Disclaimer: I don't own the rights to Marvel's "Daredevil", wishful thinking aside.

Authors Note #1: Inspired by both a prompt on the Daredevil kink meme which asked for: "Vladimir/Matt: soulmate au" and a post by this-is-not-how-I-die on tumblr who wrote a vague outline for a similar prompt and freed it for the world to use, which included the song that Vladimir sang at the end of episode six. – In this version of the prompt, I am changing things around a bit. Not everyone has a soul mate, it is actually considered quite rare, but those that do have the most important words their soulmate will ever say to them etched on their skin. Meaning, you can be lovers, friends or passing strangers on the street with your soulmate and never know it until they utter that one phrase.

Warnings: Soulmate/soulbond trope, sexual/emotional pull (mild dub-con due to that trope), adult language, sexual content, violence, blood, guts, gore, injury, angst, drama.

The Dog Days will never be over (so suck it up and deal)

Chapter One

"You are stupid, stupid man," Vladimir hissed, gargling blood like salt water as they stood together in the middle of a staggered swirl of bodies. His fists were bloody and he was unsteady on his feet, but he still had it in him to keep them upright. Taking the bulk of the Russian's weight as the man's heartbeat fluttered – an alarming hush-hush-hush in place of the usual bold throb.

"I knew you'd come back," the man murmured, spitting up a viscous mouthful of blood and phlegm as he faded into his hold. Barely conscious, but still just as stubborn. Apparently determined to get the last word as the gun slipped between his fingers. Clattering through the access tunnels as the echoes spread like plague.

He winced in growing sympathy as the man's head drooped, brushing across the span of his shoulder once, twice, then again before the Russian forced it up with a moan. The antithesis of going quietly as his fingers counted at least one new bullet hole. Damnit. He let his hand fall across the man curve of the man's cheek, dipping down to flirt with his pulse as his senses painted the picture for him.

Vladimir was a mess. Like a horror-story reject or a forgotten solider from an equally forgotten war. He been caught in an explosion, beat to hell, shot, fallen through two floors, then been shot again. He'd died twice and was still walking the line between the two like the world's thinnest tightrope. The Russian probably wouldn't last the night if he didn't get him somewhere safe and convince Claire to parlay with her own version of Judge, Jury, and Executioner. He didn't know how he was going to ask her. How he could ask her. Not after everything she'd been through – everything Vladimir and his people had put her through.

And yet-

His fingers traced across the man's face, ignoring the Russian's vague protestations and the weak hand that tried to slap him away. Grumbling without any real heat as he took stock. The scar he'd felt earlier was even more interesting gliding under his tips than it was smashed up against his fist. It spanned almost the entire side of the Russian's face, barely missing his eye. It had never been stitched, instead it had been left to heal on its own. Going puckered, pitted and smooth where the skin hadn't been able to knit naturally. The rest of him was a mess of conflictingly bold features. A prominent forehead. Stubble-strewn cheeks. A nose that had been broken more than once. A jutting chin and lips that-that spoke of oh Christ- bloodlust, full and warm against his skin.

All in all, from what he could tell Vladimir was a slick, attractive, crusted mess of blood and bruises, swaying in place. Looking around them, blinking as the thready scent of weakness started rolling off the Russian in waves. Causing the broad swell of his back to settle against his chest like a key fitting into a lock.

His heart's mate.

His one.

His soul-bonded.

No!

The realization was like trying to trap air. Threatening to punch the breath clear out of him as he scrambled for something to say. Something smart. Something disarming. Something that could fill the sudden, gaping hole that yawned in front of him like judgement – divine or otherwise.

He made the mistake of breathing hard and inhaled the bitter tang of blood and sweat. Vladimir. Under that, as if to stay true to character, the man was a riot of scent and memory. Pores thick with the slow poison of stale nicotine and expensive Vodka. But that wasn't all. There was more. Deeper. Black pepper and worn leather – butter-soft and fading. Burnt sage. Honey. Crushed dogwood and the ghostly markers of his brother's fading cologne. That was all there was. They were surrounded by half a dozen dead men and all he could smell was him.

