Because I hate myself for some reason, I decided to write from Matt's perspective. And I've never written from the POV of a blind character before, so it was weird, writing differently to show that. I can't describe color, or show action in the same way that I used to. Or I tried to. I don't think the fight scene is too much different than how I'd normally write it.

On a side note, I think Devil's Backbone by The Civil Wars is an excellent theme song for Matt Murdock. Check it out!

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Ex Aequo

"So you're telling me a cop attacked you?" Bruce asked as he threaded a needle through Amelia's skin.

She flinched. "Ow! A little warning next time, maybe?"

"That's what happens when you get shot." he reminded her, and got a dirty look for his trouble. Bruce had not been happy when she returned home with a bleeding arm and a story about a surprise attack in an alleyway. It seemed he couldn't have a week go by without something happening. "And you didn't answer my question."

"Yeah, a cop, Sudowski," Amelia muttered, clutching her wounded arm and doing her best not to move. Bruce didn't give her any sedatives (certainly not alcohol), since the gunshot was only a flesh wound. "I've seen him before."

"Where?"

"A few weeks ago. A drug bust. I thought he was there to, you know, arrest the dealers, but instead he let them go and shot at me," Amelia gestured to herself and laughed weakly. She was sitting on the kitchen counter so her wound would be eye-level with Bruce. "Stupid Amy for not realizing the trouble she'd get into, messing with corrupt cops, right?"

Bruce nodded, mostly to himself. He considered for a moment before saying, "Well, I'm glad you went to the police first. Better than trying to solve the problem yourself."

"Yeah, Captain Stacy said something like that, too."

He frowned, blinking up at her. "He knows?"

"No," Amelia returned the look, seeming a little bewildered herself. "At least, I don't think so. But I guess he knows my reputation at school now. Gwen tells him everything."

"And Gwen is...?" he said as he made another loop through the cut and tightened the string.

Amelia grimaced a little. "She's my best friend. And also Captain Stacy's daughter."

"I don't know how you know all these people," Bruce muttered, somehow not surprised that Amelia knew the chief of police. "Myself included."

"Must be my charming personality."

Bruce chuckled at that as he tied a knot at the end of the cut. It had only taken seven stitches, but Amelia looked tired, and the pinch between her brow hadn't left. Something else was bothering her, but he had no idea what it could be. "I'm surprised your demonic friend didn't try to save you."

"Yeah, I don't know. He wasn't there. I guess it's about time I got back on my feet, anyways," Amelia shrugged, jumping off the counter and wincing slightly. She rolled her shoulder, testing the arm. "Wow, that stings."

"I'd really appreciate it if you got into less trouble." Bruce sighed, standing back and crossing his arms. Amelia, luckily, didn't get hurt too often, but when she did...it tended to involve dangerous weapons.

"I didn't ask to get attacked," she shot back at him, scowling.

"No, I know, I know," Bruce shook his head before she could continue to misinterpret his meaning. Of course he didn't blame Amelia for getting hurt; but considering the type of activities she often partook in, she should've been more careful. "I just meant...you're walking on thin ice with these guys. One wrong step and they'll attack. You're not making it any better by showing them your face."

She actually smirked at that. "You saying I should go back to wearing a mask?"

"Absolutely not," Bruce was starting to think she did this sort of thing on purpose. "I just...I want you to be safe, that's all."

The smirk faded and for once the girl seemed humbled. Amelia glanced at the floor, screwing up her lips. "Yeah, yeah, I know. Like usual. Something else I have to work on."

OoOoO

Matt couldn't think.

He pressed a hand to his forehead, trying to parse through the influx of sensory information. Sounds echoed all around him, pulsating and sharp, sending little daggers into his mind and made it impossible to read the pages before him on the desk.

The past couple days had been pretty unpleasant, not the least of which what he witnessed in that alleyway. Amelia and the cops. Matt had just been on the other side of the street when he heard her little cry, echoing like a siren through the air.

By now, her voice had become familiar to Matt, and while he didn't intentionally follow her around during his patrols, Amelia had a strange tendency to always end up in the worst situations.

This had been one of them. Dirty cops had snuck up on her, grabbed her and pulled her into an alleyway. Matt had barely enough time to act, to race over and jump down...only to learn that he didn't need to.

