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[usingthelaw]

You've reached the inbox of Foggy Nelson.

[ text | voice | video | action | letters ]

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Calling all lawyers

[8yakuza4seconds]

On the list of things Eliot Spencer hates, 'jails' rank surprisingly low, especially when compared some of the places he's been locked up. At least the NYPD isn't going to stick splinters under his nails or subject him to aural torture. No, the problem lies in the fact that he's stuck without the usual backup of his team, since he had to ditch his earbud when it became apparent he wasn't going to be able to make a getaway.

Parker is probably still yelling at him to just punch everybody. But there's just something about hitting a cop that rubs Eliot the wrong way. They're mostly good guys trying to do a good job, after all.

The last thing Nate had said before the forced radio silence was something about getting him a good lawyer. Yeah, well...there's a driver's license for one 'Dylan Blake', a bloody diver's knife, a stolen gun with half a dozen murders attached to it, and about $14 million in uncut diamonds sitting in evidence processing right now. All of it bearing fingerprints that Eliot can only pray Hardison has been able to link up to his alias before the big red "CLASSIFIED" shows up on the AFIS search.

Better be a really good lawyer.

[usingthelaw]

For as long as he could remember, he want to help others and be a focused light in a whole lot of darkness, armed with only information and the laws. For awhile, he believed Matt wanted the same thing but certain revelations led him to see his once best friend wanted to cling to an actual fight, outside of the perimeter they set during college. It landed a mighty blow to him belief system and more than a few doubts were swirling around in his mind. What if he couldn't do this without Matt? The other guy possessed a charm and charisma he never would.

Shaking his head of the thoughts, Foggy looked down at the files spread out on his first case with his new law firm. Everything had to be perfect or things would crash and burn in an even worse way. Unlike Matt, he actually needed paying clients with money and not fruit compensation.

Gathering the files, he walked into the interrogation room. The guy looked calm enough, thankfully not hysterical or as 'I'll eat you for dinner' as Frank. He could do this. No big deal. Even with how much evidence the guy had against him. "Mr. Spencer. I'm Foggy Nelson and I'm going to be the attorney working on your case," he greeted, sitting down in the chair across from him, spreading out his things. The yellow legal pad sat on top of the pile filled with scribbles, a pen at the ready to jot down more. "Before we get into this - how about you tell me what happened."

@takesabeating

[usingthelaw]

[ continued from x ]

You remember that fudge sauce?

@takesabeating

[usingthelaw]

[ continued from x ]

Oh, you know, nothing. These lips are sealed.

idk they're happy again shush

[theyrehorns]

There is blood all over my sheets and no discernible source.

cosigned.

[usingthelaw]

It's you. There's always a source.

[ five seconds later. ]

Check your head.

No. Let me do it. You'll lie.

[theyrehorns]

[haha yeah about that]

Not this time. I just came back to my apartment.

[He hasn't even peeled his suit off yet, what do you want him to do, send a picture? GOD, FOGGY.]

[usingthelaw]

Let me put on pants and I'll come check.

Maybe you had visitors again.

[ He would ask for one, jerk, if he thought you'd aim the camera right. ]

[theyrehorns]

I'm leaning towards the visitor theory myself. I just don't know who—they weren't helpful enough to leave a note.

[Or clean up after themselves, apparently. But yeah, while Foggy is putting on pants, Matt is peeling off the suit and looking for an ice pack. Thank god for Melvin and the helmet, or Matt would be suffering a lot more than a few bruises and cuts.]

[usingthelaw]

[ Pushing himself up with only mild grumbling, Foggy moved around getting ready. He wouldn't believe the not bleeding theory until he saw it with his own two eyes. For once, he hoped Matt proved him wrong because he had seen his friend near death too many times for comfort. ]

Could be one of your new friends. They bleed out just as much as you do.

Is that like how you get to join your club?

[ Someone might be sassy today. ]

[theyrehorns]

Luke's bulletproof, Danny apparently can heal himself now, and Jessica's tastes in alcohol run more towards whiskey than German beer. At the moment, that's all the alcohol I have. It's not them, at least.

It's a very exclusive club and we're full up, unfortunately. [That's fine, Matt's exhausted enough to sass right back.] Unless you were recently in a traumatic accident that gave you abilities.

told you i'd do it, the hell is a timeline

[theyrehorns]

[A turn here, a choice there, and it's Matt Murdock who bleeds out in Elektra's arms, her heartbeat and her plea in his ears: stay with me. Unseeing eyes slide shut, and Matt breathes in her scent, his city, one last time. He breathes out, and then—

(There's a clause in his will that leaves most of what he has to Foggy and Karen and Elektra. The rest goes in boxes, given away to the nuns at St. Agnes'. There's a clause in his will that states his wishes to be buried near his father. There's a letter with his will, in his familiar horrible handwriting, meant for Foggy: thank you, and I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. The letter is dated just two months ago, the last update to the will maybe a month ago—like Matt had known this would happen, someday.)

