Summary: It doesn't matter how many times you fall – what matters most is how many times you get back up. Steve Rogers knew this lesson far too well and it was one Matt Murdock had endured all his life. With both men at their lowest, could a chance friendship bring each of them to their feet again?

Author's notes: I was hit with the idea for this story early in the summer and it consumed many of my nights. I have no idea how often this premise has been tackled in the fandom, but I hope it's an interesting exploration of both characters.

This story is complete and I will post all the chapters this week.

Thank you so much to my beta Amanda for her constant encouragement, suggestions, and for being an overall awesome person. You rock and I could not have written this without your help. I also wanted to give a special thanks to Amy for being a constant sounding board.

Steve wore a baseball cap most days. It was a throwback from his youth when he cheered for sports teams who charged twenty five cents a ticket, now used out of a need for anonymity. It worked for those random moments on the streets, walking past people with his head down, never giving direct eye contact whenever possible. He wasn't a spy like Natasha; Steve couldn't blend into a crowd, not when his image had been plastered on everything from bed sheets to cereal boxes. But he'd always found a way to manage and, now that he was a fugitive, it was a necessity.

He was lucky that most published pictures of him were in his mask and uniform.

Not that most people who recognized him did much more than ask for an autograph or picture with their cell phones. While the debate about enhanced superheroes still raged in the media, either it didn't register to the average citizen that he was a criminal, or they didn't care. Mostly, they tried to offer him food or a place to stay, even a beer.

On the occasion he noticed someone look at him in suspicion, Steve would find a place to duck inside then exit out from another direction. He did his best to avoid security feeds and law enforcement which felt wrong with every fiber of his being. He kept communication with his network of allies to a minimum, at once silently acknowledging and ignoring the impact his reclusiveness would have on Sam, and did whatever it took to keep a low profile.

After spending some time in Wakanda he started to feel useless, for the first time in years Steve was a man without a team or a direction in life. He felt empty inside, stagnant, unsure of his next steps and unable to do anything to help Bucky.

Hiding was never his style.

So, he decided to return to the States; to avoid detection he made his base of operations in Hell's Kitchen. If hanging out with a bunch of spies had taught him anything, it was to hide in plain sight.

Still, he longed for normalcy, just for an hour or two, even though he didn't quite know what that was anymore. It used to be playing cards while listening to Glen Miller, leading a platoon into Nazi territory, or strategizing against terrorist operations in Avengers Tower. But now….

What he'd give to eat a hamburger and simply chat with friends – if he had those anymore.

Steve sighed, shaking himself out of his sorrow, and continued his late-night walk toward the darkened gym on the outskirts of the city. Fogwell's was aging and derelict; he couldn't help a small laugh under his breath at the irony.

"This should work."

He'd make sure to thank Natasha for the suggestion and for speaking to her contact on Steve's behalf so he could use it at night.

Steve swung open the door, the hinges creaky and loud. He was hit by the smell right away: mildew, body odor, and violence were ripe in the air. The walls were a dark green and every few steps there were old, framed posters for fights featuring long-forgotten names of boxers from the past.

Steve realized with a pang he missed places like this: a gym lost in time, like him. Bucky had brought him to Goldie's Boxing Gym to train before enlisting and while Steve hadn't spent much time punching a bag during the war, he'd sought solace in places like these after being rescued from the ice. Long nights spent with a heavy bag, rare hours lost in the motion instead of drowning in memories.

In a way, boxing reminded him of home: a time when moral convictions were black and white, when things were simple, but mostly, boxing provided focus and a physical outlet. He walked toward the back, pausing when he heard the familiar sounds of fists against leather.

"By the way, if you run into another guy in the middle of the night, don't worry about him," Nat had told him. "Larry said one of the neighborhood regulars, Murdock, uses the equipment and apparently he's picky about privacy, too."

Steve stood in the shadows, hesitant, watching as another man beat a heavy bag.

Murdock stopped pummeling the bag for a moment, his rapid breaths loud in the quiet gym. He gave Steve the briefest of acknowledgments, a quick nod before continuing his workout.

Weighing his options, Steve moved toward a bench, setting down his duffle bag. He kept a cautious eye on his companion while he removed his tools: scissors, gauze and tape. Steve wanted to lie low, but Murdock didn't seem to care, and technically, Steve was a guest here.

Steve started wrapping his hands, beginning with the left wrist, twisting the gauze around the thumb, inside the fingers. He watched Murdock practice an array of punches, noting he was using a maize bag, one filled with corn. Prolonged sessions could damage your hands; Murdock must be an experienced boxer.

Steve rolled his shoulders then his neck, stretched his arms behind his shoulder blades to warm up the muscles. When he felt ready, he started with a speed bag, the bag snapping back and forth with every punch. It wasn't about developing strength; it was all about hand-eye coordination, rhythm and speed.

Steve strung a bunch of punches together, all connecting dead-on, the sound and feeling in his bones satisfying. Using the speed bag could really be hit and miss on some days, but tonight, his muscles were working properly and he had a good tempo going, pounding the crap out of the small, leather bag.

It was zen.

That was, until Steve got into it a little too much, losing himself in keeping his hands in constant motion and the bag went flying off the hinges, landing with a thunk at the other end of the room. Great. He was already drawing unwanted attention to himself. Wiping the sweat from his forehead, Steve looked behind his shoulder to see if Murdock had witnessed it, only to realize he was standing in the gym all alone.

Steve enjoyed the ritual aspects of boxing. Wrapping your hands was governed by rules and regulations, done quickly and efficiently, it was a simple art form. As Steve taped the knuckle pad, he heard the front door of the gym open up, preceded by an odd tap, tap, tap sound.

He glanced over as Murdock walked inside; he was dressed in grey sweat pants and a black t-shirt, a duffel bag slung over his shoulder. It was the first time Steve actually was able to get a good look at him. Murdock was in his late twenties, lean muscled, and he used a red tipped cane and wore dark tinted sunglasses.

Huh, he was blind.

Murdock stopped in front of where Steve sat on the bench; there was an uptight weariness about him. Steve had seen posture like his before and new it could just as easily been from lack of sleep as from something else.

