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[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.]

Edited 2018-02-25 02:40 (UTC)

[ 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.

[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.

[ 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!

[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.

Edited 2018-03-08 23:13 (UTC)

[ 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.

[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.]

[ Each touch existed as a line of heat racing down his spine and, oh, how badly he wished to believe and let it spread throughout his body but life had never been so easy for him. How many people ever received a second chance towards something never meant for them in the first place? Just one of the many truths he uncovered in his life, Matt easing in and out of focus but never close enough to be his.

Not in the way he longed for in every quake of his heart.

Matt belonged where he could never go.

Clutching for his hand, regardless, he tried wrapping his mind around the words. It made very little sense but what in their lives ever did? ]

You remember dying. [ The words sounded hoarse, a curse following soon after. ] How - what happened to make this possible?

[ It was right at that moment his eyes fell onto the sword and his body tensed up. ] Of course, of course. It all makes sense now, doesn't it?

Yeah.

[Sorry, man, he knows how that sounds. He scrubs his other hand over the lower half of his face, because yeah, he remembers dying, no, he can't quite explain how it happened that he came back. He doesn't know how, just that one moment he was dying and the next he was waking up in a coffin full of blood.

How does he tell Foggy that, though? He sighs.]

I don't know the details, but whatever the Hand did to bring me back, it was a drain on their resources. [He knows that much at least, no one in the Hand will let him live that down.] I died, they brought me back, and when I came back I didn't know anything, so they—

[He stops, "looking" at Foggy. Or doing his best approximation of it, though his eyes are really more focused on a coat rack over Foggy's shoulder, or, more specifically, its silhouette in his world on fire.]

They took me in. Very graciously, I'm sure they'd say. [Judging from how bitter Matt sounds, he doesn't think it was all that gracious either.

Then he feels Foggy's body tense, and, oh, right, there's a sword leaning on the side of the couch, huh. Matt hadn't thought about it when he'd set the sword by the couch, he'd gotten into the habit of putting it nearby and within easy reach when resting, but now he's kind of regretting it. What must it look to Foggy, he wonders.

He doesn't try to break away from Foggy just yet, but his thumb rubs lightly over Foggy's wrist, trying to be reassuring.]

I'm not here to do anything for them. Not anymore. [Like yeah the Hand wanted a threat to their powerbase gone but like, fuck 'em, he likes it here.] I—I wasn't really planning on staying, I just needed a rest.

[ The Hand caused more than enough issues in the past and he couldn't imagine the new things they had set into motion with Matt. The man before him had to be his Matt, then, the one he buried and mourned every day since? It gutted him, bled him out into a messy array of emotions he attempted to not feel in the first place. But nothing masked them well enough to start with and Matt being there only made everything worse, a more heady of s rush. It all crashed back into him and took all his self control to not crumble onto the ground and sob.

Hadn't he cried all his tears out? Screamed every frustrating and plea into the silent air? Because everything happened to be too silent, too still without Matt there. Without his comments and stupid charm that should have never made his heart flutter in the first place. ]

If they brought you back using some kind of sci fi weird - they might be able to do something else to you.

[ Losing Matt again, he wouldn't be able to withstand it, especially with the fragility surging over him at the moment. He had never seen Matt appear so lost and unsteady but it made sense with his ordeal.

He preferred thinking of that over death.

Looking down at his wrist, he tried to not let his breath catch in his throat. How did he wind up in these kind of situations? He really needed to find the how and why to fix his current life status. Sooner or later, it would become far more negative than it had already. ]

Okay, you were here to end me but decided not to. I feel much better now, Matt. Right as all damn rain.

[ Rubbing his free hand over his face, he gave a low groan. Nope, nope. Aw hell. ]

Are you still tired? You could take the bed. I need to - shower and change. Was kind of a long day here. Out doing things that put me on some hit list apparently.

[If they brought him back, they could do something else. It's a good point, and Matt hates that the Hand could still have a hold over him, somehow. He's not—he's not going back to that. Not when he knows where he should be, instead, not when it feels right being here despite the guilt clawing at his throat.

