#i did not watch daredevil to see someone whine and cry about their dead family 🥱 take that mind numbingly boring shit somewhere else | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

louthestarspeaker · 4 years

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Thunder

For the lovely @tsarinatorment, for her birthday this past week! Sorry about the wait!

She requested something with her boy Scotty and protective little brothers.(I may have taken those prompts to the extreme... )

I hope you enjoy, Tsari! ~Lou xx

Bit of violence in this one, nothing graphic but thought I should make it clear.

“Aw, come on, John,” Alan said, working to keep the whine from his voice. “I’m wasting time just standing here.”

John’s hologram was tapping away at something Alan couldn’t see, lending Alan one ear while the rest of him was focused on whatever it was he was poking at. “You’re not ‘wasting time’, Alan. You’re waiting for backup.”

“I don’t need backup-” A pointed look from John was all it took to halt that trail of conversation. Alan sighed and switched tactics. “What if the guy’s hurt in there? I’m needed.”

“Scans show the life sign is moving around, I doubt he’s too injured. He can wait two minutes.”

“What about the building?”

“It’ll hold.”

“Not if there’s another quake.”

“I’m monitoring seismic activity, Alan, you know that.”

Alan scoffed. John with his answers.

The building was hardly damaged, it’d just been evacuated as a precaution. Now apparently some thrill-seeking knucklehead had wandered in, and now someone needed to get him out again. It was the most simple and straightforward mission they could’ve asked for.

Except Alan’s brother’s didn’t think he could do it without a babysitter. Cue the Smother Hen.

There was the tell tale rumble as a Pod rolled up, and out hopped Scott, probably pulled from some other more important task to chaperone his baby brother.

Scott greeted him with a clap on the shoulder. “You ready, Alan?”

“I’ve been ready for the past five minutes.” Alan said, latching on his helmet with more force than strictly necessary. “I thought you were supposed to be the fast one, I could’ve been in and out by now.”

“Alan.” Scott said nothing more, but stormy blue eyes made the message crystal clear. He was out of line.

Alan’s eyes shifted the side. He was still working on separating Brother Scott from Commander Scott, that kind of snark didn’t fly when they were in the field. He made himself meet Scott’s eyes as he apologized. "Sorry."

Scott nodded, the storm in his eyes retreating. “Come on, we’ve got work to do.”

They flicked on the lights on their helmets, following John’s instructions through the apartment complex. Scott took point, Alan walked a step behind him.

Alan swallowed a sigh. So maybe his delivery had been garbage, but there was more than a little truth to the fact that his brothers babied him. Alan was the youngest of the family, he got that, watching out for him was practically in his brothers’ job descriptions. And at home? Sure, whatever, they could coddle him all they wanted, he was used to it and knew when to push back.

But out here in the field? Alan had a new role. He was a member of International Rescue, and with the exception of Scott he was their equal. Their familial hierarchy shouldn’t matter.

John led Alan and Scott up numerous flights of stairs, landing them on the fifth floor. Besides his direction and Scott’s affirmative, not much else was said.

They rounded a bend and there was their guy, just like John had said. The hall was dark, and the man, who’d had his back toward them, rounded as soon as their lights landed on him. Even under the bright beam of light, the man visibly blanched as he took in their uniforms. Guess he was just now realizing how much trouble his daredevil stunt had landed him in.

Alan held out a hand in a placating gesture. “Come on, we're not here to take you in or anything-” Alan bumped into Scott’s arm as his older brother stopped him from taking a step forward.

Alan looked up at him in confusion (surely Scott would let him do this much), and was startled to find another storm brewing in his brother’s eyes, his stare fixed on the man in front of them.

A shift in Scott’s flashlight and Alan zeroed in on a large duffle bag and crowbar, settled at the man’s feet.

A looter.

The man seemed to know the moment Alan realized what he was, his face turning from pale to red in the space of a few moments. “You two, you leave me alone, y’hear? Just leave me alone!”

His voice was loud. Too loud for the quiet hallway, too loud for a man who stood up to his military brother.

“Sir, you need to come with us.” Scott held out a hand, much like Alan did, trying to calm the blustering man. The other hand, the one that had stopped Alan, moved slowly- ever so slowly- to the comm on his baldric.

The guy caught Scott’s movement. “You think I don’t see what you’re doing?!” He was practically raving now, spittle flying from his mouth and catching the beam of the flashlights.

Gathering his bravery and pushing down his disgust, Alan tried again, willing his voice steady. “Sir, we're not law enforcement-” Again Scott stopped him, this time from even speaking, with a tight hand around his bicep.

Alan’s heart dropped to his stomach, his blood turning cold. He knew that gesture.

Scott had used it when Alan was little, to stop him right before he was about to run into the street without looking.

He’d used it again to yank him out of the way of snarling teeth, when a pair of angry dogs had set their sights on them.

Another time, a tight grip in warning, when a man had walked up to them in the park, claiming to be their father’s friend.

That gesture meant danger. Danger they hadn’t expected. Danger they weren’t prepared for.

