Author's Note: I can't believe we've actually made it to Part 2 already! I just want to take a moment to remind you of the warnings I gave in the first author's note of this fic. The warnings remain the same, but things get more intense from now on, as you might imagine since we're dealing with prison among other things. Also, it's probably clear by now that we're going to be dealing with a lot of legal issues in this fic. Please forgive me if I get anything wrong! I did as much research as I could, but I am very much not a lawyer, so I don't really know what I'm talking about :P
Part Two: The Strength That Keeps Me Walking
You are the strength
That keeps me walking
You are the hope
That keeps me trusting
You are the light
To my soul
You are my purpose
You're everything
- "Everything" by Lifehouse
The Avengers compound used to feel like home. It used to be full of warmth and life, busyness and bustle. Even during the times when not all of the Avengers were on the premises, it had felt like a place where Steve could let down his guard and relax, focusing on the things that were most important.
But so few of the lights were on as Steve approached the main building. There had only been two people living in this huge place for the past two weeks, and soon they would all be gone.
Steve's heart lightened a little when he came within sight of the front doors and saw Sam get up from the bench where he'd been waiting. He bent down to say something to Jake, whose legs dangled a foot off the ground, and pointed in Steve's direction. Jake slid off the bench and stood at attention next to Sam. Seeing how stiffly Jake was standing, Sam drew himself up into a jaunty salute, marred somewhat by his wide grin. "Captain America's welcoming party, reporting for duty!"
Once he was close enough that he knew Sam would see it, Steve rolled his eyes. "I'm not even Captain America anymore, you know."
"Aw, you'll always be Cap, Cap." Sam pulled him into a bear hug.
Letting his bag drop to the ground, Steve sank gratefully into the warm embrace. He lingered longer than he normally would have, but Sam didn't let go. "Missed you," he whispered into Sam's shoulder.
"Wish I coulda been there," Sam murmured, patting him bracingly on the back as they broke apart.
Their eyes met, and Steve could see an echo of the same anxious tension that had taken up permanent residence in his gut. Steve was ashamed to realize he'd never stopped to think how hard the past two weeks must have been for Sam, stuck halfway around the world while everything fell apart.
Tearing himself away from those thoughts, Steve sank to one knee and took a good, long look at his son. "Hey, buddy. Have you been a good boy for Uncle Sam?"
Hesitantly, Jake nodded. It had only been two weeks, but Steve could have sworn that Jake had grown an inch since the last time he'd seen him in person. His eyes looked even rounder and bluer than he remembered, gazing timidly into his.
Moving slowly and making sure Jake could see what he was doing, Steve leaned in and wrapped his arms around his little boy. "I missed you so much, Jake. But Daddy's home now."
On impulse, he turned his head and planted a gentle kiss on Jake's cheek. Jake jumped slightly, and when Steve pulled back, his eyes were round as dinner plates. As Steve released him and stood up, Jake brushed his fingers against his cheek and looked down at them, as if expecting to find some kind of mark there. Steve couldn't help chuckling a little at the look on his face.
As they made their way inside and up to the top floor, Sam asked, "So, what's the latest on Bucky?"
The anxious tangle in his stomach tightened a little. "The bail hearing's on Thursday," Steve said heavily. "In the meantime, they're holding him at Rikers."
Sam did a double-take. "Wait, like—Rikers Island?" He swore, then glanced at Jake and hastily muttered an apology. He looked like he wanted to say more, but was biting his tongue.
He didn't have to say anything. Rikers Island in New York City had been home to a notoriously awful prison during Steve's time, and from what he'd read, not much had changed in seventy years. On the one hand, it made sense to send Bucky there; most of the inmates there were only being held until their trials. But on the other hand...it was like someone had hand-picked the worst prison they could possibly find for Bucky.
When they reached the door to Steve's rooms, Sam stopped him with a hand on the shoulder. "Hey, it'll be okay. It's just till the bail hearing, right?"
Steve sighed. "Yeah, if I can find an attorney."
"You gone through the whole list yet?"