Reluctantly, slowly, he lets go and sits back down on the couch. The sword rests in easy reach, but he makes no effort to move towards it, instead just leaning forward and clasping his hands together on top of his knees. He breathes out.]

I can—I can stay on the couch. [He wants the bed. He wants the bed very badly. He adds, just as reluctantly as when he let go of Foggy's hand:] If you don't want me here, you can just say so. [Which begs the question; where else can he go, from here?] But they'll want to send more after you, if they aren't too busy with—whatever it is they've been doing, that involves the Black Sky and someone named Rand.

[They said something about a metal fist?? Weirdoes.]

You'd have to find a safer place to stay in than this. If I could find you here, they could send more this way.

[ Black Sky, Rand, the sword - all of it blurred in Foggy's mind as he tried to focus and make sense of things but in the end he realized he just couldn't. Matt returning to life tossed everything he ever knew out the window and there would be time for those other things later on. ]

I want you here. [ No nonsense because he wanted Matt to never doubt his commitment and ultimately his fondness. There were more things there as well but he decided to shove those thoughts away with the others. ] I mean it, take the bed. You look like shit.

[ Stopping short from going towards the lien closet, he cursed underneath his breath. Great. ]

Fantastic. I've always wanted murderous ninjas after me. A lifelong dream. Which way will they take me down! It's like a really messed up version of those choose your own adventure novels.

[ He might be panicking. Just maybe. ] What do you propose?

They might not find you, [he says, reluctantly, fingers twisting in the hem of the hoodie] if you left town.

[Judging from Matt's tone, he doesn't like this idea. It's a good one, don't get him wrong. The Hand is based in New York, and they're currently pretty busy with whatever it is they're planning to do under Midland Circle, Foggy slipping out of the city and past their net isn't impossible. But Matt wants him here, wants to hear his voice in the same room as he is, wants to reach out and touch him and feel his pulse under his fingers.]

I'm not going to let them kill you. [It's a simple statement. He refuses to even consider the possibility that they could—they won't, because Matt won't let them. He'll die first. (Again.)] I'll keep you safe.

[In any way he can.

He exhales.] And where're you sleeping? I'm not going to kick you out of your own bed. [Foggy has already done so much for him in the past few minutes alone than the Hand have in months, and Matt's not sure if he deserves any of this goodness from Foggy. He just knows he doesn't want the man to sleep on the floor while Matt's sleeping on his bed.]

[ While admittedly a smarter plan, Foggy clearly did not enjoy the suggestion either, frown pulling at his lips. The thought of leaving his home and friends unsettled him and with Matt back in the picture, he just couldn't. He found it unthinkable because what if he left and something happened? It would be on him. The blame falling like bricks onto his shoulders. ]

I can't leave. [ He began, with a shake of his head. ] I have cases and - [ Voice trailing off, he pointedly looked at Matt. ] See? How can I go with that kind of talk. You need someone looking after you.

[ Keeping him from unnecessary danger - Foggy could only really dream. No one actually kept Matt from anything, the man believing he deserved whatever punishment came his way. ]

[ The bed - right. ] We - could share if you don't find that - [ He waved a hand off as if it finished his thoughts for him. ] Do you want a change of clothes? Shower? Food?

I don't need you going gargoyle on me, Murdock. I'll be fine.

I can take care of myself, I don't need looking after.

[Says the zombie ninja whose life has been actual hell for these past few months. Second life? Whatever. But Matt's lips press together into a thin line, at the thought of Foggy still being in danger the longer he stays in New York. But he's got a point, damn it. He has cases and a life, and Matt can't ask him to uproot all of that because of the Hand.]

I'm not—There's a chance they'll come after you again. How can I keep you safe if I'm not "going gargoyle" on you? [And there's Matt again, always prioritizing the safety of others over his own. Even months under the Hand hasn't quite wiped that out of him.

At the mention of food, his stomach growls. Right. He—does have to eat. He hadn't really thought much about breaking in here and then staying around, beyond the bone-deep instinct of keeping Foggy safe and not dead. He sighs.]

