!!!!!

The night before the fundraiser was Sarah's last night staying at Matt's apartment before moving back in to her own.

Because of this, he really had intended to only go out as Daredevil for a short while, wanting to come back early enough that she'd still be awake. He was only going out because he'd gotten wind that there was a meeting happening with some people he'd been very keen to find in relation to a drug ring he'd been tracking. The plan had been to check it out, stay out of sight, and get what information he could to lead him to their higher-ups.

But of course, things so rarely went according to plan, which was how Matt ended up thudding tiredly down the roof access stairs in his apartment at three in the morning with a splitting headache, a wrenched shoulder, bruised ribs and a painful stretch of road rash across most of the left side of his torso. But at least, he thought to himself wryly, he'd gotten the information he'd gone for.

Matt fumbled a few aspirin out of the bottle he kept on the kitchen shelf and swallowed them dry, too tired to bother getting any water to chase them with. He knocked the bottle over as he set it down, sending it rolling off the counter and away from him, the skittering sound of pills spilling out across the floor. He ignored it and braced himself against the kitchen counter with both hands, bowing his head as he tried to concentrate on his breathing and calm the pounding in his skull. If he could just rid of that, it would be easier to focus on tending the rest of his injuries.

He was still concentrating on his breathing when he felt something bump against his hand. He jerked his head up with a start, suddenly becoming very aware of the presence of another person in the kitchen.

Sarah was standing close by, but with a few careful feet of space between them. Matt frowned when he realized what had bumped his hand was the half-empty bottle of aspirin, which she had gently rolled towards him across the counter to get his attention.

"I was saying your name, but you weren't responding," she said hesitantly.

It occurred to Matt with a faint pang of guilt that she'd kept her distance because she was possibly remembering the last time she'd accidentally taken him by surprise, and the massive bruise she'd gotten as a result.

"Sorry," Matt murmured. "Didn't mean to wake you."

Reassured that Matt was safely lucid, Sarah closed the space between them. Her hands moved over him as she inspected the state of his injuries, and he heard her breathing catch as she brushed her fingers over the torn fabric of his shirt, where the skin was scraped angry and raw underneath. She pushed her hair out of her face and swallowed, then shook her head.

"I'll get the kit," she said quietly, her voice raspy from sleep.

She ducked into the bathroom to grab the first aid kit, and Matt tugged his mask and gloves off and tossed them aside. He slowly reached for the hem of his shirt to pull it over his head—a task that he was less than enthusiastic about, given the battered state of his ribcage. Sure enough, he got the fabric about halfway up his torso before his ribs protested with a sharp, stabbing pain.

Sarah hurriedly set the kit on the table and reached to help him.

"Ribs," was his short, wincing explanation.

"Okay," she murmured. "Are you able to lift your arms a little more?"

"The right one more than the left," he said. "Shoulder's a little..."

He trailed off, not needing to explain much more. She'd already seen him hurt that same shoulder numerous times, wrenching it until it was just short of dislocated—and occasionally until it actually was dislocated—over and over again.

She rested her hand against his chest as she looked him over, and he could hear the drag of her teeth against her skin as she bit her lip worriedly. She fingered the torn fabric at the hem of his shirt and looked up at him.

"Can I just cut it?" she asked. "Kind of looks like it might have run its course anyway."

"Have at it."

She kept her carefully close by as Matt lowered himself onto the couch, slouching low and leaning his head against the backrest. Sarah grabbed the first aid kit off the table and brought it over to the couch, rummaging inside for the sharp scissors she usually used to cut lengths of gauze.

"Were you really not going to wake me up?" she asked.

"What, and ruin your sleep the night before your big performance?" he asked, a twinge of guilt hitting him as he thought about what time it was right now. "I'd have to be a real dick to do that."

She took a seat next to him, folding her legs up against him.

"You're not a dick, Matt," she told him with a sigh. She carefully positioned the scissors at the bottom of his shirt and began snipping the fabric open. "You're hurt."

"It's fine. I get hurt all the time," he told her.