It couldn't be.

But it was.

This had to be some sort of mistake.

But it wasn't.

This wasn't what he'd thought.

What exactly were you expecting, Matty?

The man said it himself in the tunnels.

The moment you put on that mask, you got into the same cage.

And what, you really thought you wouldn't get bit?

This wasn't how he'd thought it would happen.

But it did and there's nothing you can do about it.

It wasn't right. Fair. It wasn't-

Vladimir gurgled out a laugh, catching him off guard when the man's hand shot up and caught him by the chin. He jerked back, on edge, only to get a cuff on the ear for it before Vladimir got him where he wanted. Saying nothing, hell- hardly daring to breathe as the Russian's thumb passed back and forth in an off-centre caress. Grip surprisingly strong for a man who was about a minute away from passing out completely.

"True then," the Russian mused, tightening his grip as the man's bloody fingers slicked across his skin. Bringing them almost cheek to cheek, smearing red through his stubble as every muscle in the man's body went lax in his hold. "You must be mine, hmm? …Ach! Chto ya ne zasluzhil etogo?"

For one terrible, desperate second he thought the man was going to kiss him.

Instead, Vladimir chose that exact moment to pass out completely. Hand falling limp at his side, caught in the cradle between his right thigh and the mobster's stomach. Leaving him in the middle the tunnel, surrounded by bodies with a half dead Russian wilted in his arms and the realization that out of all the unfair things in his life, this was probably the worst.

"..On the battlefield the tanks were rumbling. While the soldiers went to the last battle."

"...And we carried a young captain. With a hole in his head…"

He was halfway down the tunnel when he heard it. The beginning strains of a scratchy unsteady song. For a long, breathless beat his feet kept going, body on autopilot. Then he was running back as fast as his aching limbs could carry him. Lips moving soundlessly in time with the verses he knew by heart as the first peals of gunfire echoed down the tunnel like the tolling of a bell – final and tepid in the murky city air.

Stick taught him a lot about himself, about the world. How to fight. How to focus his gifts. How to win when he was outnumbered. How to survive in a world meant for those who could see. Hell, he'd even taught him the taste of disappointment and betrayal when it had curled across his tongue the day the man left.

He never had learned the blade.

Never tried to now that he thought about it.

But one thing Stick taught him by accident was that there was so much more to it than just the marks. The marks were just the part you could see. Having a bonded, a soulmate was something that made a mark under your skin just as much as it did over it.

The world Stick taught him how to access was vast and barely tangible. Where the first rule of thumb was that he knew shit and always would. And as long as he remembered that he wouldn't live in disappointment. Stick had hated that. Hated his mark. He'd never asked about it. Just drilled the mantra of weakness and emotional decay into him again and again. Telling him he was better off if his one never found him. That he might as well sign his soulmate's death warrant right here and now if he thought he could exist in both worlds. His Father's and Stick's.

He'd set his chin in defiance at that. Blurting out that his soulmate would fight with him. That they could work together. They were meant to be together, weren't they? So they would understand, they had to!? They would be strong. Just like him. But Stick had just laughed and slapped him across the chest with his cane so hard his chest ached for weeks. Reminding him, every time he breathed of his mentor's derision. And the sneering lilt that entered his voice anytime the man caught him tracing the words on his arm he could no longer see.

His father had taken him to a man once, before the accident. A man with a big beard, kind eyes and a rolling bear-like laugh that frightened him the first time he heard it. But like all things that seem to be the opposite than they appear, he'd pulled his father into a burly hug and leaned down to greet him. Massive paw ruffling through his hair as he led him into the kitchen for his wife – a lovely woman who plied him with a towering bowl of Pelmeni – to dote on. Soaking up her lilting songs as she hummed happily, apron flapping around her like the leading swirl of an expensive dress as the man and his father clinked beer bottles and talked excitedly about an upcoming match.

