#devilishmask

✺ - for jessica to help matt get through a frightening situation: 

She recognizes him immediately. The Devil of Hell’s Kitchen. She’s seen him around before. It’s hard not to, when she spends most of her nights lurking on rooftops and fire escapes. Like Frank, she usually just lets him be. But unlike Frank, she doesn’t have to bolt before she hears the gunshot.

She likes his style more than she cares to admit. Not that she’d ever say that aloud.

Tonight, though, he looks a little rough.

He stumbles out of an alleyway, clutching his head. She can see his mouth moving, but she can’t hear what he’s saying. She recognizes that look though -- that lost, desperate, scared look. Terrified, that might be a better word.

She moves before she can stop herself. She leaps off the fire escape, sprints over to him. His back to her, and he doesn’t look up, even when she’s only a few feet from him. “Hey, hey you okay?” she calls, but he doesn’t answer. Just keeps clutching his head, bucking his head around wildly, but not focusing on anything. She can see blood trickling down from the mask, onto his jaw. 

“Guess that answers that question,” she mutters. She reaches out a hand, touches his shoulder. And he snaps. 

He swings at her -- it goes wide, she dodges it easily. Grabs his wrist and pushes him up agains the wall. As gently as she can. He’s hurt enough, but he’s clearly out of his goddamn mind or something. This isn’t his style. She’s seen him dodge goddamn bullets, he should’ve been able to land a hit on her. He’s still struggling, so applies a little more pressure. She’s close enough to him now that she can smell the blood and sweat. 

His face contorts, but then suddenly, he stills. “Jessica?” he says.

It’s her turn to be confused. 

“How’d you know that?” she asks, but he doesn’t answer. For a second, she thinks maybe Kilgrave got to him, told him to come after her, but then he just goes limp.

She lets go, moves to step back, but he grabs at her wildly. Desperately, not attacking, but reaching for her. She lets his fingers clutch at her jacket. 

“Help me,” he whispers, his voice creaky and small. So, so small. “I can’t -- I can’t hear.”

“Or see, apparently,” she mutters, studying him closely. 

This complicates things. 

She puts both hands on his shoulders, pushes down gently until he’s sitting. She sits beside him, close enough that he can feel her. She hesitates -- she’s never been good at touch, but he looks so goddamn lost -- so she slings an arm around his shoulder. 

“Got hit in the head,” he whispers breathlessly. “It’s -- it’s happened before, but I -- it’s just ringing and I -- ” She can feel his chest start to heave, knows where the desperation in his voice will lead. Straight into another panic attack, which won’t do much for his mental or physical state. 

With her free hand, she reaches for one of his. Turns his palm upward, and pushes his forefingers to his thumb in a gentle rhythmic pattern. It’s awkward, takes a few attempts, but eventually, he understands. He starts to tap on his own, with both hands. It’s a habit she picked up from her shrink, something to focus her mind, keep her calm. 

He’s still so tense, so bites her lip, then gently starts to rub his back. The way her mother used to do for her when she was sick, slow, gentle circles.

After a few minutes, his breathing slows. 

They don’t speak for a while, neither of them. They stay like this, quiet and still, his hand tapping and her hand still moving in slow circles. She can tell, the second his hearing comes back, because his head snaps up. He turns to face her, still not quite meeting her eyes. 

“Hi,” she says simply. “Feeling better?”

“Not really,” he mutters, his voice gruff and miserable. 

She smirks gently. “Hit to the head will do that to you,” she says. He frowns, jaw clenched.

“I still can’t -- can’t really hear,” he chokes out. He sounds so ashamed. 

“I’ll talk slower,” she says, careful to keep her voice as clear as possible despite the amount of whiskey in her system. “I’ve got a -- a friend, I guess. He forgets his hearing aid sometimes,” she explains.

Daredevil nods. “Normally, I can hear everything,” he whispers. “The whole world. Sirens, screams, heartbeats --”

“Bullets,” she interjects. She shrugs. “I’ve seen you around. Assume that’s how you knew me, too,” she adds.

He doesn’t say anything, just rests his hands in his lap. “You’re the one who usually smells like whiskey,” he says. The corner of his lips twitch, almost a smile.

She rolls her eyes. “Speaking of which,” she says, reaching into her bag. She pulls out her flask, takes a swig, then drops it into his lap. “Might help your nerves.”

He laughs, and there’s something a little familiar about the sound. But she’s too focused on this shit to think about it for long. He pulls from the flask, impressively, even by her standards, then passes it back. “Where’d you learn that hand thing?” he asks.

She stalls by taking another drink. “Long story,” she says finally. “How’d you get hit in the head?”

“Long story.” There’s definitely a smirk on his face now.

She shakes her head, then hauls herself to her feet. “Come on,” she calls, stretching out a hand. He takes it, and she helps him up. “You should get that head wound looked at. I’ve got a nurse friend I can take you to.”

“She doesn’t happen to be named Claire, does she?” he asks, 

Jessica pauses, but she isn’t entirely surprised. “Girl gets around with that medkit of hers,” she says. She grabs his arm, wedges herself underneath so she’s taking most of his weight. He doesn’t even try to fight her, and they head off towards Claire’s. She’s probably going to be super pissed about this. 

“Thank you,” he says as they make their way down the street. “For doing this. For everything back there.” His head turns towards her. “Sorry I tried to hurt you. I was... “

She smiles gently. Won’t make him say it. “It’s fine. I’ve had worse,” she assures him. “You wanna apologize for something, apologize for the stupid name. Daredevil, come on.”

“I didn’t pick it. It just stuck.”