"I'm aware of—I'm actually very aware of that," she said in frustration. "But this is a lot. You look like you got run over by a car."

Despite Matt's best efforts to keep his expression neutral, he couldn't help the slightest flicker of guilt that flashed across his face before he could hide it. Sarah paused, then her mouth fell open.

"Oh my god, Matt!" she exclaimed, halting the scissors. "Are you serious?"

He shifted uncomfortably, brushing off her alarm.

"A small car. Slow moving, barely clipped me," he said, rolling his shoulder experimentally then wincing.

"A small car," she echoed him in disbelief.

"Yeah, you know," he said, offering her a pained grin. "The compact kind. Environmentally friendly."

His weak joke failed to land as Sarah snipped the last bit of fabric and pushed his shirt aside, revealing the full extent of the bruised, scraped skin on his torso. He heard her take in a deep, steadying breath as she looked at him.

"It's fine," he insisted before she could say anything. "I'll heal."

"Will you? I know you like to think you'll always bounce back like rubber but you're still made of human parts. Getting hurt over and over again adds up. How many times have you hurt that shoulder now?" Sarah asked, reaching out for the shoulder in question. If her touch had matched her harsh tone she would have grabbed it hard enough to bruise, but as usual her hands were gentle on his skin.

"And it's healed each time," he argued quietly. "Like everything else."

That was technically true, but he knew why she was bringing up his shoulder in particular. The last time Sarah had called Claire for advice about treating Matt's wrenched shoulder, Claire had warned them both that continuously stressing his rotator cuff could lead to limited mobility, which would be less than ideal for someone who needed to throw punches as often as he did.

"Yeah, and it took longer each time, too," Sarah pointed out. "Claire said you have to stop wrenching it or your—your pop socket is gonna...rotate its axis."

Matt's ribs protested again as he gave a tired, surprised laugh. He knew that probably wasn't the best way to make her less angry at him right now, but her absolutely nonsensical medical terminology spoken in such a frustrated tone was a small bright spot of amusement in between the dull waves of pain that were washing over most of his muscles.

"What are you talking about?" he asked.

"I don't remember the technical terms," she said defensively. "But it's bad for you!"

"I'm sorry," he said with a chuckle that quickly turned into a sharp inhale of pain as she began to dab disinfectant against his broken skin. "It'll be better once the new suit is ready."

"Don't apologize to me. If you make Claire mad enough, she's going to stop helping us. Then you'll have to charm some other nurse into treating you," Sarah warned.

"Why would I do that when I have you?" he asked, tilting his head and offering her a hopeful grin.

Something changed in her breathing as she watched his face, and when she spoke again her tone was softer, more tired than angry. That was the thing about Sarah: even when Matt deserved to be yelled at, she somehow found her way back to being empathetic instead. It wasn't exactly a trait his past girlfriends had possessed, and he never stopped being surprised by it.

"I'm not a nurse," she informed him. "My first aid skills are nowhere near Claire's."

"They're a lot better than they used to be."

She carefully smoothed a bandage over the now disinfected area on his abdomen.

"I don't think they could get worse. You'll probably always have that scar."

He knew she didn't like the sight of the jagged scar that ran over his shoulder and down across his chest, messier and more noticeable than the rest. A souvenir of the first time she'd attempted to stitch him up, all trembling hands and nervous heartbeat. To Matt, who had little care for scars that he couldn't even see, it was just a physical reminder of what had fascinated him about her in the first place: that ceaseless compassion again, present where logically other emotions should edge it out.

"Who cares? I was lucky you helped me at all," he said, then raised his eyebrows pointedly. "I still am."

Sarah's breathing changed again as she gave him a tired smile for the first time that night, and Matt returned it. He moved his hand until his fingertips found the warmth of her legs curled comfortably against him, bare skin stretching up until it met hem of his t-shirt that she'd chosen to wear to bed—very possibly planning to steal it on her last night here. He rested his hand against her leg, focusing on her steady heartbeat over the pain in his head and body.

So very different from that first time. He would never for the life of him figure out how they'd ended up here.