"Do you need to use the heavy bag tonight?"

The question caught Steve off guard and he glanced at the two large ones hanging from the ceiling in the far back. "Yeah. Is that okay?"

"Actually, the left one's pretty dead." Murdock quirked his lips into a smile as if amused by something. "It took too many beatings. It's getting replaced at the end of the week, but the right one is still in good condition. Maybe try that one?"

"Are you sure?" Steve didn't want to mess with anyone's routine.

"I'll use the wall bag."

Steve looked over at a flat red bag attached to the wall; it had an overhanging thick ledge at the top of it. "Is that good for uppercuts?" Murdock raised an eyebrow at him in question. "I, um…like to box, but I'm not an expert with all the equipment."

Steve was proficient in many fighting techniques, it came naturally thanks to the serum, but it didn't mean he was versed in all the tools.

"A wall bag like that one can help work with angles and sharp changes of your feet." Murdock relaxed while he spoke, the tension in his shoulders easing. "Since the bag doesn't shift it forces you to incorporate a lot of movement from side to side; otherwise it's pointless since it's an immobile target."

"Nice. I might practice on that later."

"Sounds good," Murdock said and made his way toward the back, swinging his cane in quick arcs on the floor.

Steve finished taping up his hands and headed toward the heavy bag. Hopefully he wouldn't break this one and raise suspicion with his companion. It was actually nice to have a normal conversation with another person - even if it only was for a few minutes.

The days morphed into one another. Steve walked around the city at night, memorizing roads and alleyways, scoping out various possible escape routes. For the first couple of weeks, he just went through the motions, knowing deep down inside that such stagnation was a sign of melancholy.

But the days he went to the gym was something he looked forward to, and for the first time since he'd started going, Steve actually engaged in a conversation with his nightly companion during a break.

"Are you serious?" Steve asked as he chugged some water. He'd spend a good hour in a zone, working every inch of the new heavy bag, breaking it in without destroying it. "You think the brand of a glove really matters?"

Murdock sat on the other end of the bench, his shirt soaked with sweat from his own relentless exertion, fingers taping against his cane, his fidgetiness telegraphing a much deeper sense of restlessness. "Every brand type distributes the weight across the boxing glove differently. Some offer more protection for your fist, others more protection for your wrist. A 14 ounce glove from Grant or Ringside offers far more padding and protection than a 16 ounce glove from a crap generic company like Century or TKO." He took a long drink from his water bottle. "And always make sure your gloves fit right with your hand wraps on."

Steve laughed at a memory of Bucky ranting and raving one night after training about hand-wraps. Murdock looked over at him in curiosity; it was intriguing how much emotion Steve could read in his expression despite those red glasses. "My friend, he used to get really worked up about coaches who insisted boxers practice the perfect hand-wrapping technique."

Murdock nodded his head in agreement chuckling to himself. "Let me guess, they insisted if you wrapped everything just iright/i it could help guarantee a knockout?"

"Exactly! There were these ringside artists, 'hand wrap masters,' Buck called them. They'd go to these kids and charge them a nickel to wrap up their hands for them." Steve shook his head at the memory. "It was all snake oil."

"Snake oil?" Murdock laughed, seemingly amused by the lingo.

"Yeah, there's no magic wrap technique," Steve said with a roll of his eyes. "If you do the basics and do them right, that's all you need."

"That sounds really…."

"Really what?" Steve challenged and caught himself too late. Murdock wasn't one of the Avengers, he wasn't aware of Steve's true age. He didn't know him at all.

"Snake oil is an unusual colloquialism. Not that there isn't any wrong with that." Murdock smiled, his grin fading when he stared at the floor in thought. "My old man would have agreed with you; the only special hand-wrapping that went on took place behind closed doors."

The kind involving wetting the gauze or even worse, adding cement between layers. "Cheating ruins the integrity of the sport," Steve growled.

Murdock batted the handle of his cane between his hands while he spoke. "Not to mention it's attempted murder."

It was Steve's turn to look over at Murdock, inquisitive at his choice of words, curious what Murdock did in the real world when he wasn't beating up leather bags at three in the morning. But a selfish part of Steve didn't want to give up his little slice of ordinary, two guys shooting the breeze, not worried about things like U.N. resolutions or how to keep the world safe from future global threats like alien invasions when he couldn't even walk down the street in broad daylight.

Steve read novels, hard covers, and lately, a few textbooks on military strategy used in the Vietnam War. During the day he'd study law and try to wrap his head around the Accords and any loopholes that could be exploited in the future. It would take an entire legal firm to take on the task of finding weakness in the resolutions, but then someone needed to hire one. Maybe Steve could find a way to it covertly, or maybe he should stop caring.

He watched movies, ones he got to choose without a vote, finding them entertaining for the most part; although he still preferred documentaries. But it helped keep his mind off the news about his ongoing status as a fugitive—as did his training regiments, although it was difficult to create complex routines while remaining incognito. Fogwell's fit the bill in the meantime.

Steve was on his two hundredth push-up when he noticed Murdock walk inside and go toward his usual spot in the back. Steve jumped to his feet and cleared his throat to signal he was there. "Hey, um. It's me."

Murdock stopped a few feet away from him, looking in Steve's general direction. "Hi." He rested his hands on cane and stood, as though waiting for something.

Realizing the awkwardness, Steve shook his head. "I'm Steve. I guess if we're going to be keeping the same hours for working out, we might as well each have a name to a face." Murdock smirked and Steve grimaced at his poor choice of words. "I mean, well…"

"I'm Matt, and it's nice to have a name to the voice, Steve."

Steve smiled at the nonchalant way Matt took the whole fudged exchange before noticing the heavy bruise along his face. "What happened to your jaw?"

Matt touched the bruise. "Oh. That's what happens when one of you co-workers leaves your office door ajar after you close it." He shrugged. "I didn't notice until it was too late."

"That sounds inconsiderate of them."

"It's a new job, we're still getting used to each other."

"You must keep late hours," Steve said unable to keep his curiosity at bay.

