Matt's never really liked keeping secrets, but he's pretty good at it. And really, what would he say, anyway? He can barely even stand to think about Not-Man and the terrifying implications of, well, everything about it. It occurs to him that it doesn't say anything good about the situation that the possibility he's gone completely 'round-the-bend there-must-have-been-a-door-there-in-the-wall dude-where's-my-white-jacket insane is one of the less frightening scenarios he runs through. And of course, even though he can't stand to think about it, he can't stop thinking about it. It's like picking at a scab, and Matt's always been an abysmal failure at leaving things be.
He smells Not-Man occasionally, though he can never pick out a defining gait or anything else to use to track him. He heard his voice, once, for just a moment. It was on the other end of someone's cell phone. Smooth and cultured, there and gone, and whoever he was speaking with just said, "Yes, sir," and dripped fear before dropping the phone in the street and hailing a taxi to the docks. Matt almost followed, but he had a deposition to attend. Also? He didn't really want to know.
He never hears a whisper of involvement in crime from Not-Man that he can detect. Not that Matt figured someone/thing that powerful would bother with the petty misery that infects Hell's Kitchen. So he really doesn't expect it when Not-Man lounges next to him on a rooftop as Matt's trying to stem the flow of blood from a knife that got under his mask. Matt's alone and then he's not, and that foreign leafy scent is right up in his nose. If he weren't faint from blood loss, he'd have had a heart attack, he's sure.
"Oh, this will not do." And he actually sounds nicer than Stick, now, if just as disappointed. Instinctively, Matt tries to parry the hand reaching for him, but it's pointless. The cold fingers are calming as they slide through hot blood and find the torn skin, tissue, vein, trace over the wound, and numb the pain. Matt reaches up to check for himself, but Not-Man's other hand is steel around his wrist, pulling it away.
"Do. Not. Touch." The hands are gone, then, and the stranger is wiping the blood from Matt's neck and inspecting his work. Matt's head hurts and his stomach is icy and he thinks he might throw up if he doesn't fall asleep first.
"Children, the lot of you. Fighting over your toys and your philosophies even as your doom approaches." There's a flask of something shoved under Matt's nose. "Drink. You will need it." It's herby and sweet and burns just a little, but in all the right ways, and Matt thinks he just might be able to thank his new rooftop medic as soon as his head stops spinning.
Although, "How'd you -" is all he manages before he loses track of what he was going to say.
It doesn't seem to matter, though. Not-man does not appear to be in a listening mood. He's up and pacing. "Earth's greatest heroes. The realms will be crushed, bled dry, and burned at the altar in service of forces larger than any of you can even comprehend, and they cripple your defenses with whinges of freedom and patriotism."
Matt wants to laugh at the pronunciation of "patriot" that rhymes with "Matt," but laughing probably won't keep the world from sliding sideways, which it seems really intent on doing at the moment.
"What good will all your freedom do when Death makes her appearance, hmm? If you are lucky, your nations will turn to ash and the rotten remnants of your tattered corpses will adorn the palace of the Mad Titan as he reaches out his claws to claim every living thing in existence for his bridal gift."
There's a tangible buzz in the air as the stranger kneels before Matt, pulls his mask from his face, and holds his head in both hands. Matt can see those twin green fires again, though the rest of the world has disappeared from all his remaining senses. He's more sober than he's ever felt in his life, and his mind is so clear it hurts.
"You asked me my name once. Time grows short, and truths must be told. I am Loki. I am Loki of no land, Loki of no kin, Loki of no allegiance." Loki's voice is low and smooth and strong. "I am Loki, and I will not allow the realms to fall to the whims of an adolescent infatuation with Death!"
"Right," Matt gasps. "Got it." He's standing, now, somehow, and has no idea when that happened. This Loki guy still has his hands wrapped around Matt's head, though, in a way that is more power than intimacy, and Matt thinks maybe he should do something about that while there's still a head to worry about. He pulls in a breath of foul city air and places his own hands around Loki's.
He doesn't know what to ask first. Why me? What the hell are you talking about? What are you? "Are you hungry?" is what he says.
Loki hesitates. Grins. Matt takes it as a sign that his head's not about to be crushed. Then his knees give out and Loki's arm under his is all that keeps the fearsome Daredevil from face-planting.
"Mortals," Loki grouses, but there's no heat behind it.
"Yeah," Matt agrees. Because really, what is there to say?