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Party streamers, sprinklers, perfume, loud speakers. Four simple things found at any department store, plus a good beating, and Daredevil's just about out for the count. It's an infuriatingly simple weakness, the result of the same heightened senses and radar that his childhood accident had given him. The very definition of a blessing and a curse. Matt had so far managed to not be taken down by such simple tactics through his secret identity. No one could exploit his sensitivity if they didn't know exactly how it worked.
Unfortunately, an offshoot of The Hand he'd been ambushed by somehow knew his secret and didn't hesitate to use it against him. Matt had gone in, knowing he was outnumbered, but still somewhat confident of his chances at beating them. If he could take on the real Hand, he can definitely take on this cheap knockoff. Unfortunately, he hadn't been counting them on using every trick in the book to beat him. As soon as they'd surrounded him, they'd pulled out a glitter cannon, which sent his radar into a useless disarray. (Yes, it's just as embarrassing as it sounds to be defeated by a glitter cannon.) In the time it had taken him to gather his bearings with his hearing, they'd started blasting horrible screeching, wailing white noise to distract him and from there, it wasn't any particular struggle to overpower him.
Now Matt is tied up in some basement, with streamers hanging from the ceiling, some machine in the corner timed to release several spritzes of cheap perfume, the overhead water sprinklers on, and several speakers around the room blasting different songs at top volume. It's absolutely excruciating and to top it off, someone comes in every once in a while to beat him with a pipe, so no matter how much progress Matt tries to make by meditating and tuning out the extra sensations, he's always sent right back to square one by the pain. There's so much overwhelming his senses right now, that he might as well really be blind and deaf right now. All the cacophony just mushes together into one debilitating swell of pain. He thinks his nose and ears have started bleeding, but it's hard to tell over the water pouring down from the ceiling.
Overall, it's quite the pickle to be in. Matt thinks he's starting to understand Foggy's points about him needing to keep better relationships with friends, because coming here alone is the only reason they'd been able to overpower him like this. Not to mention that no one knows where he is right now, so if he wants to get out of this, he'll have to do it by himself. He doesn't expect any rescue coming in anytime soon. God. Matt hopes this doesn't end up being the end of him, if nothing else because of how horribly embarrassing it would be to have it go down in history that Daredevil was found dead surrounded by party streamers and with 7 different disco songs playing in the background.
He'll think of some last minute, totally reckless plan that gets him out of this. He has to. He always does. He's Daredevil. That's practically his entire brand. (Just in case, though, he says a few final prayers when the ache in his head feels like it might split it in two at any second, no matter how irrational a fear that is.)
Through the mess that his senses are right now, he can distantly hear the basement door crash open. Not enough to actually do anything about it and put up a good fight, but enough that he knows something terrible is coming and for his stomach to tighten up in unpleasant foreshadowing. It's such a perfectly terrible balance, that Matt knows it couldn't have been done on purpose. It's far too precise for a group of New York villains not even good enough to get into the real Hand.
Through muffled pain, he hears the slap of boots hitting the puddles on the floor as they approach him and Matt's body tenses up in waiting of what's about to come. Only no one brings a steel pipe down against his ribs or tries to bash his face in. That's different from all the other times someone's come in. Matt wonders if they're reeling up for something even worse, more painful, but instead, he just feels hands behind him starting to untie his bindings. Despite knowing it'll do him better to have full use of his limbs, he can't help lashing out a bit, to make it more difficult for whoever is untying him. Who knows? This might be some sort of trick. He doesn't trust whoever this stranger is, even if they are untying him. His wiggling is weak, more suited for a scared child than a trained fighter like himself, but he does manage a good kick to the shin of whoever this is. He hears the yowl to prove it.
"Fuck, Red, you damn sure make it hard to rescue you, don'tcha?" someone mutters.
And the voice, as muffled and pained as it sounds to Matt, sounds like Frank. Hell, that's a nickname only Frank would use with him. But... Frank? Here? How could that be? Matt had definitely not told anyone where he was going and he'd had no way of contacting the outside world since arriving here, however long ago that was. Frank wouldn't know he was captured. He must be hallucinating, Matt decides. This is his brain trying to come up with some nicer alternative to life, to soothe him somewhat as he gets led off to whatever horrible plan these people have in store for him.
Only, as the person leads him further and further from that horrible room and Matt's senses have a chance to think properly again, the more vivid the Frank hallucination becomes. Matt can smell the musk, gunpowder, and sandalwood cologne that he's come to associate with Frank. The same heavy footsteps of his military grade boots, weighed down by all the equipment he carries. The loud, steady heartbeat. The rough, but reassuring grip on his shoulder. It's a very convincing hallucination.
Wait.
Matt smells blood in the air and the lingering smoke of gunshots. He reaches his hand out blindly - ha - until reaching Frank and drags his fingers over him. Touch is the one sense they hadn't been able to take from him. And while there's an annoyed grumble when his fingers reach skin, Frank doesn't try to pull away from Matt's fingers as they map out his face and confirm that this really is Frank. How Frank had known where Matt was to come rescue him is a mystery, but Matt isn't going to question this small miracle too much.
Content in the knowledge that this really is Frank here to rescue him and not someone taking him away to a much worse fate, Matt lets himself slump over into Matt's arms and finally relax. There's definitely dead bodies strewn around them right now, Matt's senses are slowly recovering enough to make him aware of that, and he'll give Frank a talking to about it when they're out of here and his head no longer feels like it's exploding, but for now, he just lets himself breathe and come down from the pain. He may disagree with Frank's methods, but he knows Frank won't let any more hurt come to him.