Amelia had already taken care of the problem.

Matt couldn't see it, but he could hear it. Smell it. The sound of wind as her leg flew snapped through the air, the blood when she broke a nose. The thump when her fists made contact with her assailant's chest — the flex of muscles, crack of bones, intake of breath.

Her rapid heartbeat was the only thing faster than her reflexes. The second attacker had pulled a gun — Matt heard the clasp unlock, the barrel cocked, the trigger pulled, and the terrible bang that made him wince.

Matt had thought the worse that happened. But the bullet didn't tear through skin, scrape against bone, rip apart blood vessels...instead it merely grazed her, and Amelia grunted when she hit the wall.

And as if Matt hadn't been surprised enough, then Amelia had to do something truly bizarre.

An unseen force. Something he couldn't sense, something powerful and apparently generated out of nowhere.

It launched the second attacker ten feet away. Stronger than any girl. Stronger than any man.

Matt still wasn't sure what it was, days later when he had time to think about it. A part of him regretted for not reaching Amelia in time — but now he wondered if he should've confronted her directly after the fight. The girl ran out of there like her hair was on fire, and Matt had stayed behind to clean up her mess and make sure those cops didn't come back to haunt her.

He knew the experience bothered Amelia, too, or something did, because she was in the office right now, but not doing any work.

Even though she was in the next room, the sound of the clicking pen was so loud it could've been right next to his ear. To a normal person, it probably seemed innocuous, but for Matt it was like nails on a chalkboard. The sound invaded his thoughts and he couldn't push it out again.

Matt wasn't sure if he could just tell her to stop. Would that be weird? Matt was very careful that people didn't discover his unique ability or after-hours past time. Few, like Amelia, knew both of his personas, but hadn't yet put two and two together, which was what Matt preferred. If he gave away too much, would she figure it out? Amelia was hardly an idiot — Matt imagined half the reason she was still alive right now was of her sharp mind. You don't piss off the Rose and live long after by playing it easy.

Still, the clicking was incessant and insufferable. Matt considered himself a patient man, but even patient men had their limits. Getting up from his desk, Matt huffed and made for the door, cracking it open and saying, "Amy, is everything alright?"

Her heartbeat was even when she said, "Uh, yeah, why?"

Matt could hear the hard grating of her shoulder blade against her ribcage and knew it still hurt, but Amelia was good at hiding it. She had practice, of course, because Amelia was also one of the best liars he knew. Her heartbeat was almost always regular unless she was surprised or angry.

That's why he couldn't fathom what the problem really was. So Matt said, "You've been clicking that pen for ten minutes straight."

The clicking suddenly stopped, and Amelia's hair swished when she bowed her head. "Oh. Sorry. You could hear that?"

"I hear a lot of things in this office. The walls are pretty thin." A rueful smiled pulled on Matt's lips. There were papers on her lap that made crinkling, scratching noises against her jeans. Matt couldn't register anything printed in ink or in pixels, so he had no idea if that was homework or work-work. "You sound frustrated. We're not working you too hard, are we?"

"No, no, it's just Spanish homework," Amelia sighed with the typical exhaustion of a teenager studying a subject they knew nothing about. "I suck at conjugating verbs."

Matt was pretty sure this wasn't the real issue, but he couldn't necessarily call her out on it, when even her heartbeat wasn't helping him. Instead, he turned his head in Karen's direction, to the sound of her fingers typing, nails scraping lightly against the keys, and said, "Hey, Karen, don't you know Spanish?"

"Oh, uh," the woman jolted at the call of her name, laughing a little at herself. She stopped typing to tuck some hair behind her ear. "Yeah, a lot of my neighbors spoke Spanish when I was growing up. I can help, if you want?"

Matt could hear Amelia's knuckles cracked and strained as she flexed them, apparently hesitant. While her heartbeat didn't say much, her body language did; Amelia clenched her hands whenever she was trying to make a tough decision, although he wasn't sure what bothered her so much about this one.

"I-I suppose," she muttered. "But my Spanish is...très mal."

That made Karen laugh, light and tinkling, like wind chimes. "I guess so, because that's French."

