Matt rounded the corner, cane clicking not far in front of him against the city sidewalk. There wasn’t much need for the show at this hour, the streets having mostly emptied and all the later night activities spilling into the alleyways instead. But this was still the city that never sleeps and there would always be someone on a corner or staring out a window or staggering home from the club.
Briefly, he had thought about calling Foggy but the man had court in a few hours. He knew, knew , his best friend would come running, sacrificing sleep and self to help. Karen was upstate doing some solo sleuthing for a story that might turn into their next case. He just needed to rest. Sit down a spell, sew himself up, and get back to his place.
He was fine.
It had been so stupid. Having agreed not to go out that night due to the bomb blast that had sufficiently rung his bell the day before - Foggy would only condone so much of his vigilante shenanigans, and patrolling after a concussion that Claire said should have put in a coma, would not lead to anything good in their friendship. Besides, he still had that pitched ringing in his ears. The Avengers had been staying local lately - apparently there were currently no world or universe or space level threats - so crime was relatively quieter. He could take one night off. But then he had been walking back late from the office and the 7 train had screeched by underneath his feet, screaming in his ears and setting all his senses on overdrive until he was slipping off of the curb just as a taxi was blowing a red light and swerving around a slower van, clipping the attorney’s hip. Either he hadn’t noticed the pedestrian that he had almost blown over, or he didn’t care, because the driver just sped off into the night and Matt whirled and landed gracelessly against a bike rack.
And that was before the muggers.
Four men, teams of two, had performed a perfect pincer, boxing their target in the alley. They were easy takedowns, even in his condition, but the fight had still cost him. Ditching the cane and keeping his head down and himself in the shadows, he’d disarmed and dissuaded all four attackers. By the end of it, he was barely winded, but the gash on his side had split open from the movement and the pounding in his head was doing its best impression of the Philharmonic.
“You really are a piece of work, Murdock.”
The voice catches him by surprise and it’s only a little concerning that he didn’t hear her coming up behind him, less because it’s her.
“Were you following me, Ms. Jones?” He recovers and replies, trying to hide just how much he was hurting.
“You know,” she crosses her arms, leaning up against a lamp post, “I was just talking to a friend the other day and said ‘you remember that time Matt Murdock wasn’t beat up? Yeah, me either.’”
“This is - what - the second time we’ve met?”
“Yeah, and the first time you got your ass beat up, a lot.”
“I also remember saving you,” he tilted his head, “after you were getting beat up .”
“Yeah, yeah,” she waved a hand and pushed off from the post. “Okay, talk to me. How bad is it? And no bullshit.”
“I’m fine,” he breathed.
“And I’m mentally and emotionally stable,” she rolled her eyes. “Bullshit.”
“What are you even doing here? Were you following me?”
“God, are you self-centered. I was doing my job .” She huffed. “Trying to get some incriminating evidence for a case. I was up taking pictures in a fire escape when I zoomed in on a blind lawyer stumbling around the streets of New York and bleeding through what looks like a pretty cheap suit.”
“I am?” Matt narrowed his brow.
“What? You didn’t - like - smell the blood? Or, you know, feel it, like an actual person without super senses should?”
“I,” Matt swallowed, “uh, no? I mean, the pain, yes. The blood -” he trailed off, frowning.
“Well,” Jessica threw her head back, “that’s a great sign.”
“There was an explosion,” Matt sighed, “a bomb, yesterday.”
“Of course,” she nodded. “What’s with you and bombs?”
“My head has been - my senses are -”
A car alarm sounded nearby and the man grimaced, throwing a hand to his head but quickly bringing it back down when he remembered Jessica was watching him.
“Real convincing, counselor,” she shook her head. “Alright, I might not be able to hear heartbeats or whatever weird stuff you can do to tell if someone is lying, but I’m damn good at it anyway. So, is this a ‘call Claire’ situation, or ‘give you bourbon and make your ass lie down for five damn minutes’ situation?”
“I just,” Matt winced when sirens sounded nearby - probably finally responding to the four unconscious muggers left by a dumpster, “need to get home. It’ll pass.”
“Or you’ll pass out on the way there,” she grabbed his arm by the shoulder and was almost surprised when he didn’t pull away. “Alright, come on.”
“Your place or mine?” He smirked.
“Ew,” was her only reply, until - “Do you have bourbon?”
“No.”
“My place it is.”
“So this bomb,” Jessica dug around in one of her cupboards, “did you decide to stay behind and let herself get blown up this time too?”
Matt only blinked, bowing his head as she chucked the first aid kit his way. He caught it, but barely.
“At least you didn’t die again,” she filled a bowl with water and yanked a - maybe - clean rag off of the faucet. “Cause then I’d have to wait like a year to find out you survived. How would that go this time? I’d catch a news story? See you doing flips around the city one night? Get a text from Claire?”
Matt took the offered bowl and towel.
“I deserve that,” he sighed.
“Murdock, you deserve so much worse.”
Matt huffed and it sounded like he was agreeing with her and she didn’t know how to feel about that.
“Is it, you know,” she sat across from him, slinging her legs over the side of the chair, “taken care of? The stuff yesterday?”
