Chapter Text
A harsh knock at your door startled you out of your nightly routine. You had just gotten off a sixteen hour surgery rotation at Metro General and it was late, you weren’t expecting any company. Distant police sirens echoed off the buildings that lined the streets of Hell’s Kitchen, no doubt on the hunt for the masked vigilantes who were supposedly plaguing the city.
You walked out of your bathroom, wiping your face in a towel, getting the rest of the day’s makeup off. You were already in your pajamas ready for bed, the smooth silk moving with you as you walked towards the door. You took a deep breath before checking who it was. Anyone who visited after 8pm surely wasn’t looking for a friend.
You stuck an eye to the peephole, a familiar face on the other end, a black mask peering back at you. Great. You squeezed your eyelids shut, knowing more than likely, he was here to cash in a favor from you to claim the one you owe him after getting caught in between an alley fight several weeks ago.
“I need your help.” The voice on the opposite side was gruff, panting heavily, his body exhausted from whatever fight brought him to your door. You swung it open, greeted by the man in the Daredevil suit. You frowned, knowing that you promised you’d always help him, despite being more than exhausted from work.
“Matt…? What’s going—” You looked to his left, a barely half-alive man in navy blue held up with his arm. Your eyes widened, brows furrowed. You shook your head furiously, almost offended that he would bring that man to your apartment under the guise of needing medical attention. “No. Absolutely not, Matthew. Get him out of here. Now.”
“C’mon. He’ll die if he doesn’t get help.” You could hear pleading in his voice, like this was something that really mattered to him. You thought of all the pain that Benjamin Poindexter had brought to the people you cared most about. You thought about Foggy.
“I don’t care! Let him!” You raised your voice, fed up. For a brief moment, you truly considered slamming the door in the face of your childhood friend. “Are you serious? After everything he did?”
“Please, he needs help. You said you’d help me.”
“I said you. I said that I would help you.” You snarled. “I never said I’d help him.”
“I don’t want to have to beg.” He whispered, staring at you as if he could see the disdain for Poindexter on your face. You sighed at his statement, knowing he wasn’t going to let up on it. You searched his face, finding desperation in the way he took his breaths. You stepped aside, allowing him to drag Bullseye to your couch.
“You could always try.” You mumbled quietly to yourself, knowing damn well he could hear your complaints. “This wasn’t a part of our deal, y’know. Something is seriously wrong with you, Murdock…can’t believe you’d ask me to do this. Does Karen know you’re here? Doing this?”
“I’d appreciate it if you didn’t mention it to her.” Matt huffed, getting the near-lifeless body onto the cushions, disregarding any carefulness to his pain. A groan escaped the injured man, a hand moving slowly to clutch his chest.
“You couldn’t’ve brought him to St. Agnes? Plenty of nurses there.” You ridiculed him for bringing him here when he could’ve easily found his solace somewhere else, somewhere that maybe even God would’ve forgiven him.
“You know better than anyone that they can’t do what you can. I’ll be back in the morning. Don’t let him die.” He pushed past you, stopping in the hallway to look back at you, a look that screamed “Seriously. Do not let him die.”
“Fine.” You sucked your teeth, trying not to slam the door behind him as he left. You turned around and took a good look at the man on your couch, who wouldn’t seem to shut up about his current misfortune. You folded your arms as stood over him, a scowl plastered on your face. “Quit your whining, asshole.”
“Jesus, you’re mean.” He gritted the words through his teeth. He squinted his hazel eyes at you, blood running down from his temple.
“Don’t say his name in vain.” You frowned as you walked towards your hall closet, digging around for a “first aid kit” of some sort. You came back over to him, an unhappiness radiating off of you. “Get up and come with me. Crawl if you have to.”
You walked to your bedroom, slow enough for him to follow and fast enough that it was obvious you weren’t giving him a handicap. He rolled off the couch with a thud and a moan, the noise reverberant in your tiny apartment. You let out a heavy exhale, your mind and body exhausted from a day that was still nowhere close to being over.
He made it nearly halfway, dragging his weight across the hardwood. He stopped at the glimpse of your socks, looking up to find you in front of him, your hand extended out. Your eyes were heavy, full of remorse and outrage and something deeper.
He took your hand and you yanked him up as carefully as your anger would let you, undemanding. You let him get his bearings before offering a shoulder for him to use as a crutch. You had one arm around his back and the other across his chest to hold him up, taking in the muscle that stood in place of padding in the skin-tight tactical suit he wore. Woah.
You guided him to the room, his limp only slowing you both down. He grunted, pained noises that you hadn’t even heard from your worst patients.
“Get on the bed.” You ordered, but he stood frozen, as if he didn’t hear you. You glared at him, hoping he’d come to and listen. “Hello? You still with us?”
“I’ll get blood on your sheets.” He whispered, looking nervous. His whole body swayed, like he could drop dead at any minute. “Blood’s hard to get out.”