"Oh, man..." Amelia groaned, the chair creaking as she hefted herself out and approached Karen's desk. She took the seat next to Karen, and papers crinkled as she slid them across the desk. "As you can see, I have no idea how future-perfect works..."

Matt stepped back into his office, but didn't close the door. Keeping his hand against the wall to help guide him back to his desk, he reached for his cane and jacket.

Then he was back out the door again, heading for the exit.

Karen paused in her explanation of verbs to Amelia to say, "Wait, Matt, where are you going?"

"I'm, uh, gonna call it in early for the night," he said with an easy smile, so neither of the girls got suspicious. He tended to keep odd hours anyways, so this wasn't necessarily new for him. "I'm not feeling that great."

"Oh, no," Karen's voice was sympathetic. "Well, I hope you feel better. I'll tell Foggy when he gets back from his coffee break, so he doesn't call you fifteen times like last time."

"I'd appreciate that, thanks."

As he closed the door behind him, he heard Amelia whisper, "Is it just me, or does he have a limp...?

Matt did indeed have a limp — he had landed wrong the other day, underestimated the height difference between two rooftops, and now his knee had been aching for days.

No one had said anything, as Matt had tried his best to hide it. But like Amelia and her shoulder, he slipped up sometimes. One time, she dropped a stack of papers because she pulled an injured tendon wrong, and then couldn't move her arm for the rest of the day. That time, her pain had been so prominent that even her breathing was affected; short and uneven.

It had been hard not to act to his fullest extent. Matt didn't know how she hurt her shoulder so bad — he knew it was from a weapon, a knife maybe. Literally backstabbed. It wasn't the type of blow you were supposed to live through. That's why Matt believed her when she said the Rose was after her.

Someone really wanted her dead.

Matt did his best to protect her, as he did for everyone else in this city. He was only mad that he hadn't been there for her that one time, right when she would've needed it most.

Unfortunately, Matt had a bigger problem at the moment.

He knew it was waiting for him at home, waiting since this morning. Matt decided not to deal with it then; maintaining a facade of normalcy was still important to him. Matt had friends and a job that needed him to show up on time, to act just right, to be the blind lawyer they believed him to be.

Wasn't his fault that Stick thought it was dumb.

The old man was sitting on the couch when Matt finally opened the door to his apartment. The door was still locked, at least, which meant Stick probably hadn't been anywhere.

"About damn time," Stick said as soon as Matt approached the door, not even waiting for him to get inside first. Not that Matt was surprised; they both knew Matt could hear him just fine.

'Old' wasn't really a good description for the man. Matt was pretty sure Stick was nearing his seventies now, but that man was as spry as he was in his prime. His frame was thin, tall, knobbly — Matt imagined he wasn't a very imposing figure to most people, but that's because they didn't know what Matt knew, didn't sense what he did.

The corded muscle thick and strong as rope. The tightly controlled breathing, a heartbeat the never wavered, not even in battle. Stick was more machine than man — even his words were carefully chosen, cold and calculating, knowing just where Matt's weak points were, and striking them just as efficiently as his hands.

"The subway was late," Matt said, even though it was a dumb excuse, and a lie on top of it all. Matt hated the subways — the sounds echoed even worse down there, and the screeching brakes were near excruciating for his sensitive ears. He preferred to walk everywhere he went, and he may or may not have taken the scenic route getting back home.

"Bullshit," Stick said, tapping his cane lightly against the floor. "You just waste time, like usual, Murdock. Think the world's your oyster."

"What do you want, Stick?" Matt snapped; he had absolutely no patience for this man or his crappy words of wisdom, which were more bitter than wise anyways.

He went over to the kitchen, foregoing the cane he didn't really need to navigate. Out of the entire city, Matt knew his apartment the best; every surface, every corner, every texture as familiar as the skin on the back of his hand. But the air was different; tense with unsaid words, with eavesdropping ears listening to each other's heartbeats. Trying to find another weakness, another thing to argue about. It was never ending, and after all these years, Matt was just exhausted with it.

Stick already had something, of course. "So, how's your hero thing working out? Nice to see how much of a difference you're making out there."

The sarcasm was practically dripping off of Stick's tongue, and Matt had to resist throwing the glass he pulled out of the cupboard at the old man's head. But he refused to lose his composure so soon. "Why are you here?"