"I wish," Murdock said with good humor. "I work at a community outreach providing legal aid."

"You're a lawyer?" That would explain the formal way Matt spoke all the time.

"Yeah, but don't hold it against me."

Matt had charm and charisma; it worked well for him. It was hard not to admire someone who could charge rich people a thousand dollars an hour for their time, yet chose to contribute to his neighborhood instead.

"Helping others sounds like something we should all aspire to do," Steve said with full sincerity.

It was obvious that Matt didn't take praise well by the way he looked away for a moment before returning his attention back to Steve. "And you?"

Steve was caught off-guard by the question, although it was par for the conversation. "I'm in between jobs at the moment."

"Well, if you need some help, I could always pass along your resume to one of my job counselors."

"Thanks for the offer, but I'm…I'm not looking for anything right now."

The ease in which he lied bothered Steve, but then the casual deflection in Matt's tone told him the other man wasn't totally forthcoming about himself either. They were two guys who paid to use an aging boxing gym after hours when there was a twenty-four-seven fitness center a few blocks away. Instinct told him to be suspicious, but Steve was weary of second-guessing himself.

"You okay, Steve?" Matt asked.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to space off like that."

"I think we both have a lot on or mind. That's why we come here."

"Yeah." It dawned on Steve then how much he'd come to enjoy his nocturnal workouts. Not to mention the conversations in between.

Without another word, Matt continued his way toward the red heavy bag and Steve figured he had another eight hundred push-ups in him for the night. And because Matt wouldn't be able to see him, Steve could get away with doing more if he wanted to.

Steve always migrated toward the bench in front of the boxing ring to take a breather in the middle of his nightly session. It was one of the few places to sit down, but usually, he'd go there when it looked like Matt was slowing down and about to take a break. On occasion, they would both remain silent, lost in contemplation, although Steve often wondered what Matt was listening to when he'd tilt his head and focus with such intensity.

More often than not, they would engage in idle conversation and as the days and weeks passed, they veered into deeper topics, the discussions lasting longer.

Sometimes, Steve got the impression that Matt felt as alone in the world as he did.

It was four in the morning; a heavy downpour pelted against the metal roof, the rain overflowing one of the gutters by the sound of things. Matt sat with his elbows on his knees, face scrunched up behind his glasses as if in deep concentration.

The man's posture and expression was closed off, yet for an inexplicable reason, Steve found a need to talk. "Why do you love it so much?" he asked.

Matt lifted up his head in surprise, the immediate frown softening as comprehension dawned. Steve wondered what Matt had thought he'd asked him at first.

Matt removed his glasses; Steve was surprised at the haunted expression that lingered in the man's sightless eyes. He'd seen that look before, in the eyes of men who had seen the darkness inside others, inside the world, and still struggled with it. Had he always been blind, Steve wondered?

"Boxing can provide a way to deal with our fears," Matt said after a beat. "And with the right supervision; it can be done in very manageable increments."

"Like the first time getting in the ring." Steve remembered that fear, and Bucky encouraging him as he struggled with climbing over the ropes for the first time.

"That's a part of it," Matt agreed. "The ring is the formal place for competition and practice, but it's more about the progression of the journey. Usually in the first sparring session, a rookie will forget everything they've learned and just flail away."

Steve nodded then remembered that Matt couldn't see it. "Right, because they haven't learned the mental component yet."

"Exactly. If they stick with it for a few months, their fears diminish and they begin to see things in the ring that their emotions blinded them to before. They become more at home with feeling afraid." Matt paused, working his jaw, slipping his glasses back on. "Fear's painful, but it can be faced, and in time a boxer learns not to panic about the blows that'll be coming."

"With experience they build courage." Steve tried imagining what it would be like to navigate the world without sight and the fortitude that would require.

"Courage is the mean between foolhardiness and cowardice," Matt quoted.

Steve remembered reading that line during one of his late night studies. "Aristotle?"

"He said courage is a matter of exercising the right action through the use of reason - thus, it's courageous to run at times or take action at times." Matt's lips were pensive, his voice an octave lower as if sharing a deep secret. "Aristotle may have defined the word courage, but boxing enables us to have and use it." He looked over at Steve, his gaze a bit off. "When we get into the ring with our fears, we're less likely to succumb to them when doing the right thing demands taking a hit."

Matt's line of reasoning worried Steve a little: not everything had to resort to violence. "There's a difference between physical and moral courage," he reminded him.

"And I agree. The willingness to endure physical risks is not enough to guarantee worthiness; but I think it can contribute to the development of moral virtue." Matt cleared his throat, seeming a little embarrassed at the passion of his argument. He laughed, looking chagrined. "I must really sound like a lawyer now."

Steve held up his pointer and thumb close together. "Just a little bit," he said with a smile, feeling a better about the change in Matt's tone.

"What about you? What is it about boxing that you admire?" Matt relaxed, resting the back of his head against the wall. "And don't dodge the subject; no one beats a heavy bag with such ferocity and focus like you do unless there's more to it than a way to release stress in the middle of the night."

Steve bit his lip as he was hit hard with the memory of being skinny and frail, of the sounds of snickering behind his back, at the cruel words that hurt far more than being hit and thrown down to the ground. He remembered following Bucky's instructions in the ring, about using his speed and agility, the importance of ducking and weaving, of digging deep down inside to last long enough until his opponent made a mistake.

Steve's heart beat faster. "Boxing is about rising from the canvas when you're knocked down, holding on when you're being pummeled in the corner, and surviving to fight another day. It's fighting with everything you have, all your heart, and all your skill and ability, and then embracing your opponent when it's all over because he's done the same."

He took a deep breath against the ache behind his breastbone, years of long-buried feelings pouring out, raw and unfiltered. "In boxing you battle yourself and the hand that you were dealt from the day you were born. You battle critics and those who tell you that you'll never make it. You battle your size, your intelligence, your speed, your age, and most importantly, your will."

Growing up the 1930's, Steve remembered how people struggled to pay for bread and meat, his neighbors willing to take any odd job that came their way.