And here, this must be what Scott had seen all along, why he wouldn’t let Alan get closer, even by a single step.

The man pulled a gun from his pocket, flicked off the safety, cocked the hammer, and aimed it at Alan.

Scott’s grip tightened like a vice on his arm.

The man’s voice was a growl low in his throat. “Don’t. Say. Another. Word.” His hand shook, but his finger twitched on the trigger.

The hand on Alan’s arm was shaking too.

His pulse pounded in his ears.

He watched a bullet of sweat drip down the man’s face.

The man who was pointing a gun at his chest.

Scott moved, slowly, carefully. Alan knew it even though he couldn't look away from the barrel, even though the fear of it was threatening to crush the air from his lungs.

Scott had a storm in his eyes, and that storm had the man pinned. He wasn’t watching Scott’s hand move toward his comm.

But then the man’s eyes- his awful, awful eyes, that were everything Scott’s weren’t, vile and bulging and listless- they flickered, ticked away for an instant.

And then he saw.

The man closed his eyes as he pulled the trigger, arm recoiling, hand shaking even worse now. He screamed something. Words. But Alan never heard them, because Scott screamed too.

The hand on Alan’s arm fell away, the rest of his brother falling with it. Alan heard his heart shatter when Scott hit the floor, the shards of it stabbed at his lungs and he wondered how his breath and his pulse were both rushing in his ears when there was nothing left to propel either.

And then the man raised his gun again.

Alan saw red, and he wasn’t sure if it was anger or fear or please not blood, but this man was not going to do it again.

“No!” Alan shouted. “No!”

He stepped between his brother and the monster, arms outstretched as if he could stop the next one, as if he could catch the bullets.

“You give me your belts!” The man was yelling- screaming, red-faced and slurring his words together like a drunk. “You give me your belts, right now!”

“Put the gun down first!”

Alan was terrified.

“The belts!” The gun shook wildly. “I’ll shoot him again! I will!”

Alan believed him.

“Okay! Okay!”

“And don’t you dare call anyone!”

Alan undid the buckles on his baldric, one by one. He was surprised he even managed, his hands were shaking as bad as the monster’s.

“You throw it over there! Next to the wall!”

Alan did.

“Now you get his! And you don’t call anybody with it!”

Alan spun quickly, crouching next to Scott on the floor, shaking hands on his shoulders.

Please don’t be dead please don’t be dead please don't be dead please don’t-

Blue eyes.

Blue eyes with a storm and blue eyes that were pained, but blue eyes that saw him.

Blue eyes that were alive.

“Scott,” Alan was positive he was crying. “Scott.”

“It’s okay. It’s okay, Allie. It’s okay.” Scott gritted the words out from between his teeth, but they somehow still sounded soft to Alan’s ears.

“Give me the belt!”

Alan jumped violently at the sound of the man’s voice, but Scott’s eyes grounded him. He needed to check the wound.

Scott’s hands were clamped around his thigh, red spilling from between the cracks in fingers. Alan had dressed wounds before, but somehow knowing someone did this to Scott made it look ten times worse.

“Get me the belt!”

Alan jumped again, shutting his eyes as if that would stop the voice. It didn’t, but at least Scott’s voice joined it. Gentle, furious, terrified…

“Alan.”

His name was as much of a warning as the hand on his arm had been.

Do what you’re told, Alan.

With a shuddery breath Alan undid Scott’s baldric, muttering sorry sorry sorry when Scott winced or hissed in pain. A gentle, gentle tug and it was free. Alan stood, trying not to think how slippery the material felt in his hand.

“Now you toss it over there! With the other one!”

Alan did. His brother’s baldric matched his own.

But finally, finally, the gun turned away from him and his brother. The man aimed his weapon at the baldrics and fired, Alan jumping at the awful sound of it, but the bullet did little damage. Brains was a brilliant engineer.

The man swore angrily, shooting again and again, the many gunshots sounding like one continuous explosion, and Alan stood terrified willing it to stop stop stop.

But he didn’t stop. The man fired over and over, round after round, until the baldrics were smoking and sparking. Until his bullets ran out.

And there was a click. Out of ammo.

Fury replaced helplessness in an instant and before Alan knew what he was doing, he was silent and charging, anger crackling in his limbs like lightning.

He lunged for the gun hand first, jabbing a pressure point and sending the weapon skittering across the floor and out of sight. A knee in the gut had the man gasping, backing up to get more space. Alan took the opportunity to make for his baldric. One glance told him the comms units were destroyed, but the med packs were still intact and Alan dug through the pockets for a sedative.

“Alan!” Scott’s warning was followed by a solid thump as he tried and failed to stand, but it was enough for Alan to roll out of the way before a crowbar swung through the air where his head had been.

The man swung wildly, cursing and spitting. His anger made it easy for Alan to dodge, he danced neatly backward on light feet waiting for the man’s frustration to build. The man swug the crowbar wide, and Alan moved in close, exploiting the opening, ducking under the return blow and delivering two deft punches to his stomach.