"You know why." Stick said. "The war."

"Right, your mythical battle," Matt chuckled darkly to himself. Stick had been telling Matt about this so-called 'war' since he first started training Matt back when he was nine. "How could I forget about that. You ever gonna tell me what that's about, or do I have to start playing the guessing game again?"

"It's as real as you and me," Stick spat, not appreciating Matt's tone. Hmph. Hypocrite. "You're just too dumb to see it."

Matt decided not to point out the irony of that statement, said from one blind man to another. Unlike Matt, Stick had been born that way, and was particularly self-righteous about it — as if Matt had it any easier, knowing what the sky used to look like, what the world appeared to be for everyone who was "normal".

He had a new normal. He could barely remember what the sky looked like — now it was just an endless black expanse over his head, day or night. The sun, while he could feel its heat, was entirely invisible. It was sort of depressing, but Matt usually had bigger things to worry about.

"Or maybe I'm just harder to indoctrinate," Matt shot back, not about to be shamed. "I'm not going to join your stupid army, Stick. I have my path, and I won't stray from it."

"You're a soldier, whether you like it or not," Stick said, the couch squeaking softly as he got up. Matt glanced over his shoulder, sensing the man shuffling closer. Stick had a funny way of moving that somehow flew under Matt's radar. It was unnerving, and Matt preferred to keep a handle on Stick whenever he was in the vicinity. "You made your choice as soon as you agreed to become my apprentice. You still are."

"No, I'm not." Matt said, gritting his teeth. He filled the cup from the water faucet, pausing to sip and recollect his thoughts. Surprisingly, Stick was feeling patient today, because he just waited for Matt to continue, instead of butting in again. "You left, remember? But in case it's still not clear: I quit."

Whap!

The blow came out of nowhere.

Actually, it came from Stick, who moved faster than Matt had anticipated when he decided to provoke him. The baton struck Matt across the temple. He cried out, dropping the glass, which shattered across the floor.

He stumbled, grabbed the counter to catch himself, and by then Stick was on top of him, slamming his cane on top of that hand. Matt relinquished his hold on instinct, crashing to the floor on his back.

Furious, he made to get back up, but something grazed his neck and Matt paused, half-way up on his elbows.

"You don't quit until I say you quit, kid." Stick said, standing over Matt with his cane at his throat. It didn't have a sharp end, but that wouldn't stop the old man from forcing it through Matt's neck if he felt so inclined. And Matt decided it best not to test him.

Unlike Matt, Stick had no predisposition to killing. In fact, it was a prerequisite to being a 'soldier'. Matt knew, from extensive experience, that the best way to piss of Stick was not to do as he was told. Raised Catholic, that was a little tough for Matt, but turned out it wasn't so hard when deciding whether or not to take a life.

Matt would never cross that line. Ever.

Blood, warm and smooth, slowly dripped down the side of his face. Matt licked his lips, panting slightly as he tried to decide his next move. Somehow, he got the feeling they weren't going to just walk away from this without another fight. "You don't own me, Stick."

He was pretty sure Stick was going to say something to that, but stopped at the sound of footsteps. Both men heard it and canted their head in the direction, curious by how near it sounded, how it stopped right in front of the door — a split second before it opened.

"Hey, Matt, you left your briefcase behind." came a bright voice that made Matt's blood run cold.

Amelia walked straight in, passing the hallway and into the kitchen. "I hope you don't mind I came here. Foggy said —"

Her footsteps came to an abrupt stop.

Nobody moved, just stared (blindly) at each other. Matt could sense, from Stick's heartbeat, that even he was surprised by Amelia's sudden appearance. He wasn't sure what to do — tell Amelia to run? Stay and help? Call 911? Each seemed like a terrible option.

When she spoke again, Amelia's voice no longer sure and confident. Her heart was beating faster than he had ever heard it before. Her bones cracked tightly around the handle of the briefcase. "...Matt? W-what's going on?"

"Amy, you need to leave," Matt had to concentrate to keep his voice steady. But it was too late. Stick already figured out who she was.

He felt the old man regarding him, and heard the smirk on his face. "Is she the one you mentioned earlier? She don't seem like much."