"I think it demonstrates passion and sacrifice, a sport for those who come from nothing and risk their lives to support their families and prove to the world that they exist. It's an opportunity to achieve something great for those who might have no other way." Steve swallowed against the uncharacteristic wave of grief ignited by ghosts from his long-ago past, of Bucky standing up against those who bullied Steve during the day, then spending hours at night teaching Steve to do it for himself. "It's the chance to become a hero, for those who otherwise have no one or nothing to root for."

When the wave of emotion finished crashing into him, Steve wiped a hand over his face, cursing at himself for losing himself in the past and doing so in front of another person. Taking a few deep breathes; he waited for the adrenaline rush to fade, so he could collect himself and apologize to Matt for the meltdown.

Except when he finally looked over, Matt's head was bowed and his shoulders shook. It wasn't until he searched Matt's face for signs of pain that Steve noticed the wet stains down his cheeks.

Steve reached over and touched Matt's arm, tentative. "Hey, are you all right?"

Matt jerked away from the touch and stood up. "Yeah, I'm…I have to go."

Steve was unprepared for the swiftness in which Matt grabbed his duffle from the floor and unfolded his cane, his body already retreating before Steve could gather his wits. His first instinct was to go after him, but Steve was caught between his desire to help and respect for Matt's need for privacy.

He watched Matt navigate his way toward the front door with impressive speed, his cane barely brushing the floor. But Steve couldn't risk Matt rushing out late at night while he was distracted and upset. Steve raced through the gym, yanking open the door and rushing outside, only to find an empty sidewalk.

Checking both sides of the street, he jogged around, searching the alleyways and surrounding buildings, but Matt wasn't anywhere in sight. He listened for the noise of his tapping cane, his serum-enhanced hearing able to stretch for blocks. Nothing. Steve had no idea how Matt could have disappeared like that without a sign of a taxi. The subway was down the street, so it was possible he'd taken it home when Steve was searching in the opposite direction.

Steve was at a loss, he wanted to apologize, but he was unsure what happened. Maybe he could do some research into Matt, find out what had triggered the reaction? Or course that was something that only people like Clint or Natasha would do, most definably Tony, but Steve couldn't reach out to any of them, not that he should.

Damn it, he wasn't supposed to be attracting attention upon himself, not making friends with people, let alone contemplating researching their backgrounds out of worry.

Seeing a patrol car turn onto the street, Steve had no choice but to go back into the gym to grab his stuff and leave, his guilt festering with every step.

It took Steve much longer to persuade himself to begin researching Matt than it did Google to retrieve the results. He sat in the corner of a library and sipped coffee while he searched.

The internet was filled with articles regarding Nelson and Murdock, the two law partners responsible for the Department of Justice indictment against crime lord Wilson Fisk. Steve remembered reading that as part of a daily SHIELD briefing. People were impressed someone of Fisk's stature had been brought down by civilians; Steve was even more awed given the lack of resources and the young age of the lawyers, but he'd never paid attention to their names.

Steve's respect for Matt grew exponentially.

The most recent search results were focused on a high-profile trial defending a mass murderer; Steve remembered reading about that as well. They called the guy "The Punisher". He hadn't been in New York at the time, but Frank Castle had made it into SHEILD's files and onto their radar. After absorbing the information about Fisk, Steve was perplexed as to why Matt had served for Castle's defense.

There wasn't anything really new after that; a few ads for the fledgling firm, then a blurb from a couple of months ago about Foggy Nelson making partner at another practice. Steve wondered what had caused the partnership to dissolve.

But it was Matt Murdock's past that yielded the most search results. Steve's instincts had been right; Matt had not been born blind. In fact, it appeared he'd sacrificed his vision while saving a civilian. Steve scrolled on, grinding his jaw as the search painted a sad and grisly picture.

The murder of a local sports legend provided even more headlines in various degrees of respect and tabloid thrash.

"Battlin' Jack Murdock," he read out loud, feeling like an insensitive jerk. Matt's dad had been gun downed, leaving Matt an orphan.

Even though Steve didn't need to read anymore, he felt obligated to find out the rest of Matt's story.

It was earlier than usual in the evening which meant more people were out on the street; Steve kept the hood of his jacket up as he quickly entered Fogwell's. The gym didn't remain open past nine at night, mainly because there weren't enough employees running the place and even fewer patrons. While the upkeep of a gym's equipment should be a priority, there simply wasn't enough cash flow for such care.

It was part of its charm, Steve thought with a smile.

He headed toward the red heavy bag in the back that was supposed to have been replaced almost two months ago. It was Matt's favorite; he always used it whenever Steve saw him, making him wonder if there was something sentimental about it. During the last few nights, Matt had walked past it and used the one further in the corner.

Walking up to the red bag, Steve gave it a token punch, noting how little resistance it returned. After a quick examination, he noticed a couple small tears in the soft leather. That would kill a bag, he knew.

He'd suspected as much, which was why he'd come prepared. Digging through his duffel, Steve pulled out some scissors, fishing line, and a thick needle and started stitching up the tears. It was tedious working through tough leather, but Steve sealed the holes then used strips of duct tape to protect them.

Once he was done, Steve tested the bag with his bare knuckles, pleased that it gave back the proper tension. By the time he packed-up his stuff and began his routine with the sped bag, he noticed Matt had arrived, dressed in black sweats and sweatshirt, a butterfly bandage over his right eye. Steve couldn't help but wonder if the injury was another work accident or from something else, filing it away for later.

Matt paused momentarily at the entrance before dropping off his stuff on the nearest bench and walking over. "Hey." He fidgeted with the handle of his cane, obviously struggling with his words.

"Hey, I um, fixed that heavy bag," Steve said by way of greeting. "You were right; it was really beat."

Matt raised his eyebrows; it was hard to tell if it was in surprised relief or in bemusement at the way Steve handled the uncomfortable situation. Either way, he walked toward the bag and ran his fingers over the tape.

"Thank you."

"I sewed up the rips. It should hold up for a few more months."

"That's good; it'll probably take Joe that long to find the funds to replace it."

"How about we test it out?" Steve said. "See if I actually knew what I was doing."

"Sure."