They were quiet for a while as she continued to work, interrupted just by the occasional yawn from Sarah.

"I am sorry I woke you up for this," he said after a bit.

"Don't worry about it. Not sleeping before a big show is the usual for me," she said with a shrug. She gently pressed a bandage over another raw patch of skin. "I'm surprised I fell asleep at all."

"You feel like you're ready?" he asked, relieved to move on to a topic that wasn't his injuries. "For tomorrow?"

"The piano part or the potential assassination attempt?"

"Either. Both."

Matt knew Sarah had been waiting all week to see if Jason would say anything to her about the fundraiser. But he hadn't, which could mean several things: he'd caught wind of how much security would be surrounding Vanessa at the fundraiser and had decided against any kind of attack he had been planning; he was still planning something bad and he didn't trust Sarah enough to include her; or he'd never been planning anything at all, and they were just being paranoid over one conversation.

"I'm definitely prepared for the performance," she said. "The rest of it...I don't know. It's such a grey area that I don't even know what to be on the lookout for. I just wish Vanessa had never decided to go so that we didn't have to worry about whatever's happening with them affecting us."

"I'll worry about keeping tabs on Vanessa. And anyone else who seems like they might cause trouble. You worry about what you're actually there to do," Matt told her.

Sarah snorted. "Oh, sure. You sneak around and take out anyone who's pointing a sniper rifle, and I'll just play my little songs."

"That's exactly the plan, yeah."

One of the few times Matt had to actually guess what Sarah was doing was when she rolled her eyes, but sometimes the sigh she gave was so deep that he could only assume she was.

"You must be at least a little concerned if you're willing to date Cecilia to be there," she said.

Matt sighed, but his breath caught in a wince as he shifted, the movement jostling his ribs too much for their liking.

"It doesn't mean I think anything will happen. But if there's a chance something will...if Jason does try to do something to Vanessa, I want to be there to make sure you don't get caught in the middle of it," he said.

Sarah gave a doubtful hum, but otherwise didn't argue.

"But since we're on the subject...you remember everything we agreed on, right?" he asked, knowing it might annoy her but needing to make sure anyway.

"I do," she confirmed. When Matt just waited, she groaned. "You really want me to go through all the rules you came up with? It's a long list."

"It's not that long."

"As the overprotective person who came up with the list, I think you're biased."

He stilled her hand as she reached for the disinfectant again. "Humor me."

"Fine," she said with a sigh. She began to list off bullet points as she poured the disinfectant onto the cotton pad in her hand. "Stay away from Vanessa as much as possible. Don't go near her bodyguards, don't drink anything any of her people hand me. If something happens, don't try to interfere."

"Good."

"Talk to you a little bit, because people know we know each other, but not a lot, because we don't know each other well."

"Professional acquaintances," he agreed.

"Right. It's like if I ran into...my accountant at a party," she estimated. "Very businesslike."

"Do you have an accountant?" he asked curiously.

"Oh, sure. For all my buckets of money I have to keep track of."

"Stupid question," he allowed, sucking air through his teeth as she pressed the disinfectant against his skin. "Keep going. What else?"

"Um...don't talk about fight club."

"Sarah."

"Don't talk to anyone about Daredevil," she amended, adjusting her tone to something more serious. "That's a big one. I know. I promise I won't make that mistake this time. Trust me."

"I trust you," he said firmly. "With anything. I just know that you...really don't like it when people have certain things to say about Daredevil."

"Well, I also really don't like the idea of my boyfriend going to jail because I have a big mouth, so...I'll get over it," she said.

"Glad to hear it. Slipping up in front of Cecilia would be bad; slipping up in front of Vanessa Fisk would be..."

Sarah swallowed, and her voice no longer held anything close to humor as she gently brought her hand to his face.

"That won't happen," she said seriously. "In front of anyone."

Matt nodded, hoping she was right. From what Sarah had told him, it sounded like it would be a fairly large event. And given Vanessa's status in the local art community, there was a good chance she would be kept busy with all of the artists there kissing her ass so that she would purchase some of their work during the auction. Hopefully busy enough that she wouldn't be paying either of them much attention.