"Just one left." He tried to smile, but it felt more like a grimace. "Got an appointment first thing in the morning."
Sam knocked his fist against Steve's shoulder. "Then don't give up hope yet." He turned to Jake. "Hey, kiddo, let's go set the table while your daddy unpacks, okay?"
Jake nodded, gave Steve one more wide-eyed look, then turned to follow Sam back to the kitchen.
Steve stepped through the door to the rooms he'd called home for the past several months. He could see evidence of Sam and Jake's time spent here—several jigsaw puzzles laid out on the desk, a small stack of DVD cases on the coffee table, several stuffed animals at one end of the couch, looking like they'd been arranged there invitingly and then never touched again. As frustrating and disheartening as it could be at times, Steve was glad to return to this part of his life again.
It'll be okay, he told himself as he stepped into his bedroom and flipped the light on. Everything will work out...
His eyes immediately fell on the bed, which they'd apparently forgotten to make before leaving. The pillow on Bucky's side was askew, with a slight indentation in the middle where his head had been. It was like he'd just gotten up and walked out of the room...
Steve dropped his bag at the foot of the bed, turned on his heel, and immediately headed back to the kitchen. He didn't want to be alone right now.
As he entered, Jake walked past with a stack of plates in one hand and a bunch of silverware in the other. The plates looked heavy, but Jake didn't seem in danger of dropping them.
Sam, who was pouring some dinosaur-shaped macaroni into a pot on the stove, put Steve to work slicing the ham he'd just pulled out of the oven. After working in silence for a minute or so, Sam said, "You get a chance to look at that last apartment I sent you? That one in the brand-new building? Just three bedrooms, but it looks like a good location. Expensive, too, but I guess someone doesn't need to worry about that..." He accidentally-on-purpose knocked his shoulder against Steve's as he reached for the packet of cheese powder to add to the macaroni.
Steve nudged him back. "Yeah, I like it. In fact..." He kept his eyes fixed on the ham and muttered, "I was kind of thinking of...buying the entire building."
The spoon clanged loudly against the bottom of the pot as Sam dropped it. With an aggravated sigh, Sam grumbled, "I don't think I'm ever gonna get used to you being able to do stuff like that... But why do you want the whole building? Don't you have enough on your plate without a real estate investment?"
This was something Steve had been thinking about a lot on the way back from London, but he hadn't had a chance to talk it over with anyone yet. "If I owned the whole thing, I could make sure we have the best security system installed—not just for our apartment, but for the entire building. And...I think it would be better for Bucky and Jake if we didn't have a whole bunch of neighbors right away." He shrugged. "Besides, if I buy the whole building, you can have your own apartment."
Sam looked up in surprise. "Hey, I don't mind living with you guys...unless you're trying to get rid of me?"
"Of course not." Steve grinned. "You'd still be in the same building, so you'd be right on hand for babysitting duty. But you could have your own space for once."
Sam brightened. "Hey—that means I could bring girls home!"
Steve clapped a hand to his forehead and groaned. But Sam was already making him feel better.
A few minutes later, as they were carrying food over to the table, Sam said, "Hey, kiddo, you put out too many plates! We only need three."
Steve looked up and saw that, sure enough, Jake had set four places—just like he had for the past several months. Jake looked alarmed and hastily gathered up the dishes, putting them away again. When he turned back, he clutched his shirt as if about to throw himself on the floor and say he was 'ready for his correction' again. But he met Steve's eyes and fell still. Steve gave him an encouraging smile.
Jake dropped his gaze, glanced up again, opened his mouth, shuffled his feet a little... The usual signs he had a question. "Go ahead, buddy," Steve said. "Did you want to say something?"
Taking a deep breath, Jake asked in a tiny voice, "Where's Bucky?"
Steve sighed. He'd known he would have to explain this sooner or later, and now was as good a chance as any. He and Sam had been talking about Bucky a lot in their phone conversations over the past couple weeks, but he doubted Jake had understood much of it.