Matt folded-up his cane and he set it and his glasses on the bench with the rest of his stuff. Shedding his sweatshirt, he taped his hands with impressive speed. "You ready?"

Steve grabbed the bag to keep it steady, bracing his weight with a slight bend to his knees. "Go for it."

Matt was a pro, calm, working his punches; he threw combinations, putting a little pop here and there…but mostly, he was serene.

From their conversations—and from watching him over the past several weeks—Steve knew that Matt was all about technique and rhythm, maintaining a steady flow on the bag, his punches small and hands at chest level. Steve hung onto to the bag, able to keep it steady much longer than most people, allowing Matt to reach a meditative training state.

Steve could almost hear the tranquility of Matt's mind as he breathed through his routine.

The silence of the empty gym was broken only by the sound of Matt's taped fists against the leather and his steady puffs of breath. It didn't occur to Steve that the quiet might actually be stretching thin until Matt stepped away from the bag, bouncing on the balls of his feet.

"You could yell something if you wanted," the slighter man grunted, a smirk to his voice. "I don't need to see you."

Steve snorted, feeling put in place. "All right."

It's been a while since he'd been in a position to motivate another person and Steve relished the idea of matching Matt's energy, and maybe catch a glimpse of him with his guard down. Steve had witnessed Matt unleash impressive power before, and one thing was for sure – he was holding back now.

Steve sat on the floor, his back against the ring, Matt on the bench, each enjoying a water break. Steve felt good, riding a wave of endorphins from acting as Matt's bag coach. He rolled his neck a few times to keep the muscles loose.

Matt gulped down the rest of his water, emptying the plastic bottle; he looked relaxed, thoughtful. Patting the space beside him until he found his glasses, he slipped them back on, and then looked in Steve's direction.

"I'm sorry about my reaction the other night. You're one of the few people I've ever met who understood the beauty of this sport and why it means so much to me. It…," he paused, clearing his throat. "It reminded me of someone."

Steve knew Matt was referring to his father, recognized the heartbreak in his voice, but he did not let on to the fact. Steve still hadn't allowed himself time to grieve for Peggy.

He also understood what it meant to be viewed as the underdog and fight for every inch of respect; going from an orphan to graduating first in his class at Columbia Law School was not unlike fighting his way into the Army in Steve's mind.

"You know maybe next time we could spar a little," Steve suggested, knowing he could pull his punches. Matt thinned his lips, pulling his head up as though hesitant, but Steve preempted any argument. "You might be a lawyer, but I think you missed a calling as a coach."

Matt grinned. "All right. Maybe next time we'll go a round or two. But I can't promise I'll teach you much."

Steve thought about all the decades that passed him by while he'd been under the ice and returned the grin. "I think I still have plenty to learn."

Steve still received updates from his underground network; Sam left intel in prearranged drop-areas outside of Hell's Kitchen with reports on major Hydra movement and an update on T'Challa's activities. The last set of intelligence had been a shoebox filled with notebooks (flash-drives could be tracked or loaded with viruses) including the latest military research deprogramming techniques for brainwashing.

Steve continued his own research at internet cafes so his searches couldn't be traced, but nothing he or Sam uncovered was extensive enough to help Bucky. There'd been a post-it note from Natasha that was simple and to the point. Find and talk to Banner.

But even if he could find Bruce, Steve couldn't risk exposure for either of them, not yet. Maybe never.

Steve still found himself going through the motions, sleeping, eating, and getting the required amount of exercise. He'd work his way through the next volume in A History of American Law and look up at the clock with no idea what time it was, or even what day.

It was difficult to avoid all the current news, but eventually Steve was no longer part of the headlines. Neither was the hunt for The Winter Solider or even a mention of anything to do with enhanced people with powers. Even Tony wasn't featured on the front page. There was the occasional mention of the local vigilante of Hell's Kitchen, but New York was full of them and Steve couldn't keep up with them all.

There'd been a SHIELD discussion about observing this particular one: Daredevil. A file had been created, but then things had heated up with Bruce and Tony playing with AI gods and things got re-prioritized.

What did dominate the papers was the opium epidemic, not a new flashy drug or pharmaceutical cocktail. Nothing ever changed, Steve thought, even Hitler used amphetamines.

Desperation brought desperation and while ODs were on the rise, so were muggings, robberies, assault and a rising gang war to control the supply and distribution. He squinted as he read the latest headline: Three Dead and Four Wounded in Drive-by.

It was the first time in the last couple of months that Steve wondered how he could just stand around in a hoodie and do nothing.

He shoved open the door to the gym, the need to punch something making him charge inside, and dump his stuff on his usual bench. He was breathing rapidly, his muscles twitching, fists curling involuntarily. Maybe he'd run a few hundred laps around the place first…

Steve stood over the red bag, the chain that had been holding it up broken in two pieces. He was pissed at himself, breaking something that he'd be so proud to repair.

Rubbing his sweat-drenched forehead with his forearm, Steve glanced around the empty gym. There were plenty of times when Steve had worked out alone, allowing him to go all out without needing to hide his abilities. But now….

He hadn't seen Matt in a week and he couldn't help thinking about sky-rocketing crime.

Steve replaced the chain the next night (thankfully he'd had the forethought to leave a note for Joe about his intentions to fix it) and started inspecting the rest of the equipment the night after that, repairing things that had been neglected far too long. The third ring rope at the bottom, the broken titles in the floor near the locker room, even the sink in the men's room.

On Monday morning, Steve grabbed the paper and read about a DEA raid of an abandoned warehouse that resulted in a major shoot-out that spilled into the neighboring apartment complex. While the bad guys had been caught with the aid of Daredevil, there had been over a dozen civilian and police officers injured. It had marked the second week in a row for non-stop drug violence.

Steve stared out the window of his apartment at people going about life blissfully unaware, or in sheer defiance of the danger surrounding them. A year ago Steve would have been on a mission, oblivious to such a crime wave; today he struggled with what, if anything, he could do about it.