Food would be good, yeah. Anything but rice. [He has no idea what kind of food he likes, just knows he's kind of sick of bland meals, at this point.]

[ Hands waving through the air, Foggy refrained from answering in favor of going into the kitchen to start making some food. Admittedly, he stocked his fridge with easy and very quick meals. Currently, plenty of frozen dinners and other don't need to think selections with all the late hours and when he didn't feel like ordering out. Sometimes, you just wanted to feel like 'home cooking.' ]

You're right, you don't need anyone looking out for you. You need someone to knock some sense into you. [ He finally voiced as be placed chicken nuggets on the pan and some fast fries. Something to remind Matt of their life before.

Placing it into the oven, he turned back to Matt. ]

How about this we can take care of each other. A compromise. You might be open to them more now.

[ He put some sandwich crackers on the counter, beckoning Matt forward. ] These were your favorite at one point.

[The chicken nuggets already smell good to him and he doesn't even think they're his favorite. He stands and follows Foggy into the kitchen, absently reaching a hand out to the counter to feel the shape of it, the texture. His fingers catch on the edges.]

And you need someone to watch out for you. [Somebody who's made enemies like the Hand definitely needs someone watching out for them in Matt's opinion, and clearly he's the best choice for it. He knows the Hand all too well by now. Probably better than he knows himself.

He drums his fingers against the counter, absently. Each sound seems to reverberate in the darkness, helps tame the fire around him into shapes he recognizes, even if dimly.] I'll—take the compromise. [There's a moment's hesitation before he says that, like he can't be certain he deserves that much. He's stayed too long, taken too much already.

Sandwich crackers. Those smell good. He reaches for one, takes a bite, and makes a face like he is seriously doubting the veracity of Foggy's claim here.]

Sure about that?

[ Having Matt in front of him made his head spin because the grief over the past few weeks especially had been too much, too heavy of a weight to try and cope with. Loss colored their life, of course, as lawyers and as citizens of a place like hell's kitchen where death seemed all too real of a possibility at any moment. Dangers lingered in the shadows and some never went away, only grew with time.

The Hand being a prime example but how could Matt believe he fit the category? Ever? ]

As long as you don't go full creeper on me. You're not as sneaky as you think. [ At least with him.

Frowning, he leaned forward to look at the package. ]

Look, Matt, coming back from the dead probably made a lot of changes. My sanity, your tastebuds. It's all doing something.

[ Don't even try, Murdock, he knows you better than yourself. ]

Follow your nose to something that tastes better in here if these offend you.

[hdu, he is very sneaky.

Matt's mouth twists into a frown, the space between his eyebrows creasing as he "looks" at Foggy. In truth he's looking at Foggy's silhouette in his world on fire, tracking where Foggy's voice is coming from. He looks—offended, kind of, like he honestly believes he is much sneakier than Foggy gives him credit for.]

Your sanity's fine. [He should probably be reassuring about that, right? This is him being reassuring. Granted, Matt is not exactly the model of mental health right now, but he tried.

He tilts his head up a little, sniffs the air like a bloodhound. He moves, feeling out the cupboards and the drawers, before he pulls a handle open and frowns at the packages and jars all stacked and sorted.. It's hard to tell which package is which even with his senses, so he sighs at last.]

Which one of these is—is the blueberry jam?

[ Even it being nearly a wasted effort, Foggy glared right back with an offended tilt of his head. He knew everything! About Matt, at least, with how often they were together growing up and how much they shared back and forth. It meant more to him than he'd ever admit aloud. Just add another secret to the pile, it grew steadily by the day and he worried when it might topple over and crush them all.

Sighing, he muttered under his breath about falling down rabbit holes. The blueberry jam paused any other retorts because since when? The whole back to life really did a number.

Grabbing it out, he placed it on the countertop. ]

Anything else with it?

[ Moving forward, he took the items out of the oven to let them cool down. ] We might have to relearn each other at this rate.

More and new ways to judge you.

ic inbox.

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

don't mind me screaming. ahh yes.

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