AN: A little hurt/comfort fic to hopefully get these adorable cinnamon rolls out of my head for a while. Not a case-heavy fic, mostly an excuse to see Team Avocado rally around each other, and maybe come to understand Matt a little better. Hope you enjoy! Reviews much appreciated :) Also available on AO3.

Context: Set post S1 in an AU. S2 hasn't happened, but some of its relationship-building moments have, like Foggy having Matt promise he won't die as Daredevil, and Matt and Karen starting to go out for curries in rooms dripping with chili lights.

Some jobs took weeks of recon. Others took days. This one revealed its answers in the first seven hours, the other two days' worth of staring through a sniper scope only confirming his gut instincts. Three days to be sure one bullet finished the job. Three days to be certain the blond woman and her lawyers would back off.

She had a name, of course, but it didn't matter. She was a mark. A target. The orders had come down to 'dissuade' her investigation, stop her digging. His research proved she was the one who put the lawyers on their scent, and it was only after they started poking around that the Daredevil had come by the docks. Stop the lawyers, stop the girl. Remove scrutiny, remove the need for caution. Once the cops gave up and the spotlight was shut out the order would be given to take out the devil. No more extra security with bigger guns, just a well-laid trap and a bomb. Or however they decided to kill the bastard. That wasn't his problem.

She was. And his check would clear as soon as she was solved.

The pigeon that had been strutting around the roof was getting bolder. It probably figured the black sack hid something edible, something worth stepping within striking distance of the black-clad human who hadn't moved in hours. Its deep-throated coos came oddly regularly and with irritating monotony, as though it were asking the same question over and over again, determined that he answer it.

Do you have food? Do you have food? The click of claws on concrete. Do you have food?

Keeping the blond firmly centred in his sights, he slowly withdrew his left hand from the gun. His muscles moved obediently, ignoring the creeping aches of inactivity. His shoulder rolled as his hand slid away from the concrete barrier, the movement hidden from the law firm across the street. Even if the blond or her lawyers looked up now, they wouldn't see past the sun shining behind him.

Do you have food? Do you have food?

Without taking his eyes from the woman gesticulating around a folder in a tiny office above a hardware store, he lashed out with one clawed hand. The bird squawked in surprise but the startled flap of its feathers was cut short by his sure fingers. Before it had time to peck at his fist, he jerked his thumb and forefinger towards each other. The snap of bone was hardly louder than a cough. He threw the corpse away and readjusted his grip.

There. The lawyers were in the middle window again. The fat one was raising his fists and smiling, his face determined. He was half-facing the sights where he stood. There was a clear shot of his chest now, one arm raised across it in what would be a futile shield. The sniper's finger stroked the trigger. Not him.

The blind one was leaning against the ancient fax machine on its shelf. Only his lower half was in view, and it shook as he laughed at whatever the fat one was saying. As he watched, the woman moved across his field of vision, momentarily blocking the blind one as she came to sit beside him, her arms folded as she spoke. He caught the defeated slump of the fat one's arms out of the corner of his eye, and tracked him as he turned back into his office. The woman stayed beside the blind one, who was still chuckling.

He stroked the trigger again, relishing its smooth curve. Any second now. Once she was clear.

As soon as the message was delivered, she'd understand why the bullet didn't have her irrelevant name carved into it. The earliest recon showed her weakness – and there it was again: she nudged the blind one with her shoulder, her long hair briefly catching the sun as she turned her head towards him.

He had seen a thousand little touches, just like that one. He had seen her watch the blind man through the window into his office, watch him walk away to get coffee. He had seen her shoulders straighten whenever he entered the room. She may care about the fat one, may spend more time with him when the blind one was late, but he wasn't the one she loved. He wasn't the target.

The blind one pushed away from the cabinet, stepping fluidly across the width of the office, heading for the fat one's room. The woman stayed were she was, a file held against her black skirt.

The scope moved as though following its own instincts. He barely felt his calloused hands guide its arc as it swivelled to follow the blind lawyer. One more step and he'd be in full view.

He took a deep, slow breath through his nose. The air whistled slightly, like the breeze through the rooftops. Inconspicuous. Invisible. He raised his shoulder minutely, finding the shot that was waiting for him.

The blind man took his last step.

His finger squeezed the trigger. Gently. Smoothly.

The spit of the bullet was drowned out by the crack of the glass.

His shoulder buried the recoil with barely a flinch.

The white shirt began to bleed.

The man on the rooftop opposite Nelson and Murdock stood, dismantled his weapon, repacked it in the black bag, and had strolled to the fire escape before the screaming had truly started.