Kneeling down to look Jake in the eye, Steve said gently, "Some people think that Bucky did something very bad. He didn't, but for now he has to stay in a safe place until we can prove that he didn't do it. But don't worry, buddy. He'll be home soon. Okay?"
Jake still wore a thoughtful frown, but he nodded slowly. Steve hoped that Jake was worried about Bucky because he cared about him...but he knew that it was probably more realistic that he was just bothered by a change in the routine.
Come home soon, Bucky, Steve pleaded silently as the three of them sat down to eat. We all need you here.
Bucky had thought the intake process in the London prison was long, but Rikers made that look like a breeze. Bucky sat in a holding cell for hours before anyone seemed to remember he was there, sitting on a hard wooden bench in a cramped room with several other men. One man smelled like he'd bathed in warm beer, and Bucky suspected a couple others were high on something. Most of them just sat there, waiting or trying to sleep, but one skinny man with wide eyes and tattoos all over his face kept pacing up and down, muttering to himself and occasionally yelling at the officers in the hallway to let him out.
Bucky just tucked himself into a corner and sat quietly out of everyone's way. He caught a few people staring at him, but he wasn't sure if it was because they recognized him from the news or just because his left sleeve was very obviously empty.
There was a dark irony in how long and carefully the CIA had planned his transfer to the States, making sure that no one's safety would be compromised. But once they'd passed him over to the staff at Rikers Correctional Center, no one seemed to care anymore.
At long last, after two of the men had been pulled from the room, a guard opened the door and called, "Barnes! Move it out!"
Bucky followed the guard's directions through a series of rooms to complete the intake process. First was a strip-search and a quick shower. He'd been expecting that; they'd done the same in London. It was embarrassing to strip and have a complete stranger double-check every possible spot he might be hiding something. But Bucky just gritted his teeth and got it over with. He'd endured much worse. The guard gave the remains of Bucky's metal arm a suspicious look, but he double-checked his paperwork and didn't say anything.
The London prison had let him wear his own clothes, but the Rikers guard directed him to put his clothes in a sealed bag and put on a bright orange prison uniform. The guard looked impatient when Bucky struggled to get his clothes on, still not used to only having one arm. At least there were no buttons on the baggy orange shirt and pants.
Next, Bucky was given a thin mattress and a pile of bedding, and he took his place at the end of a line of other new inmates. They waited for a few more minutes, then a second guard joined the first and led them down a hallway. Bucky struggled to keep up. It wasn't that his pile of bedding was particularly heavy, but it was very unwieldy with just one arm.
"Keep up!" the guard behind him kept barking out. "Pick up your feet, let's go!"
He was so focused on not dropping anything or tripping over his own feet, Bucky almost didn't notice when the line came to a halt at last. A loud buzzer sounded, and the guard in front pulled open a heavy door to let them all troop in.
Noise. That was the first thing Bucky registered. A chaotic cacophony met his ears—people arguing, someone shouting, raucous laughter, the sound of a TV, something that sounded like metal banging against metal in the distance. As he shuffled into the room, Bucky glanced around to take in his surroundings, all of his senses on alert.
There were three levels in this room, each lined with cells. The barred doors were all open right now, letting the inmates roam free. Most of them either leaned against the railings or congregated in the large open space on the lowest level, where benches and tables were bolted to the floor.
Almost everyone in the room had turned to observe the new arrivals. A few called out jeering remarks, but Bucky didn't have attention to spare for them. The guard was yelling out cell numbers to the new inmates.
"Barnes—215!"
Bucky shuffled behind the inmates who were heading for the stairs, carefully making his way up to the second level. He found the right number, ignoring the stares of the men he passed on the way. The back of his neck prickled as he turned his back to them.
The first thing he noticed when he stepped through the doorway to the tiny cell was a man sitting on the lower bunk. Beady eyes watching his every movement. Wide shoulders, brawny arms covered with tattoos. Shaved head, revealing more tattoos. Bushy, greying mustache and beard.
He looked like a member of a biker gang. On second thought, maybe he was.
For a moment, they just stared at each other. Then the man jabbed his thumb at the empty top bunk. "That's you," he said in a deep, gravelly voice.