"Excuse me?" Amelia snapped before Matt could explain himself to either of them. "Who the hell are you?"

To Matt, she said, "And why are you talking about me? To this guy?"

Matt could appreciate her confusion. To Amelia, what she saw probably made no sense. With Matt on the floor, beaten and bleeding with an old man standing threateningly over him, it looked like a (really weird) assault case. But to learn that they were associates, that he was talking behind her back?

Yeah, she was pissed. Matt cursed under his breath, knowing that he was going to get out of this easily.

Matt opened his mouth to rectify his mistake, but he sensed a shifting in Stick's footing, the swish of shoe against tile. He figured out what was going to happen a second before the old man launched himself at the girl. "Stick, no!"

In those harrowing tiny moments between swing and impact, Matt knew the girl was dead. Amelia saw too much, and now Stick was going to kill her. Even as he scrambled to his feet, Matt knew it was only a lost cause.

...Until Amelia caught Stick's cane with her hand.

Stick's momentum came to a sudden stop, shaking the floor when he landed instead of slamming Amelia off her feet. The old man's bones jarred at the unexpected block, and Stick, for once in his long, bitter life, stumbled to keep hold of his cane. "What —?"

That's when Amelia tried to kick him, turning her body away to drive her foot into Stick's gut.

Only this time he was prepared, dodging it and landed a fist to her cheek. If there was one thing Matt knew for sure about Stick, it was that the man never made the same mistake twice.

Amelia gasped, taking the blow and dropping, releasing Stick's cane. He swiped it down, intending to bludgeon her, but Amelia was faster, rolling away. Back on her feet in an instant, she grabbed Stick's cane, actively reaching for it.

Stick didn't relinquish it so easily, using her own pulling momentum to jerk it back into her face. But Amelia managed to yank down fast enough to bring the blow into her chest, glancing harmlessly off her collarbone before she finally ripped the cane out of Stick's hands and turned it on him.

Amelia swung wildly — Matt knew instantly that she had no experience in weapons training with the way she wielded it, but her strength was something else entirely. The cane flew through the air with whistling velocity, fiercer than even Stick could manage.

The old man avoided the first two swipes, side-stepping and bending backwards at the waist with the agility of a man fifty years his junior. Amelia changed tactics, instead stabbing at Stick. The end of the cane went into the old man's chest so hard that Matt heard his ribcage crack.

Throughout all of this, Matt could only witness the fight in shock. It was one thing for Stick to attack a completely defenseless and innocent teenager...only to remember that teenager wasn't so defenseless after all. He couldn't even tell who was winning, or who he should really be worried about.

If Stick was winded, he didn't show it. Instead, he grasped the cane and twisted it out of Amelia's hands, before swiping her feet out from under her. Amelia yelped, crashing to the floor on one side.

To Matt, he said, "God damn, I've never seen someone fight so hard for a loser like you before. What'd you tell her, kid, to make her think you were worth this?"

As soon as she hit the ground, Matt knew she had lost, even before Stick rounded Amelia. He knew what Stick was going to do, just before he did it. Like Matt, Stick had sensed the weakness in the bone and muscle, and sought it out as quickly as he could. Stick planted a hand on the back of Amelia's neck to prevent her from getting up — then slamming his fist into her shoulder.

It was Amelia's ear-piercing scream of agony that rattled the glass and spurred Matt back into action.

"Get away from her!" in two seconds flat, Matt crossed the distance between the two of them and tackled Stick before he could finish Amelia off, throwing the both of them to the floor.

While Amelia keeled over, clutching her shoulder and trying to hold back sobs, Matt was busy delivering blow after blow to Stick's face. His mind had gone completely blank with rage — the same rage his father had in the ring, the unrelenting force that drove him forward, even when he was beaten, right to the edge of the line.

The devil inside him that Matt fought with, every day, to keep from getting out.

Well, today the devil won.

Matt didn't know how to stop himself. Didn't know how. All he knew was that he hated Stick, he hated his methods, and that he hated the way the old man was laughing at him now, even as his nose bled. "There's the soldier I'm looking for! Ha! If only you fought like this for the war, and not some stupid little bi —"

Stick didn't get to finish his curse because Matt landed his fist straight across Stick's mouth. The man grunted and, apparently deciding he humored Matt long enough, kicked him off and delivered both of his heels into Matt's chest, sending him flying backwards.

