jason. He doesn’t outwardly react when Jason ends up in silent tears—but he still tries to listen to the kids in the St. Agnes orphanage instead. He squeezes Jason’s hand.
They’re posted up against the wall, the one everyone tells him is in the direct line of sight to a brightly-lit billboard sign. He rests his head and takes a deep breath. This very wall, this exact floor, is both dread and comfort.
If he’s honest with himself, he knows that it’s been a while since Matt’s known. It’s hard not to when he started recognizing Red Hood’s voice, scent, heartbeat, touch, to Jason’s. The name he’d hear everyone else refer to except himself—up until the invasion. Things changed after that, clearly. The puzzle pieces fell into place.
“Father Lantom told me about this new guy named Jason who kept coming by for no more than 20 minutes,” he offers. “More often than not with a donation.”
Jason tsk’d. “Serves me right for leaving tracks.”
“I’m glad you did, though. It was another thing to stick around for.” Matt pauses, wondering if he’d be wise to reach out. “It was the start of something.”
“Yeah, the beginning of the end,” Jason says with a scoff and a brief bump of his head against the wall. Matt takes the excuse—he reaches out behind Jason’s head like a pillow and pulls him in. Jason rests his head on Matt’s shoulder willingly. It’s novel. It’s nice.
“Aren’t you all about rebirth?”
It’s quiet for a beat. He doesn’t know if he should say something more, maybe take it back, except he doesn’t want to. He listens to Jason breathe instead.
In.
Out.
In.
Out.
“I want to keep going,” he finally declares. “With this. Us. I know you’re still getting used to things, but I wanted you to know that.” He takes another breath, stealing himself. It’s as if he doesn’t weave words together from evidence for a living. “I want to try us out, more than casual. More than masks.”
“Well, we’ve come this far, right?” Matt can hear the smirk in Jason’s tone. It makes his chest feel lighter. “It’s not going to be anywhere near the same.”
“That’s the point, Jason.” He turns into Jason’s profile, presses his lips against the crown of his head. “It’ll be different.”
Jason huffs this time; amused, if his weight falling more on Matt is of any indication. “Yeah, ‘cause I’ll be taking over meal prep.”
“You will?” Matt’s tentative, but hopeful. Something else to stick around for. For this, for their relationship.
Jason turns into Matt this time. His ear is against the wall, and Matt thinks it’s warmer than it’s ever been. “You always seem to have it all figured out—the vigilantism, the protector of Hell’s Kitchen, all of that pro bono work. I know you know you’re struggling, but you do it anyway.”
Matt tries to swallow. The small smile on his lips freezes as he figures out what to say, what to feel. Is this the new status quo?
“If we’re doing this,” Jason says, reaching out to hold Matt’s hands. “We’re taking care of each other, yeah? I’ll care enough about you until you can care enough about yourself, and then I’ll keep caring about you some more.”
Matt squeezes Jason’s hand and whispers, fervently, “Yes.”