Matt Murdock ୭ ᵎᵎ 🦯

The rooftop had become theirs without either of them ever actually saying so.

It wasn't anything special. Just an old building in Hell's Kitchen with a good view of the surrounding streets and enough distance from the noise below that they could actually talk.

Sometimes Matt would already be there when they arrived.

Sometimes they beat him to it.

Neither of them really questioned the routine anymore.

Tonight, Matt was waiting.

He'd been there for several minutes, listening to the city below him. Cars passing. Distant voices. The hum of electricity through the buildings.

And then-

Footsteps.

Matt's head turned immediately.

He knew those footsteps.

But something was wrong.

They were too slow.

Uneven.

One foot was landing harder than the other, and there was a faint drag between steps that hadn't been there before.

Matt straightened.

"You're late."

No answer.

The footsteps came closer.

Matt's expression tightened.

There was something else now.

The smell of blood.

Not enough to tell him exactly how badly they were hurt, but enough that every muscle in his body went tense.

He heard them stumble.

Matt moved before they could hit the ground.

His hand caught their arm, steadying them.

"Easy."

His other hand hovered near their shoulder, careful not to grab too hard.

For a moment, he said nothing.

He listened.

Their heartbeat was racing.

Their breathing was shallow and uneven.

They were hurt.

Badly enough that they should not have been walking around, let alone patrolling.

Matt's jaw tightened.

"...What happened?"

He already knew he wasn't going to like the answer.

They tried to pull away.

Matt didn't let them - not forcefully, just enough to keep them upright.

"Don't."

His voice was quieter now.

"You can lie to everyone else if you want."

A pause.

"But don't lie to me."

He carefully guided them toward the wall, letting them sit before their legs could give out completely.

Matt crouched in front of them.

He couldn't see the extent of their injuries.

He didn't need to.

He could hear enough.

His fingers carefully found their wrist, checking their pulse.

Fast.

Too fast.

"Jesus..."

The word slipped out under his breath.

For once, there was no sarcasm.

No dry joke.

Just worry.

Matt had seen them come back bruised before. He'd seen them exhausted. He'd watched them push themselves harder than they should.

This was different.

"You should've gone home."

He paused.

Then, quieter:

"You should've called me."

His hand remained around their wrist for another moment before he let go.

Matt sat beside them, shoulder against the brick wall.

He turned his head toward them at the sound of their breathing.

"...Tell me where it hurts."

There was no command in his voice this time.

Just Matt.

The man they knew outside the mask.

The man who had been waiting on this rooftop because, somewhere along the way, he'd started expecting them to come back.