it's been a long, long time

a small price (c)

  trigger warning: physical abuse 

Matthew Murdock is friends with a Vanko.

He can't think about it too much; if he does, he starts to spiral because how could he, a good person who sometimes does questionable things, be friends with a Vanko?

The thing is, though, she doesn't seem like the Vankos he's heard about. Anna is tough, sure. And yes, she does know her way around guns, and she could definitely kick his ash if she wanted to. But she's...she's also a good friend. She listens as he talks about his past, about his running away from home. She listens as he complains about how he feels trapped in the drug game sometimes, about how sometimes he's afraid he's never going to be able to get out. She listens to his stories about Karen, and she smiles at the way his eyes light up whenever he says her name.

He wishes he could do the same for her.

It's not that he doesn't try; on the contrary, he tries all the time. But her defenses are high and sturdy, built up over decades of hiding, of deceit, of not having anybody to trust, and he isn't sure how far in he can get. He tells her literally everything about Karen in an attempt to get her to talk about the man who got away.

After the first night, she's a little more relaxed, a little less guarded. She slips little references to him into their daily conversations that are so inconspicuous he'd miss them if he wasn't consciously looking for them. He takes special notice of these tiny little notes, and from the bits and pieces of information he gets, he pieces together an image of the man whose name she still won't say. (He asks, but she just shakes her head and stays silent).

He's her rock, Matthew learns. He's strength and intelligence and sarcasm so subtle you'd miss it if you didn't know him. He anchors her to humanity, to the earth, in a way nobody else has. He's brave and he's morally pure and he's reliable. He's the yin to her yang, the daring trailblazer to her quiet infiltrator, the optimist that keeps her pessimism in check, the confident symbol of what is good and right that allowed her reticent, cynical self to maybe start believing in it too.

Now, he's a void. A missed opportunity. A potential unfulfilled, a name that will never grace her lips again.

Matthew doesn't know how he can help, if he can help. But he's determined to try, no matter what it takes.

He wants to help—which is why he's knocking on her door in the middle of the night after hearing a yelp of pain on his way to his own apartment.

"Anna?" He says, voice raised, when no one answers. "I'm really sorry to bother you, but I was on my way back from a deal and heard you yell. Are you okay?"

"I'm fine!" The door muffles her voice, but Matthew can still hear the note of pain underlying her words.

"Just let me in, I can help, I'm not doing anything, anyway! Come on, the neighbors are gonna wake up—" His words are cut short as she yanks the door open, drags him inside, and then shuts it as quickly as humanly possible. She's pulling locks shut by the time he turns to face her, and he counts four deadbolts that were definitely not there the night before. "What's going on? Why'd you get so many new locks?"

She turns, and he gasps in surprise. Her face is covered in dried blood, her left eye is swelling at an alarmingly rapid pace, a bruise is forming on her collarbone, and there's a bandage on her forehead that he assumes is hiding a nasty cut.

"What the here happened?" he whispers.

"It's okay, I promise. I was putting some of my industrial-strength antiseptic on the gash on my forehead, and it's been so long I forgot how much it stings, so I just yelled in surprise. It's not that bad."