The Devil on Our Backs*Matt Murdock*Daredevil x The Flash* Damned*

10) Walk in a (creepy) funhouse

Being only a voice in Barry's ear was something that was driving Matt crazy.

Or maybe it was the fucking shitstorm that had started the moment an armed robbery happened at MDDC, putting Matt on edge to begin with; because, really? A café, that café of all the possible places? Matt truly, truly hated the Universe for that choice and the fact he could hear it happening, right from the beginning to the end, witnessing Vera – what the hell she had been thinking – trade herself for another hostage, only to attempt to take on the robber, that was just infuriating. And impossibly terrifying. The noise of the bullet, the shot, it would be ringing in his ears for a long time, unison with the one that had echoed n his mind since he was nine.

They had fought about it, of course they had; the moment Vera had stepped into their apartment, it had been as if he had known she had been safe for the moment and the gagging fear had cleared the space for rage. He had shouted that day and so had she, as if not getting why he had been so upset, throwing him his hypocrisy right to his face. Of course, she had a point as well, but--

After the fight, Matt had only been squirming in regret, sensing her anxiety and sadness, tasting her tears. He had gone out, to beat the unsettling feeling in his gut away, dealing with the tourists from Central City in the process.

Vera had slept on the couch that night, leaving him in bed alone; he hadn't tried and moved her. Neither of them had got much sleep, missing the other, but too upset to make the first move towards making-up. Matt couldn't remember at which point he had actually fallen asleep, but when he had woken up, it had been to an empty apartment with no reassuring heartbeat in his ears.

Instead, he had been assaulted by an insisting mechanical voice repeating Jessica Jones' name. What a way to start a day. That fact itself, the PI calling him, could mean nothing good.

And it hadn't.

"Murdock, I think we have a big ass problem. You do. I have no time for that shit, but rumour from my source in prison has it that a certain dickhead escaped. Fisk's out," she had told him and that very moment, Matt's blood had run cold and it hadn't warmed ever since.

He couldn't hear shit. Nothing. The police hadn't known. Karen or Foggy hadn't called him to warn him. But he had found an endless line of text messages from Terri; not because the psychic had had a vision, no. It had been because her friend hadn't showed up at work.

Vera had been nowhere in his hearing reach either. His heart had positively stopped beating when learning that information.

There had been no one willing to help, pushing Matt to the very last possible solution – approaching the strange group that only had arrived two days before, already getting involved and stepping onto his toes.

Now here he was. On the fucking sidelines, letting the 'Team Flash' do the work for him, himself completely useless, his fiancée lying unconscious and barely breathing on a hospital slash laboratory bed. Matt wanted to scream in frustration. To rip his hair out in desperation. To keep punching something – someone – so hard it would die.

And make no mistake, Wilson Fisk was a dead man. Matt desired to smash the monster's skull with his bare hands, he craved it so much it was almost paralyzing. Instead, he was assisting Barry with convincing Brett to let them erase Fisk's memories of Matt being Daredevil and of everything the man knew about Nelson, Murdock and company, so he would leave them alone.

When the fuck had that happened?!

On the outside, Matt was only anxious, possibly frustrated a bit. On the inside, his blood finally warmed up and reached the point of boiling.