Bucky managed to maneuver his pile of bedding onto the top bunk and straighten it out somewhat without dropping anything, though he had a couple near misses. His new cellmate didn't offer to help, just sat watching him. No doubt taking notice of Bucky's missing arm.
Only when Bucky was finished did the man finally heave himself to his feet. He stood a head taller than Bucky, and had to be twice as wide as him, too. He held out one enormous fist; Bucky saw that the number 666 was tattooed over his knuckles. "What's your name?"
"Bucky." He knocked his knuckles against his cellmate's.
The man nodded. "Brad."
Bucky couldn't keep back a snort of surprise. Of course. Of course he would end up with a cellmate named Brad. He looked like a Brad.
Immediately, Brad's neutral expression darkened, and he took a step closer. Looming over him, Brad scowled down at him. "Something funny, newbie?"
"No," Bucky said calmly, though his heart was pounding hard enough that he was sure Brad could hear it. He watched Brad's eyes, trying to gauge when a fist might be coming his way.
But Brad just stood there for a moment or two, his horrible breath washing over Bucky's face, until finally he backed off a little with a scornful curl to his lip. "Since you're new, I'll let you off with a warning. But it's the only one you'll get." He jabbed a finger in Bucky's face. "So just watch yourself."
He turned and stomped out of the cell, leaving Bucky alone to dwell on how much he wished he could be anywhere else.
Trying to stuff her ticket stub back into her purse while struggling to get herself and her rolling suitcase off the escalator without dropping the jacket slung over one arm, Sharon didn't have eyes to spare for scanning the crowd. It wasn't until she heard a loud whistle and the sound of her name that she finally looked up.
Off to her right, she saw a dark-skinned hand waving energetically over the heads and shoulders of the crowd milling about. Grinning, Sharon immediately changed course and headed in that direction.
"There she is, my sista from another mista!" The crowds parted, revealing the owner of that waving hand. Her black hair was in a tight fro, held back from her face with a bright yellow sash that matched the zigzags dancing over her black sleeveless dress.
Laughing, Sharon threw her arms around her friend. "I've missed you, Leyla."
"Oh, you've missed me?" Leyla scoffed, hugging her tightly. "I'm not the one who moved to freaking Germany, girlfriend."
"It's called a 'smart career move,' for your information," Sharon said as they broke apart and headed for the exit.
"Is that what they're calling betrayal these days?"
Sharon smacked her lightly in the arm. "Don't be so dramatic!"
Leyla gave her an exaggeratedly offended look. "Dramatic? Moi? Look what happens when you move halfway around the world—you barely even know your best friend anymore!"
Sharon couldn't stop grinning. It had been a long time. She'd missed this. "Are we still best friends?"
Linking their arms together, Leyla said, "Till death do us part, hon. Can't get rid of me that easy."
With a laugh, Sharon said, "Funny, I don't remember making that vow..."
"You mean you didn't look at the fine print on the day we met? You should really be more careful about who you sit next to during S.H.I.E.L.D. orientation..."
"Yeah, I'll keep that in mind for next time."
The Uber ride back to Leyla's house was full of the cheerful banter that had always characterized their conversations. Sharon hardly even noticed as the lights and bustle of New York City passed by outside the windows. As she updated Leyla on what she'd been up to in the year since they'd seen each other, she realized in the back of her mind that there was no one in Berlin she could talk to like this. There, every relationship was either work-related or such a casual acquaintance that she doubted she would ever truly get to know them.
But even though it had been ages since they'd been together, Leyla was just as easy to talk to as if they still met for lunch every day. She launched into a long explanation of her blog that she was using as a platform to talk about civil rights and injustice, the interviews with activists she'd been posting on YouTube, and the first draft of the spy thriller she'd just sent to three editors.
"Sounds like you're keeping busy," Sharon commented as they got out of the car and grabbed her suitcase from the trunk.
"I do try," Leyla said lightly, twirling her key ring around one finger. "We can't all go chasing after terrorists all across Europe."