And then—

(Someone digs up his body. Someone wraps it in cotton—he'd hate that, if he'd known. Someone slips away from the cemetery, to a prepared safehouse. Someone steps into a restaurant and says to Alexandra we may not have the Black Sky, but we have her companion.)

And then—

The next breath he takes tastes like copper and rot. He throws the stone lid off for air, and falls out onto the floor on unsteady legs, like a newborn kitten. He isn't supposed to be here, he should be—he should be—

Home, says Alexandra, this is your home now, and the man you were before you came to us is immaterial. There's something formal in her voice, a hint of disappointment, like he isn't what she expected. Like he's not the one she wanted, but the one she's had to content herself with instead, the one she's settling for and watching for a hint of failure. But we brought you back for a purpose, and I trust you'll be able to fulfill that purpose.

Some things stay the same: a man of the Chaste dies in Cambodia. Jeri Hogarth says to one of her newest lawyers, I need you to keep an eye on Jessica Jones. An earthquake shakes Hell's Kitchen.

Some things are different: there's a case being hastily built against Midland Circle. Alexandra sends her hound out, to dismantle it, tells him the address of a man named Franklin Nelson, and that perhaps is where her control unravels, just enough that instead of lying in wait, alert and ready to pounce on one of the lawyers involved in the case, he stops in his tracks on the fire escape. Something shifts, in his head, and he eases the window open, steps inside. The scent is familiar: there's cold coffee on the kitchen counter, half-eaten lasagna poorly sealed in a Tupperware container, lingering traces of someone's department store cologne. He can hear music, downstairs, a tinny voice singing a muffled ballad.

He leaves the sword leaning against the couch, drifts into the bedroom. No one there, still, but when he checks the closet his fingers catch on worn fabric, the letters printed on it having faded over time and use. Someone's scent clings to it—an old, familiar one. Home, he thinks.

He returns to the couch, curls up with the hoodie in his hands. He shuts his eyes and drifts to sleep.]

don't mind me screaming. ahh yes.

[usingthelaw]

[ Grief had a way of taking on very different forms, very rarely being linear with steps or fitting into perfect little categories. Instead, it collapsed someone under the full weight of loss and familiarity, stripping the person and leaving them with a hollow ache nothing would fix. Not sleep or talking with someone licensed to help. Even when they had the best intentions possible but they just could not understand. Not even sex eased the pain or caused enough distraction.

Everything just remained hollow. Completely void and dark.

Had he gotten to be a downer or what in his own chaos induced thoughts?

The only thing that did help somewhat, then? Work. Always work and trying to help the little guy or girl rise back to the top against their injustices but it didn't stop on the onslaught of emotions.

Gone.

He remembered when they first told him and his first reaction had been to laugh. LAUGH. Because it couldn't be true - Matt Murdock didn't - no, couldn't, die. He laughed hysterically until he broke down and realised in a complete cliche moment he had fallen in love with his best friend somewhere along the line.

But his life did not end as well and he continued with distracting himself. Fake it till you make it! With a groan, he dropped his things all over the table to mess with later, heading towards his bedroom but stopped short at the sight out of the corner of his eye. Someone in a hoodie on the couch, sleeping. He crept closer, heart just about starting because no way. He buried Matt and had a scar on his knee from the hangover aftermath.

No.

No.

What?

Trembling hands reached out as his heart clenched so hard in his chest it hurt. I lost him - Foggy thought. How could - ]

It's happened. I've lost my mind. I have officially lost everything here. Goodbye sanity, I hardly knew ye.

[theyrehorns]

[He dreams—no, that's not the right word, he remembers: a chilly night, his hand warm on someone's elbow, the taste of alcohol lingering in his mouth and a buzz building in the back of his head, Nelson & Murdock. Sounds better. He could live in this dream forever, he thinks, let himself sink into this fantasy, and he does. It's why he doesn't stir awake when someone enters the room, when they dump their things on the table, when they shuffle towards their bedroom but stop short.

But he can't ignore the brush of a hand on his arm. He wakes up fast, and is off the couch in one fluid motion, hand already twitching towards the hilt of the sword leaning against the side of the couch. But—

He knows that voice. He knows that ink-and-paper smell, that heartbeat. His hand falls to his side, and he breathes out, stands there for a few seconds just stunned and half-panicked. He shouldn't have stayed. He should've left. He—should probably do what he was sent here to do, but he dismisses the idea as soon as it comes up. He's not going to hurt this man, the Hand can go fuck itself.]

You're—Franklin Nelson. [Be proud of him, he remembered something.] I knew you.

[For a guy in a black cloak lined with red, he's oddly good at looking somehow hopeful and nervous at the same time. It helps that he still has the hoodie. Again he says, more certain this time:] I knew you.

[usingthelaw]

[ Since the very beginning, Matt always had a special way of saying his name and making it sound so important as if he just enjoyed the feel of it. While not exactly same, his name filling the air now rang with some of the old Matt-ness and it rose a lump so quickly in his throat he thought he might either sob or be sick. Maybe both? He couldn't really wrap his mind around the current issue or situation. He needed more time to clue into which one it might be.

