Chapter 3! And thanks to my Beta, girlwithoutfear, It is much more coherent and error free! And I lover her for it! So, let's get this under way, shall we?

Disclaimer: DD and Black widow are not mine.

An unforgiving horn blared from the taxi inching by in the early morning traffic. Matt jerked his head sideways and knocked it into an unexpected pole. “Gah!--damnit!” he muttered, trying not to make his own ears bleed. The city was unforgiving, but today Matt had a sense that it was more relentless than usual. Perhaps it was just him.

Natasha stood casually in olive green cargo pants and a fitted, black shirt with a turtleneck and short sleeves. She had a total of nine concealed weapons and was not afraid to use them, even in populated areas. She didn’t need the shades she sported to look as bad-ass as she was already. This effect was wasted on Matt as he stumbled like a true blind man, knocking into a street vendor and apologizing profusely. Natasha sighed and grabbed his arm.

“I’m sorry, darling,” she said rather sweetly. “I shouldn’t have left you alone.”

Matt smiled as best he could and put his hand on her shoulder.

The vendor, whose merchandise was sunglasses and belts, was obviously having a good morning for a New Yorker and promptly stated, “You should watch yer blind man, sweetie. He almost broke four pairs of my priceless shades!”

Natasha narrowed her eyes but smiled none the less. She reached into her only non-lethal pocket and pulled out four pennies. “Here you are--replace them!” With that, she threw them onto the table and led Matt down the street. As they rounded a corner, Matt suddenly dug in his heels, breaking Natasha's stride.

“What?” she asked, her voice harsh.

“What do you mean ‘what’? I’m completely blind today!”

“As you are everyday, Matt. Why is today so different?” She paused, realizing how unfair she was being.

“I’m sorry, Matthew. That was unkind of me...”

Matt seemed to looked at her defiantly, as if it would make the sting go away. “This villain you spoke of is no different than any other I’ve come across before... yet you insist on protecting me. What for?”

She took a moment to gather her thoughts. “This person tried to kill me, Matthew. I have more than a personal interest in it now. If you don’t want this woman killer dead, I do. It is fortunate that most of your lady friends are deceased already.”

“Natasha, you are walking the fine line between being a concerned friend and a jealous lover!”

Natasha scoffed, throwing her sunglasses up onto her head. Matt’s grip around his cane was so tight that his knuckles were drained of color. She stared at him as he glared back. She huffed in defeat. “You make me so angry, Matthew. I sometimes wonder why I come to your aid time after time.”

“If everything between us is so bitter, it’s a wonder we can stand each other enough to--” he stopped. Last night came back to him in a rush, weakening his knees and making him dizzy.
Natasha felt it too, but composed herself without a thought. “You’re so certain you don’t need my help, yet I remember a time when a certain baby needed care. And if I recall, you tried to kill the infant. That baby would be dead if it was not for me!”

“Wrong, Natasha! That baby would be dead if it was not for Karen!”

This wounded her. She reared her hand back to slap him, but could not. “I will help you with this, Matthew, and then I will go back to my own life. Consider this our last mission together...”

“Natasha, you forget that I was out of my mind when I threw that baby over the side of that building....”

Natasha began walking away, knocking her shades down over her eyes in the process. “As was I when I slept with you last night..." And with that she was gone, her scent lost to Matt in the crowds of the Hell’s Kitchen streets.

This is insanity, Matt thought. Whenever we're together, it's like a paintball game. You get shot fast and hard, it hurts like hell, but you have fun doing it.
Matt didn't know why he was an emotional masochist, but he seemed powerless to change. He chose to be with women who weren't right for him, and to fight against insane criminals.

Yet, why should he complain? He was a Catholic do-gooder who sported horns and promoted justice against the justice system. What kind of life was that? Matt sighed and tried his best to get to work, swiping the bit of blood coming out of his overwhelmed ears. Today was not his day.

- - - - - - - - -

“Natasha!?” Foggy remarked with alarm as she sat like a contented house cat in his fourth story window sill. She had been there for awhile, but he hadn’t noticed her until she finally whistled for his attention. Now, his hand was to his chest and his brow sweating fiercely.

“Hello, Franklin,” she said, smiling with amusement.

“M-M-Matt’s not here yet.”

She slunk out of the window and took off her shades. Foggy remembered how pretty she was as she made strides towards one of the two client chairs by his desk. They had not gotten along initially, but over time they had settled into a functioning, plutonic relationship. Her steady green eyes observed his rotund figure sinking back into his chair, trying to ease himself into some sort of comfort.

“What brings you here?” Foggy asked the russet-headed Russian.

“Matt is in danger and I came to help him. But,” she paused, pursing her lips, “we got into a fight and I left him to find his way on his own. To work, that is.”
“Matt’s in danger!?” Foggy uttered impulsively, rising out of his chair once more.

Natasha put up a hand to calm him. “Don’t worry. You’re safe. It’s-”

Just then, Matt burst through the door, dried blood caked under his nose and in his ears. Natasha sighed whilst Foggy freaked out.

“Foggy, calm down” the two said in unison.

She moved to him and drawing a tissue from her pocket, wetted it on her tongue and wiped away the streaks. Matt let her do this due to the fact he had given up trying to understand her complex personality.

“Overwhelmed?” she asked tenderly, almost in forgiveness.

“By many things, yes,” he offered in return. What point was there in fighting with a comrade?

Foggy was so confused that his jaw hung agape and unchecked.

“Mr. Nelson! !” came their secretary’s voice, laced with fear and slight distress.

Foggy depressed the intercom button timidly. “Y-yes?”

“Your ten o'clock is here, sir.”

Ta-da!

Tune in next time for the identity of the mysterious foe!

Till then,

Bella DeMuerte