“Is that seriously your biggest concern right now? Bleeding on my sheets?” You derided. “I can buy more sheets. What I can’t buy is your soul. I’m more worried about you dying.”
“Just let me.” He groaned. “You’d be doin’ us both a favor.”
“I already told our mutual friend I wasn’t going to let you die. So, get on the bed.” You repeated. You watched his body language, his refusal apparent in the way he held himself, despite nearly keeling over on the floor.
You took it upon yourself to square up to him, holding your body inches from his, an intense glare opposite of the way he looked at you, like a kicked puppy begging for mercy.
He was a decent amount taller than you, his gaze falling down to your lips, where he held it longer than he should’ve. He looked back up, meeting you with soft eyes.
“Please, Benjamin.” You faltered, clearing your throat.
“Call me Dex.”
“I’m gonna call you whatever the fuck I want.” Your brows furrowed, your posture straightened. You weren’t a fan of your authority being challenged, especially by the piece of shit who killed your friend. You thought of Foggy again, what he would want you to do. “Please, Dex, let me help you.”
“Just let me die.” He muttered, still holding his own against you, despite his injuries.
“Get on the fucking bed.” You snapped back at him with the rage that still buried itself inside of you. You could feel your face getting too warm, the look on his almost terrified.
“Yes, ma’am.” He took a few steps backwards, falling onto the plush mattress behind him. He adjusted himself against the headboard, patiently waiting for your next instruction.
You stared at him silently. You weren’t prepared for him to comply so willingly. He gave you a longing look back, his eyes begging you to tell him what to do next. You let out a quick exhale, your body getting hot. You weren’t sure yet if you enjoyed the way he looked at you.
“I need to give you something for the pain. Take off your shirt.” You gestured to the blue long-sleeve he wore tight to his chest. He looked at you with a frown, his brows puckered. “Do you…need help…getting that off?”
“If you don’t mind.” He mumbled, despondent, as if asking for more after giving you all this trouble would be too much.
“I…I’ll try not to hurt you.” You whispered. Despite your disdain for him, you still felt bad about the pain he was in. You sat down on the wrinkled white sheets next to him, taking a deep breath in, saying a silent prayer for both you and the man in your bed.
You started with the holsters he kept clipping across his chest, undoing the buckles with a quick snap. You pulled it around, helping him sit up to get it off of his back. He groaned with every motion, a soreness that likely wouldn’t unburden him anytime soon. You moved your hands down gently, tugging at the hem, guiding the shirt over his head.
He adjusted himself to make things smoother on you, sitting forward. He looked over to you, his chin tucked to his shoulder, wincing as pain seared over his body. You yanked the rest of the fabric off, his body tensing up, his abdomen going ridged. He let out a guttural noise, something agonizing.
“Sorry.” You muttered. You stood back up, tossing the shirt aside. You laid out the medical supplies on your dresser, taking an inventory on everything you would need. You grabbed a syringe filled with a diluted dose of morphine. You swallowed a pool of saliva, the spit feeling sharp in your throat. “Look, I really need you to promise you aren’t going to hurt me.”
“You wouldn’t believe me even if I did.” He gave you a weak chuckle and you stared solemnly at him, just to prove that you weren’t joking.
“Well, I’m gonna try to believe it, okay?” He nodded silently as you approached him with the needle, holding it up for him to examine. “This is morphine.”
“Morphine? Jesus Christ, are you gonna kill me with that?”
“Watch your mouth or I’m not giving you anything.” You snapped. “You can bite a towel for all I care.”
“No, no…I’m sorry. I’ll be good for you, I swear.” His demeanor changed almost instantly, surrendering completely. You inhaled sharply, taken aback by the way he immediately gave in. You nodded, a small smile hidden behind sternness.
“It’s a low dose. It’ll help, but I have to push it very slowly, like over the course of several minutes, so that it doesn’t send you into respiratory distress.” You sighed. You turned away and took a moment to whisper a prayer to yourself, signing the cross. “Lord Jesus, Son of God, have mercy on me, a sinner.”
“You Catholic?” He let you finish before he spoke, almost an act of respect.
“I am.” You mumbled.
“That how you met him?”
“We grew up in the same orphanage.” You said coldly, not willing to let him push you any further. He nodded, taking the answer for what it was.
You held your hand out, using your head to gesture to his arm, which he willingly gave you, his eyes locked on you like you were the only thing in the room. His gaze should’ve scared you, but it didn’t.
You poked at a vein, squeezing at the base of his bicep to get the blood flowing. He cracked a smile and for a moment you questioned if he thought you were enjoying this. You frowned, your brows slanted. He mumbled an apology as he broke his stare, suddenly nervous.
You stuck the needle in, his body tensing. You whispered something quietly, something to relax him, which seemed to work. You stared at the syringe, taking several drawn out minutes to push the medication.
“There.” You withdrew the needle slowly, holding a piece of gauze at the injection site. “Now, we wait.”