That night marked the tenth day Steve had walked inside the gym without seeing Matt around. It was close to four in the morning and he thought about forgoing the work-out and staying up so he could call the community center in the morning to see if the other man had been at work, when he saw the object of his worry come through the backdoor.

Matt marched inside, chucking off his jacket, tossing it in the corner of the room without regard, his breathing harsh and rapid. Most people would back the hell away from someone so obviously angry, but Steve wasn't that person.

"Hey Matt, it's Steve."

Matt didn't startle at the sound of Steve's voice he just cast a weary look in his direction before dumping his duffle to the floor and pulling out the materials to tape-up his hands. It was hard not to notice the fading bruises on Matt's forearms and the fresh one on his cheek.

"I've been concerned about you," Steve told him.

"You shouldn't have," Matt said with a grunt.

"I've just been reading about all the recent drug violence and –"

"And figured a blind man couldn't avoid being a random victim of crime?"

Ouch. Steve grimaced. "I deserve that. I'm sorry. I have this bad habit about worrying over the well-being of my friends."

Matt froze at Steve's words and he clenched his jaw, the muscle there bouncing back and forth. "Fair enough." Standing, he stared at Steve through his red glasses as if sizing him up, his whole body radiating barely-restrained tension, as if he'd been wound-up for weeks without sleep. "You mentioned something about sparring last time. You up for that now?"

Steve nodded forgetting himself again, grateful for the accepted apology. "I think a few rounds would be a great source of stress release."

"Good. I'll even try to take it easy on you," Matt said with an undercurrent of sarcasm.

Steve walked over toward his stuff and called over his shoulder, "I'll be very disappointed if you actually do."

It'd been a while since Steve had worn gloves; when he'd sparred with the Avengers, he just taped-up his hands. The leather felt heavy around his fingers making them feel clumsy. Steve kept his hands up, chest level, circling the ring in a backwards step that felt oddly natural.

Matt was only a couple inches shorter than Steve, giving him a good reach. As Matt parroted Steve's movement around the ring, he cocked his head to one side and Steve realized with fascination that he was listening for movement.

Steve was an expert in hand to hand combat, judo, and boxing. His strength and reflexes were super-human, but he knew how to hold back in these types of situations.

After a minute of studying his opponent, Steve took the first punch, the motion sweeping wide, his posture telegraphing the attempted hit. Matt stepped away from it with ease and shot him an irritated, 'are you kidding me?' glower.

It was obvious Matt was keyed up, and not just from being in the ring. Anger radiated from him, in his bunched shoulders and clenched his jaw, the aggression rolling off him in waves.

"Are we going to just circle each other or are you going to take a real swing at me?" Matt challenged.

Not waiting for an answer, Matt opened up with a fast strike, pivoting off his front foot, testing Steve's guard. He continued striking with imposing speed, keeping Steve on the defensive but unable to make a solid connection.

Steve retaliated with straight jabs, aiming for the solar plexuses. Matt avoided his strikes with some remarkable foot work, and Steve returned to a defensive posture with his hands up.

It became clear rather quickly that Matt was a highly-trained fighter, and despite his blindness, could probably knock out a typical opponent on skill alone. But Steve was an enhanced solider; he remained cautious and would not allow himself to get sucked into Matt's emotions and injure him by accident.

"Do you want to talk about what's got you so pissed off?" Steve asked.

"No."

Matt followed his answer with a burst of energy. Using distracting techniques, he struck outside Steve's field of peripheral vision in an attempt to trick him into blocking high while he simultaneously threw a jab at Steve's ribs. Steve jumped back, avoiding both hits as he was forced into a corner turnbuckle, leaving him with nowhere to go.

He figured that must have been Matt's plan all along as he landed a punch to Steve's jaw. It was a glancing strike, but still retained a lot of power. Steve began to re-think his plan about remaining on the defensive.

Steve thumped the side of Matt's ear with a quick strike, forcing the other man to back off enough to give Steve room to maneuver into the center of the ring.

"Maybe you could tell me about those bruises on your arms or the cut from a couple weeks ago?"

Matt gave his head a shake and glared in Steve's direction, his eyes hitting just over Steve's shoulder.

"I know it's easy to dismiss," Matt's voice was a growl in between gasps for air, "but when people leave things on a flight of stairs, or move a piece of furniture, it can leave a mark when I run into it." Matt shifted his stance, fists up at his chin, eyes dropping to the right as something dark shifted in his expression. "But don't worry; it's the least of my problems."

Steve didn't buy it. Matt wasn't that clumsy, he was acutely aware of his surroundings. He had to be; it was his way of life. Not only that, Steve had seen it in the way the man moved through the gym, was seeing it now in the way Matt squared off against him in the ring.

"I think you're craftier than that," Steve countered. "Maybe you're sick of being pegged as helpless when you're far from it and you try to take on more than you can handle."

Steve was starting to suspect that Matt was simply too proud to admit he'd been mugged more than once, targeted because of his disability.

"Or maybe some people have lived in a make-believe world for so long that they've forgotten what it's like in the dirt with the rest of us," Matt snapped.

Before Steve could react to the surprise barb, Matt came at him like a freight train. He was powerful and agile, his gloved hands blurs of red. Steve's reflexes kicked in and he pivoted away from each swing, bouncing on his feet.

But Matt was fast, connecting a hit below Steve's eyebrow, then following up with a left cross, pivoting with his hip to shove power into an impressive double punch to the side of Steve's face. Okay that kind of hurt.

Matt didn't stop, picking up the pace with a furious combination of jabs. Steve bobbed and weaved out of the way and just when he thought he noticed a pattern, Matt changed-up the style of his next punch. His uppercut was powerful; a driving fist that struck under Steve's chin and Steve allowed his head to snap back as not to injure Matt's hand.

Matt went for the win, going for another powerful uppercut that exposed his right side. Steve dodged the punch and smacked Matt in the mouth, hitting him with a light thump instead of a devastating hit that could've broken his jaw.

"Stop taking it easy on me!" Matt growled.

Steve closed in on Matt, trying to crowd him, and cuff him on the nose. But Matt ducked under it, and then surprised Steve by shoving him hard to the side with his forearm and elbow. Steve had to keep himself from using Matt's own momentum to throw him out of the ring out of instinct.