But the big man had sobered almost instantly when he'd seen it. Eyes misting – watery around the edges like he noticed his Dad's did sometimes when he was stitching him up after a fight. He rolled up the rest of his sleeve, nodding as he silently read each line. It wasn't until he'd written out the translation on a piece of paper that he spoke it aloud. First in Russian. Then in English. But it was the Russian words that made him shiver, like he was suddenly too small for his own skin as each syllable met open air. Electric with the knowledge that someday his one would sing the same lines. And that somehow, they would be the most important words they'd ever say to him.

It was only after a long silence that the man told him what it meant. Told him about the song his father used to sing many years ago. About a tank crew, still loyal to their fallen Captain as they carried his body home through the vast winter wastes. None of them with hair enough on their chins to be called men, but men forged through deed and valor nonetheless.

He left more confused then he'd been when they'd arrived. He thought that once he found out what his mark said, everything would make sense. Instead, he had more questions than answers. He knew his dad was frustrated too, judging by how much scotch was left in the bottle in the morning. They didn't talk much about it after that. There wasn't any point. The cards had already been played. It was up to fate to decide how they fell.

Then the accident happened.

And the sight of that stark, clumsy script was lost to him forever.

He was out of options and running on empty when he made the decision to drag the Russian back to his apartment. It was a bad idea with even worse connotations behind it, but he did it anyway. He lied to get Claire to come and showed her his arm to get her to stay. Hearing the angry betrayal in her voice simmer down to brimming resentment when he explained. When he told her what had happened in the tunnels. Knowing how it sounded. How it must have looked as his sightless eyes blinked away an unexpected sheen. Realizing that regardless of what Vladimir had done, regardless of who he was – he'd almost lost him.

His soulmate.

It was a very strange feeling. Caring for someone who was literally a blight on the city he risked his life to protect. Connecting with someone who had – apparently – known what they were to each other and chose to walk headfirst into a firefight he knew he couldn't win just to give him time to escape. He tried not to think about it. But repression only got you so far when said asshole was a slumped dead weight on his couch and whose scent had already started to smell like home.

Vladimir slept for almost a week straight, pissing into a bedpan and attached to what felt like – when he had a moment to untangle the drips – at least three different IVs. IVs that Claire replaced every day before and after her shift. Making angry noises whenever she checked the unconscious man's dressings or forced him to blink himself awake long enough to jam some food down his throat and check his vitals. Serenely ignoring the odd string of belligerent Russian that made its way through the haze of drugs and exhaustion as she poked and prodded him around. Muttering about stubborn assholes and people that didn't know how to quit before they were dead – but eventually sounding less scathing about it by the day

A week ago that probably would have worried him. Nowadays he had no idea what he was feeling. What he should be feeling. All he knew was that sometimes Vladimir would blink himself awake and just stare at him. Crooked fingers fanning out into open air until he gave in and held them in his own. Soothed soul deep by the light slur of Russian that would inevitably leave the man's lips. Gripping him fiercely, like by sheer will alone the man could make him stay. Demanding his attention with childish juts of his chin until the siren call of sleep called him back, and he was lolling on the lumpy pillows. A small, uncertain smile tugging at the corner of his lips every time he got up the courage to trace it with his fingers.

Some people would say that was reason enough to accept the status quo.

But then again, most people's soulmates weren't Vladimir Ranskahov.

A/N: Thank you for reading, please let me know what you think. – There will be more to come, stay tuned.

Reference:

*"Chto ya ne zasluzhil etogo?" – "What have I done to deserve this?"

*English translation of a Russian song from World War 2, which was what Vladimir was singing when he started down the tunnel towards Fisk's men as Matt escaped before the gunfire started.

*Pelmeni is a mainly Russian dish usually made with minced meat filling, wrapped in thin dough (made out of flour and eggs, sometimes with milk or water added). For filling, pork, lamb, beef, or any other kind of meat can be used; mixing several kinds is popular. Traditionally, various spices, such as pepper, onions, and garlic, are mixed into the filling.