The driver had let them out at the corner of the street, but Sharon had a feeling she knew which row house they were headed for. Sure enough, Leyla walked straight toward the bright orange one in the middle of a row of boring shades of beige and grey. The front door was painted hot pink, clashing horribly with the walls. "Nice colors," Sharon said with a grin as she followed Leyla up the short walk to the tiny front porch.
Leyla shrugged, unlocking the front door. "I guess the last owner was some kind of hippie or something. I just can't be bothered to change it." She shot a grin over her shoulder. "I mean, come on—I'm a writer now! You think I've got enough money sitting around to remodel?"
Privately, Sharon thought the colors suited Leyla's personality perfectly. Hopefully, she would never save up enough to change them.
As soon as they stepped through the door, a loud meow greeted them. Sharon looked down to see a rather plump grey tabby cat looking up at them, meowing almost angrily and showing his sharp little teeth.
"Oh, who's this?" Sharon asked, squatting down and slowly reaching out to let the cat sniff at her fingers. Immediately, the cat leapt up and tried to scramble over her knees.
"That's Simon," Leyla said, snapping her fingers to get the cat's attention. "The only man to treat me right." She scooped him up in her arms, rubbing her cheek against the top of his head. "His number one priority in life is to find a lap to sit in, so all you have to do is sit still, and you'll be his favorite person."
Sharon stroked her finger along the soft, silky fur of Simon's cheek. The cat's eyes slid closed in contentment as he began purring loudly. Maybe that's what she needed for her apartment in Berlin—a pet to keep her company. But then, she was always traveling so much...
Leyla briefly showed her around the house, Simon draped over her shoulders like a vibrating fur scarf. The row house boasted two floors and a basement, but it was only one room wide besides the narrow, cramped hallway around the stairs. Every single wall in the entire house was painted a different color. Most of the rooms stuck to a single color, but each wall was a different shade. Except for the bathrooms and kitchen, which were papered with strips of four different patterns of wallpaper.
"Here you go," Leyla announced, opening the door to a small room at the back of the house, furnished with a twin bed and a rocking chair. The walls were varying shades of green, and most of the decorations on the wall depicted birds or encouraging quotes. "It's my guest room, but the only guest I usually have is my mom, so I let her decorate it how she wanted."
"It's perfect," Sharon said, setting down her suitcase at the foot of the bed. "Thank you."
"So...you come to New York City for the first time in a year, shortly after the biggest terrorist incident since that crazy robot thing... You're working on the Winter Soldier case, aren't you?"
Sharon rolled her eyes. "Leyla, you know I'm not allowed to talk about work with you..."
"Yeah, yeah, or you'd have to kill me, I get it." Leyla gave a long, dramatic sigh and turned to leave. "You have no idea how hard it is to be a civilian sometimes!" Then she shot a devious grin over her shoulder. "But that wasn't a no..."
Sharon laughed. "Good night, Leyla."
"Okay, you can pretend to keep your secrets," Leyla said, sashaying down the hall to her room. "Just remember, I used to be a secret agent too, you know!"
Steve double-checked the address on his phone as he walked down the street. He'd known this law firm wasn't a very big one nor very well known, but he hadn't realized what a bad neighborhood it was located in. Don't judge a book by its cover, he reminded himself as he found the shabby office building with the right number on the front door. And yes, there was a little plaque on the wall that read Nelson and Murdock, Attorneys at Law.
This was the right place. Steve took a deep breath and refused to think in terms of Bucky's last chance. Instead, he squared his shoulders and headed inside.
The office itself was as shabby as the building's exterior. Glancing around, Steve saw that there were only three rooms, not including a little alcove with a sink and a minifridge. There was only one hard chair for him to sit and wait while the receptionist poked her head into one of the other rooms to announce him. She seemed extremely nervous, stumbling over her words as she held the door for him and asked if he wanted any coffee. Steve wondered if she was normally like this with clients, or if it was just because she knew who he was.
