However Matt expected to end the night, it wasn't sitting at a bar with his new supersoldier client, nursing a split lip, bruised ribs, and two fingers on his left hand that don't really want to move right now. Getting so blindsided as to be caught up in a street brawl in his civvies would have been the low point of any other day of the week, but Bucky had dropped right into the fray out of nowhere and turned the tides from what otherwise might have been a much longer and much more costly fight.
He'd been on his way back home from Fogwell's Gym, dressed in sweats and a hoodie (so at least he won't need to replace another bloodied suit), glasses on and cane out when he was confronted by a group of terribly unfriendly men whose motives he still isn't quite sure of. He is dearly hoping it has something to do with said latest client rather than Daredevil, considering they had tracked him down as Matt Murdock and he really is clinging onto the hope that Fisk hasn't—and won't—turn on him while Vanessa is still dangling out there, free. Whatever the case, two of the men were armed, and Matt taken a series of hits to try and maintain cover before it became clear that he might not survive if he didn't start fighting back. He'd managed to snatch the guns without getting shot once and thrown them god knows where to take them off the playing field, and was in the process of trading blows with basically all of them in succession before Bucky appeared and put a stop to the whole thing in an embarrassingly short amount of time. That arm of his, for all Matt does not understand it by the way it sounds, is something else. (So is the rest of him. Matt is not going to confront that thought right now though, thank you.)
He'd been considering trying to slink off in what he hoped was the relative darkness of the alley he'd been backed into before his savior arrived (because he's an idiot), but then Bucky had casually walked over and handed him the white cane he'd dropped at the start of the fight and before really being able to stop think better of it Matt had blurted, "Thanks. Want to get a drink?" between ragged gasps for breath. Not his smoothest move, but apparently it still worked, because here they are.
Luckily it's New York City, so the bartender barely spares either of them a glance regardless of Matt's current state of dishevelment, just hands over their cold beers and goes back across the bar to finish watching whatever game it is that's on the tv. Matt licks his lips, feeling a bit naked without the sunglasses, but they'd been punched off his face almost immediately and now they're broken in two pieces and stuffed into his hoodie pocket. "That was more of a workout than I was expecting tonight," is what he starts with instead if anything by way of explanation, because of course it is.
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@counterstep
He'd been on his way back home from Fogwell's Gym, dressed in sweats and a hoodie (so at least he won't need to replace another bloodied suit), glasses on and cane out when he was confronted by a group of terribly unfriendly men whose motives he still isn't quite sure of. He is dearly hoping it has something to do with said latest client rather than Daredevil, considering they had tracked him down as Matt Murdock and he really is clinging onto the hope that Fisk hasn't—and won't—turn on him while Vanessa is still dangling out there, free. Whatever the case, two of the men were armed, and Matt taken a series of hits to try and maintain cover before it became clear that he might not survive if he didn't start fighting back. He'd managed to snatch the guns without getting shot once and thrown them god knows where to take them off the playing field, and was in the process of trading blows with basically all of them in succession before Bucky appeared and put a stop to the whole thing in an embarrassingly short amount of time. That arm of his, for all Matt does not understand it by the way it sounds, is something else. (So is the rest of him. Matt is not going to confront that thought right now though, thank you.)
He'd been considering trying to slink off in what he hoped was the relative darkness of the alley he'd been backed into before his savior arrived (because he's an idiot), but then Bucky had casually walked over and handed him the white cane he'd dropped at the start of the fight and before really being able to stop think better of it Matt had blurted, "Thanks. Want to get a drink?" between ragged gasps for breath. Not his smoothest move, but apparently it still worked, because here they are.
Luckily it's New York City, so the bartender barely spares either of them a glance regardless of Matt's current state of dishevelment, just hands over their cold beers and goes back across the bar to finish watching whatever game it is that's on the tv. Matt licks his lips, feeling a bit naked without the sunglasses, but they'd been punched off his face almost immediately and now they're broken in two pieces and stuffed into his hoodie pocket. "That was more of a workout than I was expecting tonight," is what he starts with instead if anything by way of explanation, because of course it is.