SpideyDevil

Crossover case

The nights had begun to feel less sharp. Biting at exposed skin with the passing whip of wind but less likely to snatch the air out of one's lungs if they were to breath in too quickly. 
Matt Murdock was thankful for the edging change in weather, slow but persistent, towards a more manageable climate. 
The new suit was better than running around in the jeans and shirt he had been using, it breathed at the joints and was well insulated, armored, and padded. 
He had gotten far less bruising to his knees, elbows and ribs since acquiring it, but what was more he had begun to acquire an image in their place. 
The Devil of Hell's Kitchen had a nice ring to it, though he had to admit that the Bugle was one of the few calling him that, they had taken to the idea that he was some crude monster, wreaking havoc on the streets, beating the hell out of strangers. 
The very thought made Matt put his teeth on edge, J Jonah Jameson's voice rang out above the others
*"This demon thinks he can enact his own law. He thinks he can own Hell's Kitchen, and maybe even the greater City of New York. All through fear and intimidation!"*
Matt had asked Foggy to turn it off but the damage had been done, and even now, far from the law offices or the precincts, the chitter chatter of lawyers and cops, he still heard that stupid newcasters voice above all else. 
He tried to shake it all off and focus on the journey home. 
He was thankful for the change in weather if only because, although his new suit was good at protecting him in many ways, it wasn't water proof. 
Certainly not 'let's take a swim' wear. 
With each limping step and squish in his boots towards his apartment he reminded himself that it wasn't just the Jameson's out there. 
His supporters had given him a different name, Daredevil. 
And although it might not have been as fear inducing to his enemies it was a bit more true to color.
Tonight had shown that better than any before it, he was human, doing beyond human activities. 
But Matt was also hurting so the pontificating would have to wait, and as he finally dragged himself through his window and collapsed onto his livingroom floor he gasped to catch his breath and his head spun wildly in his skull teetering on the brink of unconsciousness. 
After what felt like hours, but judging by the distant ticking of his neighbors grandfather clock was only a few minutes, Matt forced himself into a sitting position and drug himself to his coffee table, tapping his phone so it would read the time out to him he groaned softly at its response. 
He had six hours before he had to be at the precinct. 
He felt he could sleep for days. 
When was the last time he had gotten more than four hours? He couldn't recall and tonight was not going to be much different. 
Despite his full bodied exhaustion he wrestled his way out of the suit and took stock of his wounds, nothing was broken…
But there was a stab wound to his side, the attacks had mostly been stopped by the armor, but it seemed a blade had slid between the chink. 
It wasn't gushing, it didn't hurt too bad… 
So, free of the suit he padded his damp and wrinkled feet to the bathroom, only after grabbing a bottle of whiskey along the way and taking a few shakey swallows. 
It took him longer than he would have liked to stitch himself up, there were a few points he grew lightheaded and had to pause. 
But he had been stitching his father up since he could remember, he didn't need to see much to do the same to himself. 
Though this meant his work was….less than professional and over the last year he had collected quite a few scars. 

He didn't remember going to sleep, only the sharp intrusion of the alarm into the comforting velvet darkness of his slumber. 
It lit his whole head aflame, the ringing was followed by his phone reading off the time and date, the weather and the top news article headlines, and any messages he may have received. 
Every robotic word felt like his head was a gong being rung and as he sat up and began to take in his surroundings he realized why. 
He had passed out on his bathroom floor, and reaching up he felt the stiff patch of hair from where a headwound had been bleeding, long since stopped. 
Guess he had missed that, between the pain and the booze to cover up the pain and steady his hand. 
Well it was no real matter, it wasn't bad enough to give much worry. 
He drug himself to his feet and into the shower, doing some work to keep the water from hitting his new stitches and regained some sense of himself before bustling out the door with a thermos full of coffee and a bagel in his hand.