But then Steve stepped through the door into Matthew Murdock's office, and he focused on more important things. Murdock rose, buttoning his suit jacket and stepping around his desk, running a hand along the edge as he moved. For the most part, his appearance was unremarkable—plain black suit, brown hair neatly parted—but he also wore round sunglasses, even inside. And when Murdock held out his hand for Steve to shake, he didn't look directly at Steve, but slightly off to the left. Steve glanced into the corner, where a telltale white cane rested.
Steve recovered from his momentary surprise and shook his hand. "Thank you for taking the time, Mr. Murdock."
"Please call me Matt," he said with a smile as he sat back down behind his desk. "And have a seat, Mr. Rogers."
"Then you can call me Steve." Steve sat in one of the chairs in front of Matt's desk, which was a little more comfortable than the one out in the reception area.
"Well then, Steve." Matt clasped his hands on top of the desk. "Why don't we start with you telling me why you're here."
"How much do you know about the situation as it stands?" Steve asked, wary of getting a bark of laughter from yet another lawyer.
"Only what's been in the media." Matt inclined his head towards Steve thoughtfully. "But I'd rather get your version. So please, take your time and be as thorough as you're comfortable with."
Steve sighed heavily. "Okay."
"All right, then." Matt reached for a digital voice recorder on the desk and hit record. "This is Matt Murdock in the office with Steven G. Rogers on the 17th of May, 2016..."
They talked for over an hour. Well, Steve did most of the talking. Beyond the introductory portion of the recording, Matt was silent for the most part, only asking the occasional question or confirming a detail to ensure he understood. Otherwise, he just let Steve say everything he needed to say.
Steve broke down the events of the funeral and the bombing in as much detail as he could articulate. He confirmed times, named potential witnesses, provided receipts, and laid bare his thoughts on the media attention.
Finally, when he'd talked himself out, Matt said, "I'm sure I know the answer to this already, but for the sake of the record, I have to ask: Do you think he's guilty?"
"No." Steve shook his head. "No, absolutely not."
"What makes you so certain?"
"The timeline doesn't add up. The evidence is as weak as I've ever seen. And I was with him from the time we decided to go to the London Embassy to when he was formally arrested." Through this whole conversation, Steve had tried to stay calm and professional, but his voice betrayed a trembling of emotion now. "Even if there'd been time for him to do this while we were apart, I wouldn't have the slightest bit of doubt. I know him...and he was—is—as frightened as I've ever seen."
"Fear can be a sign of guilt," Matt said softly.
"It can be, yes." Steve rubbed his hands together nervously as anxiety stabbed at him. Was this conversation going to go the same route as all the others had? "I won't act like Bucky doesn't have a bloody, violent past. There's a tremendous burden of shame on him because of it. But it isn't who he is. That's the persona others have forced him into. It was never his choice."
Matt didn't immediately respond, and Steve had nothing further to say. He didn't want to argue the legitimacy of his resolve to prove Bucky's innocence. Either Matt gave Bucky the benefit of the doubt, or he'd walk out of there just as quickly as he'd ended the calls with all the other lawyers. So he waited.
Finally, Matt seemed to reach a confirmation of his own. "I believe you, Steve."
Steve's breathing hitched. "You do?"
Matt nodded, more to himself than anything. "I believe that you believe in him. And right now, that's more than enough for me."
Steve had to force himself to take a deep breath. Out of all the attorneys he'd talked to in the past couple weeks, none of them had said anything like this. "I've had four other lawyers tell me to plan on taking plea deals. And three of them outright laughed at me for asking about options for trying to prove his innocence."
"A lot of lawyers out there would rather take a plea deal than go on to a jury trial," Matt said with a frown. "And so several of them don't have enough experience to manage one because of it. You want someone who is willing to represent Bucky the way both you and he want him represented, correct?"
Steve nodded, then remembered that Matt couldn't see it. "That's right."
Though Steve couldn't see through the dark shades, he could feel that Matt's smile had reached his eyes. "Challenges and insurmountable odds. Sounds like my life as a lawyer since day one."
"So you'll do it?"
"Do you still want me to?"