Sarah gently tilted his chin up, inspecting what he suspected was a fairly vivid bruise on his cheek—luckily one that would be covered by his mask, so that only Matt Murdock would be seen with it and not Daredevil.

"What will you tell people tomorrow when they ask about this?" she asked him.

Matt considered her question for a second as she moved on to cleaning a shallow cut on his side.

"Most people won't ask. They get uncomfortable around people like me. The ones who do ask..." He gave a painful half-shrug. "I could say any kind of excuse. They'll already have chalked it up to a blind thing in their head. People...decide on an idea of who a person is, and anything outside that box gets ignored."

"Like the idea of a blind guy who gets injured fighting crime every night," she ventured.

"Exactly."

She hummed thoughtfully. "And no one ever figures you out."

"Almost no one," he said quietly. Then his lips tugged into a wry grin. "Hopefully not the investigative reporter I'll be spending most of the evening with."

"We won't let that happen," Sarah said, but Matt picked up on the way she shifted against him, her posture changing just slightly to something more closed off. The same way she had when he'd brought up accepting the invitation in the first place, and the same way she had every time it had come up since then.

"You keep doing that," he pointed out cautiously.

"What?"

"Tensing up whenever I mention Cecilia."

She carefully kept her attention on the first aid kit, where she was pulling out a box of steri-strips to address the cut on his side.

"Well, she makes me tense," she said with a half-shrug.

Matt waited a beat for her to explain further, but she didn't.

"Kind of feels like something else," he prompted, trying to feel out if his suspicions were correct.

Sarah groaned.

"I can feel you preparing to cross-examine me," she protested.

"You're not on trial," Matt said with a grin. "It's just a question. Are you really bothered that I'm going with her?"

"That's not fair."

"What isn't?"

"If you ask me if it bothers me and I say no, you'll know I'm lying, and I know you don't like that. But I also can't tell the truth, because I'll sound crazy if I say that I'm jealous of you going on a date that I know you're only going on to keep me safe. So I think it's probably best to just...plead the fifth?" she said hopefully.

"Jealous? Of Cecilia?" Matt asked incredulously.

"I really wish I wasn't; it's embarrassing," she said, tucking her hair behind her ear. "But I figure you'll know soon anyway, because when I have to watch the two of you dance tomorrow night I think my heart might actually, like, physically shrivel up. And that just seems like the kind of thing your senses will pick up on."

"Of all the things you need to be worried about tomorrow night, me being interested in Cecilia isn't on that list," Matt said slowly.

"I know. I really do. Or, like...the logical side of my brain does. But...Crazy Brain Sarah just keeps thinking about how Cecilia is um...just your type," Sarah said with a self-conscious wince in her voice.

"Yeah?" Matt asked in dark amusement, his eyebrows shooting up. "And what exactly do you think you know about my type?"

Sarah exhaled, then answered reluctantly. "Something about...beautiful women with no morals?"

His sharp grin slipped a fraction as he recognized the familiar words, then he groaned, casting his blank eyes towards the ceiling in exasperation.

"Foggy," he grumbled.

"Yeah."

"Is there anything I can do to get you to stop gossiping with my best friend about our relationship?"

"It wasn't gossiping," Sarah said, seemingly taking offense to the insinuation. "It was...bagel line small talk. And I mean, if you'd been standing in the bagel line with him like you were supposed to be instead of me..." She trailed off when she saw Matt's unimpressed look. "Sorry. I wish I could talk to my best friend about us, but I can't, so...your best friend is the next best thing. Who else am I going to talk to?"

"I don't know—me?" he hazarded. "Do I get any say in who my type is, or does Foggy get the final word on that?"

"Talk to you? About us?" Sarah asked suspiciously.

"Ideally, yes."

"It's just that you tend to answer a lot of personal questions with...long, ambiguous silences," she pointed out hesitantly.

"And Foggy?"

"Foggy spills out information like a piñata," she informed him matter-of-factly. "Like, with no prompting at all. He always has. Since the first time we met."