Matt hit a side table in the living room, knocking it and its contents over. The lamp and bulb shattered, adding to the terrible clatter that filled the room. His head smacked against the hardwood floor, rattling the entire world from the red-tinged radar to nothing but painful darkness. Glass and ceramic shards cut into his arms and back, and in the back of his mind Matt wanted to kick himself for ruining another one of his good shirts.

Head aching with a new pain he couldn't quite shake off, Matt tried to pull himself back to his feet. Stick was already approaching him, looking ready to finish the job. Matt knew he should surrender — it was the smart thing to do. Stick was clearly at the advantage here, and hardly seemed slowed despite the multitude of injuries he had already acquired.

But Matt's rage continued to burn. The devil never gave up, even when it knew it was going to lose.

A cane to his chest prevented Matt from getting all the way up, though. But instead of being cowed, Matt just swiped it away — only for it to be snapped across his face.

He grunted, falling back on the ground. Pain bloomed across his face, hot as a brand. Matt spit out blood, its coppery taste on his tongue taking over his other senses and his scattered radar.

"Come on, kid, give up," Stick told him, chuckling, forcing Matt's face into the floor with his cane. It's rubber end was long gone, leaving only its metal edge to dig into his skin. Matt flinched, his hands clenching, bleeding, aching — but it was nothing compared to the urge of wanting to hurt Stick more. "I've never trained someone as dumb as you. How long will it take for you to learn when you're beat?"

"Guess I need another lesson," Matt muttered, trying to pull his head out from under the cane, to no avail.

"You got that ri — oof!"

Suddenly, with absolutely no explanation, Stick completely vanished from Matt's radar. His feet left the ground, the floor boards bending slightly, the air whooshing as the man was carried away by some bizarre unseen force that Matt couldn't pick up on.

Wham! Matt felt dust fall from the ceiling when Stick was thrown into the outer brick wall, between two windows. The cane clattered with a hollow sound to the floor next to the old man's feet as he grasped helplessly at his neck

Touch, taste, scent, sound — none of it served him to identify what exactly had happened, but now he was suddenly aware of someone else moving — Amelia, somehow back on her feet, limping into the living room. From the sound of her footsteps, he could tell she was just barely holding up. With her wounded arm clutching her abdomen, the other was raised in the air, trembling violently as her hand clawed around an object that wasn't there.

Her breathing was loud and hard, half-way between hyperventilation and sobbing. Amelia inhaled through her nose, and spoke with a tight voice, "Leave...him...alone."

Matt could sense a change in the air pressure, but he wasn't sure what caused it. But it didn't matter, because he was already on his feet, rushing to Amelia's side just before one of her feet gave out from underneath her. She gave a small whimper of pain when Matt caught her around the midsection, his arm pressing into her recently-aggravated old injury.

He knew she was doing this — somehow holding Stick up in the air, against the wall, over ten feet away with nothing but thin air between them — somehow. The man was choking and Matt had no idea how long the man would last. Or if Amelia even knew what she was doing.

Whatever it was, it was taking a lot of effort. Amelia shook against him, chest heaving, heart racing erratically to keep up with whatever force she was enacting on Stick.

"Amelia, stop!" Matt ordered, but when she didn't react, he grabbed her arm, forced it down.

Stick followed the movement, hitting the floor with a hard thud before Amelia suddenly went slack in Matt's arms. He nearly fell, having to readjust with the new weight, and it took him a moment to realize Amelia had passed out; her head drooped, rolling back against his shoulder. Her heart rate was decreasing fast as her breathing suddenly evened out.

Meanwhile, Stick was already picking himself up, coughing as the air returned to his lungs. The old man massaged his throat, speaking hoarsely, "Heh-heh, she's pretty good, gotta admit, kid. But she's weak, just like you. Even weaker, really, considering she can still see and...well, whatever the fuck that was. She would've made a good soldier in the right hands."

Matt stumbled back, clutching Amelia a little more tightly. He knew from experience that Stick didn't tolerate failure, and never took kindly to those who stood in his way. "Stay away from her. She has nothing to do with your war."