Steve's heart rose, like a balloon filling with so much hope that it was fit to burst. "If you promise to fight for him? Yes."
Matt nodded firmly. "I will. I can't make any promises as to the outcome, but I can promise you this much: I'll do everything I can within the confines of the law to make the system earn every single day they have him in custody."
Steve's head dropped into his hands, his breath rushing out as his eyes stung. "Thank you. That's what I needed to hear."
"Then we have a partnership."
Taking a deep breath, Steve shoved the emotion back inside and straightened up again. "What do you need from me at this point?"
Matt pulled a drawer open, finding a pen by feel at the same time. "I'll need you to fill out some contract paperwork, and we can discuss fees and general cost estimations as well so you'll know what to expect. I'll warn you, the average cost for criminal charges like these can get fairly high. If you need to make arrangements or get some resources together, I completely understand—"
"Don't worry about cost." Steve reached into the inside pocket of his jacket and pulled out an envelope. "Just tell me what you need, and I'll fund it."
Steve placed the envelope on the desk between them, and after a moment to search, Matt found it and tapped it lightly. "Silly question, but would you mind telling me...?"
"Oh, yeah! Sorry. It's a certified check to get you started."
"In the amount of...?"
"One hundred fifty thousand dollars."
Matt was clearly not the type to be taken aback easily, but no question about it—he clearly didn't meet too many people who carried that kind of money on them. After a moment of stunned silence, he asked, "You were that confident about this consultation?"
Steve smiled, though it was tinged with sadness. "I hope you won't be too offended if I admit we were getting desperate. All I needed was to see what your expertise and priorities were for myself. You answered all my questions, you listened to me, and I believe you'll be our best chance at getting my best friend home. So, yes. Whatever you need, it's yours."
Matt nodded slowly. "I'm looking forward to meeting him."
"I wish it could be under better circumstances," Steve murmured. "But yeah, I'm looking forward to you working with him too."
Matt picked up the digital recorder and went through the ending comments, confirming that Steve had no further questions at that point and again noting the date and time. He clicked stop on the recording and set the unit aside.
"Steve?"
"Hmm?" Steve looked up from where he'd been staring blankly at his hands clasped in his lap.
Matt took off his sunglasses, letting Steve see his eyes for the first time. The simple gesture had the effect of softening his entire demeanor, as if physically setting aside their professional relationship so he could speak to Steve as a man. As a friend.
"I can tell this is weighing you down," Matt said gently, his eyes gazing over Steve's shoulder. "I'll keep you updated, but if you need anything, anything at all, I want you to let me know. Got it?"
Suddenly, the tears were back, trying to trickle out the corners of his eyes. Steve sniffed, pressing fingers into his eyes and taking a deep breath. "Thanks. I just...feel like I barely got him back. We've been attached at the hip for the last two years, night and day... Now I've been slammed into a wall, and he's just...out of reach."
Matt's eyes couldn't focus on Steve's, but they were full of sympathy. "You won't be alone. You'll be part of this, every step of the way. You have my word."
There was a quiet, steady confidence in Matt's voice that eased the heavy burden of anxiety weighing on Steve's heart. There weren't many people that he would entrust with Bucky's future, but he finally felt that he'd found someone worthy of that task.
Remember those who are in prison, as though in prison with them, and those who are mistreated, since you also are in the body.
- Hebrews 13:3
Author's Note: I feel a bit insecure about writing Matt Murdock, since I haven't done very much of it, so please let me know if he sounds off or anything. Also, for anyone who might be trying to figure out how this fits with the Daredevil timeline...uh, it doesn't really ^^' I had only seen the first season when I started developing this fic, and by the time I finished the show and realized, according to the dates, this is happening somewhere in the middle of season 2 (or season 2 happens in the middle of this fic, I guess), Matt was an indispensable part of the story. So if it makes anyone feel any better, just remember that this is a separate canon from the MCU anyway, so just assume the events of Daredevil season 2 don't happen at all. I need Matt and Foggy to be working together as Bucky's attorneys without the Punisher or Fisk getting in the way, so just let me have this ^^'
