A/N: I've been absent for a loooooong time. I've mostly posted DW stories over at Teaspoon, but I am back with a four-part fic for Marvel's Daredevil. I fell into the pit a few days ago, and well, stuff happened. First posted this on my tumblr account, but figured I could upload it here, too. Spoilers for episode 4, so proceed at your own risk! :)

Disclaimer: I own nothing, Jon Snow.

The sound echoes through her mind for hours afterwards. She's used to seeing damage inflicted on the human body, used to seeing carnage. One would think treating injuries dulls the senses. As it turns out, inflicting them is a whole different ballgame. She's never been particularly violent. Sure, there were a few cat fights in high school. Couple of slaps, a few scratches, lots and lots of curse words thrown around. Looked worse than it was.

Nothing like picking up a baseball bat and whacking a guy over the head.

It's instinct. He's trapped in a vise of pain. The bat's just lying there. Her feet move before she can even think, her still taped together hands picking it up, her body angling and then moving. Time stands still for a moment, the wooden club swinging through the air. She has time to wonder if this is what it's like to be Mike, hearing things that no one else could possibly hear. Wood through air. Wood connecting to organic tissue. Wood cracking something (she knows she should immediately know what, but she can't connect the dots).

And just like that, with a dull thud and the crunching of bones, she's snapped back to reality. The bat drops from her hands, and she falls to pieces. It's a combination of relief that it's all over and fear for what she has done. There's a scream trapped inside her, but it refuses to dislodge from her throat. Her feet stumble over each other, and all of a sudden, he's there. Strong arms embrace her, and she's tucked safely against the crook of his neck and that dark, ever-calm voice fills the small safe haven.

"It's okay."

It's two words. Two small, simple words, but they dislodge the scream, bursting from her lips in shrill sobs.

"I'm here. I have you."

He lets her go, only to cup her face, bringing their foreheads together. He's still wearing his mask, but she can almost imagine his features underneath it. Eyes closed, brows slightly furrowed in concentration. Like he's trying to transfer some sense of calm and comfort. It's over. Over the echoing sound of the bat hitting a head, she tells herself it's over, repeating it in hopes she will start to believe it.

She barely remembers being led outside, of being ushered through dark alleys and shady backstreets. It's over. It's over. When they stop, it takes her a few seconds to realize they've entered a building, an apartment, and she's been pushed down onto a stool. Mike exits a room to her left, carrying a small metal box, setting it down on the table next to her. She's more than a little amazed at the ease with which he moves around the apartment. If she didn't know him, she would never guess he couldn't see. His steps never falter, the way his fingers reach out to touch the table before setting down the box seems a natural gesture rather than a way to make sure he won't miss the mark.

His hand lightly touches her chin, tilting her head upwards. The mask is gone, and his eyes somehow find hers as he carefully pats her bloodied face with a wet cloth. She knows it's just luck. He can't actually see her, but this incidental eye contact, it calms her. There's a small smile, barely discernible, on his lips. It's like a promise, a deal between the two of them. She supposes this is a way for them to be even. She's been patching him up for a few weeks now. Tit for tat.

"This isn't gonna feel great."

He's cleaning up the nasty cut above her eyebrow, and she winces in pain. How many times has she done this, applied the same pressure, seen the same response in the faces of her patients? His fingers work nimbly over her forehead, carefully patting and applying the butterfly band aid. Mike tells her about his dad. Boxer, got knocked down a lot. He's had practice, he says.

"I'm sorry."

He feels guilty. His voice is even, he tries to be matter-of-fact, but she can tell. He feels this is his fault, and while she probably should let him stew in his angst, she can't let him take full credit. She could've ignored Santino when he came knocking on her door, frantic about a man in the dumpster out back. She's not really had worse, this will probably be the worst thing to happen to her for a long time, but he doesn't need to know that. Her attempts to alleviate his guilt doesn't bite (does it ever?). He's trying, of course he is, but to what end? He feels like he's not making a difference, no matter how many people he saves, he end up hurting just as many, or even more.

"Feel my heart."

She places his hand over her still wildly beating heart, the light pressure of his fingertips against her skin sending sparks flying through her.

"What does it tell you?"

"That' you're scared."

It's an understatement. This neighborhood that has been her home is now a threatening place, full of shadows that she will now shy away from. There are forces working in Hell's Kitchen that are way beyond its citizens. Tonight, as horrible as it was, showed her just how important this crazy man in front of her is. They need him.

"But you can do something about it. For all of us, Mike."

Something flashes across his face.

"Matthew."

He hesitates, and she's struck silent. Is he..?

"My name is Matthew."

The silence that follows is deafening. Tit for tat. He is risking a lot by telling her his name. Sure, she still doesn't know his last name, what he does when he is not a masked vigilante, but having his real name cements something in the strange friendship they have built. It's been an unbalanced friendship, in which she has known so little. But now, the man in front of her is more of a man and less of an enigma. Matthew, blind, courageous, reckless, in need of a moral compass. Her friend.

"Matthew," she repeats, breaking the silence, trying out the name.

"You can call me Matt," he offers, fiddling with his hands in a surprising display of nervousness.

"Matt."

"You must be exhausted. Go take a shower, I'll make the bed ready for you. You don't want the couch, trust me."

As if on cue, the huge billboard outside the window lights up, the flowing ad with the cherry flower dancing across the screen. She snickers, and gets up from the stool. Matt points toward the room where he got the first aid kit.It's over. She quickly showers, letting the hot water wash away the remaining blood and grime.

Matt is already on the couch when she exits, eyes closed (but something tells her he is not asleep at all). She pads across the room to the open bedroom, where the cover is neatly turned down with an old gray flannel t-shirt resting on top of the pillow. It's only for tonight, and he's her friend. She'll go back to her friend's place tomorrow, to make sure her friend's cat is still alive. If it's not too bad, she can probably stay there until she finds something new. Or possibly go back to her old place, if Matt deems it safe. The mental list of all she has to do tomorrow grows longer and longer. Gauze bandage. Antiseptic. Save whatever furniture that can be saved. Milk. Cat food. Allergy medicine. Suture, needles… Scratch that. A completely new first aid kit. Medical grade stuff. Matt's gonna need it, the way he keeps walking into danger on an almost daily basis.

"Matt?" she calls softly into the dusky apartment.

Outside, the ad flashes again.

"Yeah?"

"You really should consider that armor."

In the silence of the night, she can hear him snicker.

"I'll think about it."

A/N: Feel free to review and make me a happy lil' hobbit!