Stick just laughed, the cane clicking against the floor as he picked it up again. "Why the hell would I want anything to do with that?" he spat the word out like Amelia was something other than human. Maybe she was. But she wasn't less.

Stick continued, "I'll leave her alone. But if she comes in between you and me again, I can't promise I won't deal with her like I deal with all of my other problems."

Matt expected the old man to continue the fight, because why the hell not, right? But he could hear the man's breath — wheezing, coughing. There was a slight limp Stick was trying to hide, but Matt was good enough now that he could detect the old man's smaller weaknesses. Stick may be able to beat Matt on any old day, and even against multiple opponents the old man could still come out on top; but Amelia had been an unexpected variable in the fight, and even Stick knew when to back down.

So maybe that was why Stick started heading towards the door, holding out his cane as it was properly meant to be used. The knob clanked and popped as Stick turned it, and as the door opened, the old man parted with these final words: "I suggest you get rid of her, if you know what's best for you."

Then the door slammed shut.

Matt didn't realize he had been holding his breath until it came out in a big whoosh. At the same time, Amelia was already stirring, awakening from her brief black out. She shifted in his arms, trying to pull away when the pain returned. But her footing was still unsure, and Matt had to be careful not to drop her when he set her down on the floor beside the couch, away from the mess they made.

"Why did you do that?" he demanded, half angry that Amelia got involved in the fight again, and relieved that she was still alive, still awake.

"Because you're my friend." she wheezed, an answer that didn't surprise Matt in the least. She curled up against the side of the couch, her head resting on one of the cushions, wincing in pain. "I...I wanted to protect you."

"Well, of all people, I'm the one person who doesn't need it." he said, trying not to sound too admonishing. Matt appreciated the effort, and a part of him was touched that she felt that way about him, but Matt didn't want it to go to her head — he also didn't want her to think he was criticizing, since that would only make her act out more. "So please, don't do that again."

"You're welcome," Amelia muttered, which was about as close to a 'yes' as Matt was going to get.

This was not what he wanted. Any of this. Matt saw her bruised face, the bleeding lip, and couldn't help stop the immense guilt filling his chest. When she tried to pick herself up again, Amelia tried grabbing the edge of the couch — but her hands were still shaking, her grip unsure, and when she tried to apply weight, everything failed.

She collapsed again, gasping painfully. Panicked, Matt jumped forward, ignoring his own aches, helping Amelia back up. With one hand under her chin and the other on her (uninjured) shoulder, he said, "No, no, don't push yourself, okay? You're hurt. He hurt you...I hurt you. It's my fault. I'm sorry."

She tried to pull away out of his grasp, but the attempt was so weak she might as well not have done anything at all. She sighed, giving up and falling back against the couch, closing her eyes and saying, "It's...it's okay. I'm not angry at you... Okay, I'm a little angry. But not about that."

Amelia seemed both confused and too tired to figure it out, so she just huffed and shrugged her shoulders. "I'd do that for a lot of people I know. This isn't a first for me."

Somehow, that didn't make Matt feel much better. But after hearing what he needed to hear, he moved on to the next pressing question.

"Did you..." Matt shook his head, still unsure if what his radar told him had been the full story. "Did you just Force Choke him?"

She slumped against the end of the couch, shrugging with one shoulder. "It's kinda what I do. But I'm not a Sith Lord, I promise. I wasn't trying to kill him; that probably hurt me as much as it hurt him. I won't be doing that again for awhile, so don't worry."

Matt believed her, surprisingly, even though her heartrate was no different between a lie and a truth. Well, actually, her heart was beating too hard to tell, spiked with adrenaline. But there was something in her voice that resonated deeply with him; of pain, of exhaustion, a defeat that lend itself to the truth so easily. "I-I know. That wouldn't be like you."

Her laugh was short and disbelieving. "Really? Because I had no idea who the hell you are, Matt Murdock. Are you even blind?"

"Yeah." He gave her a weak smile. It felt strange having to prove his own disability; it wasn't the first time in his life, but this particular occasion was special. This time, he gave her legitimate reason to doubt. "I'm really blind. My eyes haven't worked since I was nine and I was splashed in the face with toxic chemicals. Not something I recommend."