The last thing he hears before finally letting unconsciousness sweep over him is Frank's exasperated chuckle as he hauls him over his shoulder and carries him outside. "All right, Murdock, you enjoy your nap while I do all the hard work as usual."
****
Matt wakes up in a bed that's not his own, but that he recognizes well enough to not be caught off guard. Frank's apartment. He's been here a few times, sometimes to patch himself up after they've worked together and other times for more extracurricular activities. Always with his mask on, mind you. His secret identity is important to him, which is why he's not going to just go and share it with someone he's casually sleeping with.
Only.
Details of his rescue come crashing back to him. Most importantly, he remembers what Frank had called him just before he'd passed out. Murdock . Shit. Matt tries to search his memories of their previous interactions for any recollection of when he might have said something that gave him away, but no. He's been careful. He reaches up to check if perhaps his mask had come off amidst all of this, but no. It's still tugged down over his face, even if the rest of his uniform has been discarded by now, save for his boxer briefs and some bandages that Frank must have put on him while he slept.
Had Frank maybe taken a peek under his mask one of the times Matt had accidentally stayed the night? This is absolutely not how Matt wanted his identity to get out. Damn. He's lost control of the situation. He needs to get it back.
He gets up off the bed, ignoring the painful pang in his ribs as he does, and follows the scent of coffee and sandalwood out to the kitchen. His senses are still a bit blurry around the edges, but he's recovered enough to make out Frank standing by the stove, making breakfast and coffee. Frank looks over his shoulder at him and Matt can almost see the disapproving frown.
"I was gonna be a good boyfriend, Red. Bring you breakfast in bed and shit. But you always are an impatient little bastard, ain't ya?" Frank sighs and goes to set the coffee down on the table instead. "Shouldn't even be up yet with your injuries, but I know I don't stand a chance at talking some sense into you."
Matt considers, for half a second, feigning ignorance about the secret identity issue and denying the whole thing, but he knows there's no point to it. And there's no point in beating around the bush. "You called me Murdock yesterday. How long have you known?"
"Is that why you look so pissy this morning? Cause I know your name? I thought lawyers were supposed to be smart, Red." Frank snorts, like this is the funniest thing that's happened to him all week. Maybe it is. "God damn, Red. Ain't too many blind people in Hell's Kitchen with your height and build and I may not have hearing on your level, but I can damn well tell when two people who look the same talk the same."
That... Damn. It makes sense. Matt's avoided that angle by keeping the list of people who repeatedly interact with both his lives short, but it was probably bound to happen if he kept sleeping with Frank as the Devil and also occasionally cleaning up his messes as Matt. Still, it's managed to catch him off guard. He sits down, still somewhat stunned. He asks, "How long have you known?"
"I was pretty damn sure by the time you and your lawyer buddy came to me at the hospital. I'd already figured out Daredevil was blind and in comes this blind lawyer, same height and build and weight, sounding exactly like the Devil of Hell's Kitchen. It wasn't too hard to connect the dots. I figured you'd tell me when you were good and ready."
That just sends Matt into another wave of sputtering uselessly. The entire time they've known each other?! Frank's known the entire time? Matt's going to have to be more vigilant from now on. He takes a sip of the coffee, relishing in both the burn as it goes down and in tasting the remnants of whiskey still lingering on the mug Frank had given him. It's good. It means his senses are recovering quickly. Still, they'll need to be better than they ever were if Frank had figured him out so quickly.
Matt shakes his head in disbelief. "That's... We've slept together, Frank. With my mask on!"
Which, speaking of the mask, he reaches up to yank it off. No need for it now, if Frank had known anyway. At least this way, he can breathe better and the bruises on his face won't be constricted. Doesn't he just feel like the world's biggest idiot now, knowing that it was a useless precaution this entire time, because Frank had known anyway? It doesn't make him feel any less stupid when Frank starts to laugh again.
"Like I said, I was waiting 'til you were good and ready, Red. And I figured maybe it was some weird sort of kink."
It's official, Matt wants to crawl under Frank's bedsheets again and be left to die. Frank just seems to be thoroughly enjoying every second. It's not often Matt gets caught off guard like this. Matt's starting to suspect that the real reason Frank hadn't let it slip that he knew was simply because he wanted to give himself the upper hand in orchestrating this scenario. If anyone would be patient enough to keep a secret like that for over the year, simply for the sake of investing in the long haul of a funny sort of prank, it would be Frank. Without a doubt.
Something that Frank said earlier registers in Matt's mind now and he thinks he might have the perfect comeback. "So... Boyfriend, huh?"
Frank stops laughing very quickly and his usually unwavering pulse spikes satisfyingly. "Well, I mean, y'know. It's just a word, Red. No need to get all caught up in it."
"Just a word? Frank, you're dating a lawyer and apparently knew all along. You should have thought about that a long time ago." Matt grins deviously at him. They've been sleeping together for a while, but never anything more, mostly because it's hard to have anything close to a proper relationship when one half is a fugitive and the other is a vigilante with a supposedly secret identity. Now that one of those things is cleared up? Much easier. "Now that you know, I'm sure we can make great use of it. Y'know, real dates and stuff. We can go ice skating, dinner at some Italian place, catch a concert. Oh, maybe we can even double date with Foggy, boyfriend ."
None of that sounds like a particularly good time to Matt, but it's all worth it to hear the way Frank goes off on an embarrassed rant while trying to recover his dignity. Finding out his identity wasn't so secret after all after a night of being tortured? Not so great. Figuring out he now has an endless list of fun new ways to torment his sort of boyfriend? An excellent way to spend his day in recovery.