Instead, he retreated into the corner, panting heavily. "What the hell were you talking about earlier?"

"Nothing." Matt shook his head once, then rotated his neck. "I've had a crappy week."

"Was that before or after someone hurt you?" Steve asked, staring at the blue and green defensive bruises on Matt's arms.

"It doesn't matter," Matt snapped, his lips pulling up in a near snarl. "What I do in my life is my business, and people need to accept that fact."

"Where is all this hostility coming from?"

Matt dropped his chin, lifting his hands so that his reply slapped against his gloves. "We're in a boxing ring. This is me managing my anger."

"Fair enough." If Matt was looking for a fight, Steve would give him one.

Steve lunged, striking high with his right fist. Matt knocked Steve's hand away at the wrist then stepped forward, his back foot pivoting as he slammed his own gloved fist into Steve's chest.

When Matt went for a right-cross, Steve slipped underneath it. Stepping sideways, head low, Steve swung his left fist around, driving it straight into Matt's ribs. Matt grunted, bending over from the strike and Steve decided to end this little match before he really hurt him.

Steve dropped his weight low and pivoted onto his back foot while thrusting his left arm and hip upwards. But Matt's hand came down and knocked Steve's arm sideways, his other fist slammed into Steve's nose.

Matt grabbed Steve by his shoulders and drove his knee toward Steve's stomach, but he stopped short as if changing his mind. Steve used the mistake to his advantage. He grabbed Matt's knee and pulled him off balance and knocked him down when he kicked the leg Matt was left standing on out from under him.

That was an aborted Muay Thai move; where the heck did Matt learn that?

Steve watched Matt roll over and scramble to his feet with impressive speed, head tilted to the side. He stood at the edge of the ring, sweat pouring down his face, a fresh bruise blossoming at the corner of his mouth, looking like he wanted to brawl until he dropped.

"Matt, who the hell are you pissed at? Me, or someone else?" Steve demanded.

"I'm pissed at…," Matt glared at Steve than shook his head in anger, yanking at the laces of his gloves with his teeth. "I'm pissed at the only person who deserves it."

"And who is that?" Steve pressed.

Chest heaving, Matt ripped off his gloves and tossed them to the ground. "Me."

It was after dawn when Steve walked out of the gym, duffle slung over his shoulder as he watched all the early risers. People hurried up and down own sidewalks, some ducking into coffee shops, or heading to the subway; others were dressed in sweats for an early morning jog. It was the hustle and bustle of everyday citizens starting their day, each with purpose, even if it was just to earn a paycheck.

It made Steve feel hollow.

He inhaled a long breath and held it for a few seconds, slowly releasing it, his thoughts like film clips in his mind.

Atop of the bridge of the hell carrier, exchanging blows with Bucky, furious leg strikes and fists, smashing his friend with the might of his shield. Bucky's vacant stare as he buried a knife into Steve's shoulder, Steve's regret when he bent Bucky's arm back until it snapped.

All that anger, all that confusion.

"You're James Bucky Barnes and you're my friend."

Buck had broken through it all, smashed apart that internal prison, only for Steve to put him back into another one. And despite all the resources of SHEILD and access to the most brilliant minds, Steve was, and continued to be, powerless to do anything to about it.

He'd failed as solider and even worse as a friend.

Steve turned his head and stared back at the aging gym, unable to forget Matt Murdock's face in the ring; the raw anger simmering just beneath the surface, and what's more, a familiar grief in the other man's eyes.

Steve recognized a person in pain when he saw one.

He remembered being in boot camp, working from dawn until night to serve his country, only to be sidelined over and over again. He wasn't that skinny kid anymore, yet he'd been forced aside again while bad things happened to people he gave a damn about.

And if Steve couldn't help the only friend he'd made in the last couple of months, then what good was he?

Steve needed recon. He was fairly certain even Natasha would qualify going to the community center where Matt worked as gathering intel. He'd called earlier posing as a receptionist for a doctor's office to verify an upcoming appointment, only to discover that Matt had called in sick for the day. After what he saw last night, this didn't surprise Steve, which is why he decided to canvas the place.

Wearing thick-rimmed glasses and baseball cap, he showed up at the reception desk and waited for the middle-aged woman to acknowledge him.

"May I help you?" She asked without looking up.

"I'm looking for Matt Murdock."

"He's not here today." She briefly made eye contact with him returning her focus back to her computer, her painted fingernails loud against the keyboard. "Did you have an appointment?"

"Um, no, I'm a friend of his and I was just dropping by."

The receptionist finally looked up at him and she scrunched-up her eyes in suspicion. "A friend of Mr. Murdock's?"

"Yeah, from Law School. "

"None of Mr. Murdock's friends have ever stopped by here before."

"Well, I was in the area and thought I'd take a chance and surprise him." The receptionist still eyed him in doubt. "You know how Matt can be. He tends to keep to himself."

"Yeah, he does. It's a shame, really. He's one the most courteous people I've worked with."

"Don't forget charming," Steve said, plastering on pleasant smile of his own.

She returned his grin, resting her fingers on the top of the counter. "He can be."

"You should have seen the effect he had on our professors." Steve laughed and she chuckled with him. Feeling like he'd built some flirtatious rapport, he continued with his questions. "What about Foggy, does he ever stop by?"

"Mr. Nelson? Um, no, and we don't mention his name anymore, it makes Mr. Murdock…prickly."

The law school friend and firm partner was now completely out of the equation and a sore subject. What had caused such a major rift?

"No phone calls from anyone else, either?" Steve asked.

"Not unless you count the people who want him to take their case. Despite the whole Frank Castle thing, he still has a rep from the Fisk indictment."

It sounded like Matt didn't have friends; then again, Matt never spoke about people during their chats. Between a day job and late-night sessions at the gym, it didn't seem like there was enough time for an active social life. It painted a very lonely and depressing picture.

With the lobby filling with more people, Steve decided to make his exit before he drew any unwanted attention to himself. "I'll just stop by another day, thanks for the help."