Mouth hanging open just a little, he tried to work out things quickly, knowing he needed to figure it out for both of their sake. If the illusion turned out to be real, of course. A trick, perhaps, someone else pretending to be Matt to try and sway him away from his current case.

He always seemed to attach himself to the dangerous ones.

Not just cases either. ]

Who - I don't understand. [ He took another small step forward, hands clenched at his sides. ]

Matt? I - you died. You died! I buried you. I buried you! I haven't slept since then. Not really. I - can't - I can't - Damn it!

[theyrehorns]

[He isn't completely off the mark: the case is why there's a resurrected zombie ninja in his apartment at all.

Matt. He breathes out—Matt, that's his name. Alexandra's reminders fall away like autumn leaves, in the face of that fact, and he nods in response. He can hear Nelson's heartbeat in his ears, the sound of it comforting and familiar. Home, he thinks again, and the cracks in the Hand's conditioning grow ever wider, and he risks a step forward, then another. Risks reaching an ungloved hand out, seeking warmth, fingers settling over Nelson's cheek.

He's done this before. Years ago, somewhere through a hazy fog that's settled over the memory of who he was, he remembers touching his best friend's face.]

I'm sorry. [It's something of a hoarse rasp, from someone who's not quite so used to speaking out loud—he should apologize for dying on this man, he supposes. And breaking into his house. And the part where he's supposed to kill him, but that's out of the question now.] I didn't—I didn't know. When they brought me back.

[Wait, he has to explain.]

I didn't know I left anyone behind.

[usingthelaw]

[ Had he fallen asleep? A dream? A nightmare? He couldn't decide which one yet but knew he needed to work things out quicker in case of some kind of trap. How could Matt be in front of him? Then again, how could Matt do half of what he accomplished before all of this? Matt took probability and always turned it on its ear.

Letting out a breath, he leaned into the touch on his cheek with a pang in his heart. It reminded him of his realisation and how much more it hurt to possibly have Matt back but not in the right way. ]

What's the last thing you remember? [ He asked softly, keeping close in case he woke up and found himself alone again. If he kept touching Matt maybe things would stay just a little longer. ]

I've wished for this everyday. Pathetic, right? Just wanted to hear your voice again. See the way you move.

[theyrehorns]

[It's real. Matt tries to reassure him of this, at least, absently rubbing his thumb along Foggy's cheekbone. More slides in, little by little, enough that he could make a patchwork quilt of the things he remembers. His hand drops, skimming lightly over a suit sleeve down to Foggy's hand. This is a lot more human contact than he's had in months, and it's far gentler than the bruising grip he's known till now.

He could stay here forever.

Would he deserve to? He doesn't think so.]

Not a lot. I just—[he stops for a moment, wondering what next to say. I killed a man in Cambodia, does not seem like a great thing to tell someone. Neither does I woke up in a pool of blood surrounded by people without heartbeats. He sighs.]

I remember—someone was holding me, when I—when I died. Up until now, I couldn't remember much else. [Then he'd set foot inside the apartment and he'd known, instinctively, in his very bones, that he was safe. That he's still safe even now. How long that'll last, he's not sure of yet.] But you—I knew you.

[A soft huff of breath.]

It's not. [Pathetic, he means.] I'm here now. [And he wants, so very badly, to stay.]

reasons why u don't leave an amnesiac zombie ninja in ur apartment

[theyrehorns]

I just had a flashback of something we did in second year. Now I can't go back to sleep.

[A minute later:] Did we really pass out under a statue of a founding father after finals?

as long as he doesn't drool over everything it's okay.

[usingthelaw]

[ Moments like these, he really wondered about the direction of his life. ]

We were celebrating getting through finals.

You woke up with grass and dirt in your mouth.

It was hilarious.

[ How fond did he actually sound? ]

[theyrehorns]

[He kind of remembers that—the taste of grass and dirt in his mouth, the pounding in his head, Foggy snoring not too far away from him. Also, the pigeons cooing above them.]

And you woke up when a pigeon took a dump on your shoulder. Yeah, I remember that now. We swore never to pass out under that statue again.

[usingthelaw]

Ever since then I've been at war with the pigeons.

They usually win.

We just picked better areas to pass out.

[ The memories were making him - yearning and how ridiculous, right? One of them needed to keep a clear mind with things. ]

[theyrehorns]

You'll get them one day.

[See? Encouraging!]

What better areas were there to pass out in? I thought that was the best place, pigeons aside. [Not really, but it's not as if Matt remembers where else they passed out.]

[usingthelaw]

[ Memories were washing over him rapidly, one after another and each one clenched his heart up in his chest. So many good moments and they were stolen from Matt. ]

Nah, we started getting in tune with passing out on more cushiony surfaces. Helps the hangover. Least for me.

[ Too much emotion, including what he wanted to hide. ]

[theyrehorns]

That does sound much better. Less prone to pigeons.

[It's probably best he didn't call, easier though that would be for Maft. There's just too much to sort through, moments to place back into their contexts, a life to try and piece back together. If this were over voice he'd be stopping and stammering, figuring himself out.]

I don't remember much of the rest of the morning.