“I think the explosion took care of them,” Matt replied, somber.
“What’s that they say,” Jessica stretched, “‘can’t save everybody’? You could at least start by trying to keep yourself alive for five minutes though.”
They shared the silence for awhile, comfortable.
“I’m sorry,” Matt started finally, “about not telling you, all of you. If it makes you feel better, I kept it from everyone, even my closest friends, for a long while.”
“Better for me, worse for them.” She cocked her head. “God, how does anyone put up with you?”
“How does anyone put up with any of us?” He smiled.
“Still trying to figure that out,” she spoke softly.
Matt was still attempting to clean the wound on his side when the window a/c unit kicked to life. The low hum and high whistle harmonized in perfect pitched pain against his temples. He fumbled the rag, and then the bowl, reaching out to catch it but missing.
“Shit,” Jessica jumped up, grabbing the upturned bowl.
The chair legs scratched the wooden floor as she pushed back to stand and Matt slammed his eyes shut, reeling back against the sofa. A couple was arguing a few floors below and their shouts were symbols. Someone walked by on the street, maybe nearby, maybe blocks away, whistling a song Matt didn’t recognize as it scraped across his skull. He was suddenly back in the hospital, bandages over his eyes and the whole world screaming in his ears.
Something stung his skin and Matt’s eyes blew wide as he breathed in the whiskey. The needle came next, sharp and unforgiving.
“What are you -“
“A distraction,” Jessica shrugged, yanking the threat through. “Hurts, right?”
“Had worse,” Matt ground out.
“Well, unless you want me to give you a reason for more stitches, this is what we got. Now shut up and focus on it.”
And, he did. Matt felt each fiber of the thread pulling its way through the tiny hole in his flesh. The ebbing burn of the alcohol. And then the needle again. Again, The thread moving back and forth, back and forth. Jessica’s coarse fingers brushing against his side, her hot, boozy breath beating against his torso. She had showered earlier, must have ran out of shampoo and used a bar of soap on her hair. Beer and waffles for breakfast, leftover Pad Thai for lunch, or dinner, probably both. Her shirt had been worn already this week, twice. And someone had gotten a little too close with his cologne because it still lingered on the leather of her jacket, along with blood, old - hers, new - the man’s.
“There,” she proclaimed, lifting her hands, “all done. Sorry, I don’t have a sucker or something.”
“I’ll take some of that bourbon,” Matt smiled.
“Did that actually work?” She stood to find a clean glass.
“It - helped,” Matt nodded, slowly settling back against the cushions. “Thank you.”
“Good,” she grabbed two glasses, “‘cause I didn’t know what the hell I was doing.” She gave them both a heavy pour. “With the,” she gestured to her own head, “senses thing, or whatever. Not the stitches. I’m great at those.”
“Wonder why,” he smirked.
“How long?” She sat back in her chair.
“Don’t know,” Matt shrugged. “It’s not like it’s an exact science. After - Midland, I lost hearing in one ear for awhile. It was like, I couldn’t see, again. When I got shot in the head, it was more similar to this. My senses just keep kicking in high gear. Running water was a freight train. Footsteps were earthquakes. Lost my hearing completely for a few hours -”
“You got shot in the head?” Jessica lifted her brow. “Why do I know two people who have been shot in the head and are alive?”
“Just don’t meet Frank Castle,” Matt mumbled.
“Who?”
“Never mind.”
The two sat in silence for awhile after that, draining the bottle. It wasn’t awkward or uncomfortable. It was almost - nice. No litany of questions. No judgement. No need for small talk. Just, being.
“Get some sleep, Murdock.”
Matt blinked open his eyes, unsure when he started to doze. His empty glass was in Jessica’s hand, where she must have confiscated it before he could drop it too.
“I should go,” he muttered, moving to stand when his head swam.
”You should be evaluated,” she replied dryly. “Lay down before you fall down.”
Matt wanted to relent, he really did. But his head was starting to pound again and the room started tilting and unconsciousness sounded like a nice alternative. With a grunt, Matt rested his head on the throw pillow, curling his body to fit the couch.
He was already out when Jessica tossed a blanket over him, calling him an idiot. He winced and furrowed his brow in pain but as Jessica pulled open her laptop and looked into the explosion that had rocked a warehouse in Hell’s Kitchen, his breathing started to even out. She followed the bomb’s breadcrumbs and sure as shit, everyone that looked important to the operation had been blasted off of the board when someone had gotten jittery because a certain Devil had dropped in on them. But everyone that looked important, wasn’t necessarily everyone involved. The trail was a little muddy to follow but with enough trudging through with her keyboard, the PI tracked down the ringleaders of the shit circus. Black market, high tech, bombs that had been used in three bank robberies and a hostage situation, all foiled by her old attorney. It made sense that Murdock hadn’t found the higher ups, they hid themselves behind so many false paper trails and red herrings and money. But if Jessica Jones was good at anything in this messed up world, it was her job.
The evidence, and the men, were left unconscious and zip tied in front of the nearest police precinct before her house guest even woke up.