Grabbing a pen, the woman looked over at him. "I can't let you into his office, but I can leave him a note."

Steve didn't bother to ask her how Matt was supposed to read it.

The phone began ringing, two lines lit up at once, and Steve waved her away. "Don't worry; I'm sure I'll see him soon."

Steve didn't require much sleep; his biochemistry kept him at the highest levels of peak performance. It didn't take much to recover from day-to-day activities. He couldn't pace in his tiny apartment, so he went outside during the early evening, hoping a walk around the perimeter of Hell's Kitchen would keep his mind occupied. His body burned with too many endorphins.

The hitch-pitched scream of sirens pierced through the normal buzz of the city, followed by screeching car horns. Steve listened to the wail of several more alarms, police and emergency vehicles all racing through the city and from the sounds of things; it was near the new high rise going up on 4th and West.

It wasn't until he started jogging that he heard the rat-a-tat-tat of automatic gunfire; Steve kicked into high-gear and ran full-tilt toward the noise.

It took four minutes to arrive near the construction zone and smack -dab in the middle of the chaos. There were eight police cars parked haphazardly on both sides of the street. Steve counted four unconscious people on the sidewalk and three others sporting various injuries being cuffed and dragged toward patrol cars. There were two SUVs filled with dozens of bullet holes, a busted fire hydrant spewing out water, and a cargo van on fire.

"Sir! Move away for your own safety," someone yelled at him.

Steve spotted a broad-shouldered officer pointing at him and a second cop approaching him from the side. "Sir, please, for your own safety, you need to go." A female patrolman grabbed his arm and began escorting him away before he could say anything.

"What happened here?" Steve asked, obeying.

"Some gang-bangers fighting over turf."

"Is anyone hurt?" Steve's eyes scanned the bodies sprawled on the pavement.

"Only the bad guys."

There was a hotel across the street and several apartment buildings near-by. Given the range of most assault rifles and the number of rounds they could fire per second, it was a miracle there were not dozens of casualties.

Steve kept the brim of his ball cap over his face, avoiding eye contact. "Looks like you guys got here just in time to prevent things from spreading to the surrounding neighborhoods."

"Yeah, well the devil of Hell's Kitchen left them gift-wrapped for us."

Steve stopped for a moment upon hearing that bit of news. "Daredevil?"

The officer gave him a glare and he continued walking.

"Got a glimpse of him for the first time when I arrived. Dude's fast." Steve craned his neck to peer toward the east alley as he walked toward the safety zone being set up by the newly set-up barricades. "If you're really trying to find him, try looking up," she told him.

Confused, Steve stared at the rooftops in interest. "I'll keep that in mind."

Steve went to Fogwell's after leaving the police scene. He'd climbed up a few fire escapes and wandered around the rooftops of the city, finding a new perspective about his new home. He didn't spot the devil, not that he expected to.

It was late, after two in the morning, and Steve felt weary, a deep-seeded exhaustion from the very marrow of his bones. He didn't know what to make of his low-energy levels, especially given the fact he hadn't done anything physically taxing in months. Yet, it took effort just to force his feet to move inside. With a sigh, Steve walked toward the bench and stared at it, wondering if he should turn around and go back to his apartment or sleep.

"My dad won twenty-four times in the ring and lost thirty-one. He knew how to take a lot of punishment and how to deliver it." Matt walked from out of the shadows in the back corner, resting his cane in front of him. His hair looked damp from a shower and he was dressed in grey sweatshirt and dark track pants. "That's one thing about the ring: it's the most honest place to take a beating. But it's what you learn from that thumping that matters."

"And what's that?" Steve asked, watching the other man carefully.

"To know yourself. Know when you're off your game and recognize why."

"If I remember correctly, you were doing pretty well."

"I was angry, and I took it out on you." Matt tipped his head slightly, addressing the floor. "I'm sorry."

"Look," Steve sighed, ready to find some balance again, "we don't know each other very well, but I know what it's like to be the viewed as the underdog and having everyone in the world assuming you can't do certain things when you darn well can."

"Like avoiding being a victim of a mugging?"

Steve felt like he walked into that, but Matt wasn't playing fair considering all the evidence of his recent injuries. But before Steve could interject, Matt folded up his cane and sat heavily on the bench, his lips a flat line of discontent.

"I understand why you think that, though," Matt began, looking an inch off Steve's shoulder, his fingers curling and uncurling around the folded cane. "You've had some experiences of your own at being the underdog."

Steve felt a stab of unease in his chest while he kept his voice even. "What are you talking about?"

"I know who you are, Captain." Matt brought his chin up. "I've known almost since the first day."

The admission left Steve feeling like he had stepped on a landmine. He needed to sit down. He settled on leaning against the platform of the ring, near Matt. "You have?"

"I may be blind, but I make up for it in other ways. Not to mention," Matt's lips tipped up slightly in a small grin, "it's not every day you meet a guy named Steve who is currently unemployed, can do eight hundred push-ups in a night, and mixes up his lingo from time to time."

Steve had seen Matt's observation skills first-hand; he should have never underestimated them, but he still felt like he was crossing a potential minefield given the ramifications. "You're a lawyer."

"A defense attorney."

As if that made a difference? Steve wasn't in the mood to play games in semantics. "I'm a fugitive. Don't you a legal obligation to turn me in?"

"I prefer to turn in criminals," Matt said matter of fact.

"And you don't think I've broken the law?" Steve wasn't a legal expert, but he knew Matt was dancing around a very fine line and now he couldn't help wonder if it was because of some hidden motivation.

"I didn't say that," Matt tipped his head to the side, somehow communicating more with his body language than he did with his words, "but I do think there are some major issues with the legality of certain documents."

Steve considered Matt's carefully constructed sentence. "You're talking about the Accords?"

"I may have recently read them in detail. Could have even taken some notes."

"You took notes." Steve began wondering if Matt thought he was ticket to the big time again, another trial of the century. "Were you hoping to take me on as a client?"

Matt's head shot up at the bite in Steve's words, his expression hurt. "I was hoping," he paused, his hands curled tightly around his cane, "that maybe I could help out a friend."