"Whoa," she whispered, the awe prevalent in her voice. "But then, that guy...Stick? You know him?"

"He's the one who taught me all of...this. To see without sight."

"He's blind, too? And he — he can fight? You fight?"

"It's kind of what I do."

"Hardy har," Amelia said, and while Matt wasn't sure, he had a good feeling she just rolled her eyes. "Now I feel really dumb for not figuring it out sooner. How could I not pin the one blind guy I know to be the Devil of Hell's Kitchen."

"I really don't like that name," Matt said, wanting to scowl at her, but it was hard, since he didn't have his glasses to hide his eyes. He wasn't even sure if he was looking at her face, so the effect would be ruined. "Can you please stop calling me that?"

"Oh, right, you're Catholic," Amelia's hand slapped against her forehead. "I guess that's kind of like blasphemy, right?"

"I like to think I'm not that bad."

"You're the one who came up with that snazzy outfit."

"I'm starting to reconsider."

"No, don't," Matt jerked when she rested a hand on his arm — as he suspected, her grip was unusually strong for a hand so small. But he didn't pull away, and instead just listened when Amelia urged, "I think you're doing good. You're scaring the right people. After what they've done to this city, they deserve to be afraid for once. If not the Devil then..."

Amelia paused for a moment, thinking. Then she said, with what sounded like a cheeky smile, "...Then how about Daredevil?"

Matt pursed his lips, considering. "Mm. Maybe."

"Maybe? Come on, that's totally badass! And I never get to name people anyways — Spider-Man always beats me. Can I just have this, please?"

She sounded so young and childish that Matt almost gave in on the precociousness alone. He wondered if this was what it was like to have a younger sibling — he knew his father always wanted more kids, but after the death of Matt's mother, Jack Murdock refused to remarry and decided to make the best with what he had. Amelia was about the closest thing he was ever going to get, and Matt decided he didn't miss out on much.

Eventually, he sighed and said, "Fine. But only if you promise me something."

"Fine." she said easily.

"This is a promise you have to keep," he reminded her, since Amelia had a certain annoying penchant for not giving a damn. "You break it, and I'm changing the name."

"All right, all right, fine, just tell me already," Amelia said, huffing in impatience.

"Stay away from the Rose. Don't go after Fisk," Matt said, and he felt her hand jolt at the name. "Yeah, I heard your friend, too. And I know that you used to go by another name a few months back. I don't know what ended it, but I'm guessing it wasn't a willing change. But I think it's the right one."

"I can still help people." Amelia said, her voice soft with regret, yet firm with protest. "More than in the normal way."

Matt ran a hand through his hair, working his jaw and trying to find a reason to end this recurring fight of theirs. What could possibly get her to stop? He didn't want anyone else getting hurt or dying in this dangerous war, certainly not one as young and hopeful as hers.

Instead of discouraging her, he asked, "Why? Why do you want to help so bad?"

"Because it's the right thing to do." It sounded so simple the way she said it. So simple, and so impossible to refute. "Like a...a close friend of mine told me: With great power, comes great responsibility."

Matt raised his eyebrows, mildly impressed. "That's a good line. I can definitely see why you never listen to me now."

"Among other things." Amelia said, then after a second of thought, added, "I can't promise you I'll stop what I'm doing. I'm going to help people, the best way I know how, no matter what you'll do."

Matt opened his mouth to complain, but Amelia was way ahead of him. "But if it really bothers you that much, I'll stop going after the Rose. But I seriously hope you keep your end of the deal, because I'm not just going to sit and twiddle my thumbs waiting for my mom to come home."

"I'll find her. I won't stop until I do."

"Good." Amelia said, sounding sure, and Matt could finally relax now that she seemed satisfied. Maybe this time she'd listen, she'd keep her promise. If nothing else, let it be this one. "Because I can still come up with a dumber name to call you."

Matt just shook his head and smirked. "I think I'll manage."

See, this was supposed to be a short chapter, only somehow its double the size of my usual length. What is wrong with me.

For more backstory between Stick and Matt, I recommend you watch the Daredevil series, since that's what I based it on. I don't intend to extrapolate on it in this fic, so if you're itching to learn more, then that's the place to go.