Before he could recover, Alan spun out of the man’s space, landing behind him and jabbing at a pressure point in his shoulder. The man dropped the crowbar with a yowl of pain and a string of curses. A swift kick between his shoulder blades finished the job, sending him careening into the wall and knocking him out as his head collided with the plaster.

Alan scrambled for his baldric, retrieved a sedative, and delivered enough to keep the guy asleep for hours.

Only then did Alan realize his lungs were burning as if he hadn’t breathed the entire time.

It was quite possible he didn’t. The entire fight took less than a minute.

“Alan!” The struggle in that call indicated Scott was trying to get up again, and Alan grabbed their baldrics and rushed to his brother’s side before he could injure himself further.

“Stay still, Scott.” Alan said, placing a hand on his brother’s chest. Scott’s eyes were getting foggy from the bloodloss, and the fight seemed to drain out of him once Alan appeared in front of him.

“Are you okay, Allie?”

Alan almost laughed at the obscurity of that question from the one who’d been shot, but at the same time, the predictability of it was oddly comforting. “That guy never touched me, Scotty.” A glance at Scott’s leg wound had Alan grimacing and he set to work treating it, thankful their med kits were still intact.

“How did you-?” Scott started, but broke off with a hiss as pain shot up his leg.

“Sorry,” Alan murmured, before finishing Scott’s thought. “Take down the guy?” The corner of his mouth tilted up, but the expression was edged in too much steel to be called a smile. “How do you think?”

It was the obvious Scott had never considered. “Kayo. Thank God for her.”

“Yeah.” Alan said softly.

Scott’s eyes wandered away from Alan to the man he’d subdued, still slumped near the wall.

His baby brother had done that. Had faced that.

Scott’s heart squeezed, and he wasn’t sure if it was pride or terror.

Alan packed the wound and delivered pain meds, but besides that there wasn’t much he could do. He pulled off his bloodied gloves, glad he was done but at a loss of what to do with his hands.

They shook when Alan stopped moving them. His whole body buzzed with energy he hadn’t used, like thunder rolling through him, felt but unseen. Alan wondered if he were to look in a mirror if he’d find that his eyes contained a storm like Scott’s did.

A glance at his brother found that those eyes had fallen closed.

“Wake up, Scott,” Alan said urgently, tapping against the side of his face until blue peered up at him, hazy but there. “You can’t go to sleep”

“Wasn’t asleep,” Scott said, his words beginning to slide into each other.

“Well, you’ve gotta stay that way until the others get here.” They’d been radio silent for way too long, John must have sent Virgil and Gordon by now. Hopefully they wouldn’t have to wait too long. Alan had done his best, but really Scott needed Virgil.

Alan sighed, looking down at Scott’s face, pale and grimacing. He was obviously still feeling the pain despite the meds. He didn’t complain though.

“Here, Scott,” Alan said, gently lifting Scott’s head and settling it in his lap, figuring he was more comfortable than the linoleum. Alan spoke softly to keep him awake, and began to run his fingers through Scott’s hair, like Scott had done to him countless times. His big brother didn’t protest, and though Alan wasn’t sure whether that was a good or bad thing, he was happy to keep his hands moving.

Minutes passed before the hall began to rumble and Alan’s first fear was an earthquake, but then found he recognized the cadence of the reverb.

“It’s Two.”

`*`

Late that night, Alan crept into the infirmary with a blanket over his shoulders. He bypassed the bed where Virgil was snoring away. He’d spent the night there to keep an eye on Scott for his own piece of mind. Alan understood that reasoning well.

Scott was sitting up in his own bed, facing the window and the tropical night outside. Alan didn’t make a sound, he was sure, but Scott seemed to sense him anyway and turned to face him.

Blue met blue and Alan gave a deep sigh, allowing the tension winding up his muscles to fall away.

It was okay.

Clear skies.

#thunderbirds #thunderbirds are go #thunderbirds 2015 #thunderbirds fanfiction #Scott Tracy #Alan Tracy #lou writes things

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happyk44 · 7 years

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Daredevil Soulmate Fanfic I started a while back but never finished and have since lost interest in. I don’t remember how it was supposed to end but basically Karen was going to wind up at Claire’s soulmate and obviously Foggy and Matt were going to get together.

I think part of the problem was that I lacked interest in watching the whole show over again, especially w/ viewing season two, and that I couldn’t devise how I wanted to write them getting together because I was very set on Foggy getting mad at Matt for hiding who his soulmate was and them fighting about it but couldn’t figure out the reconciliation part which annoyed me.

Anyway, I did like writing it when I was fond of the idea and I still wanna show it off so here it is. I tend to write in sections so parts that says “(MORE)” was an indicator for me to write in more between one part and another.

Matthew Michael Murdock is a romantic.

He always has been. He loves the idea of soulmates. Of meeting someone and seeing colours for the first time or looking at your wrist and watching the compass shift slightly to point at a person you’ve never seen. Timers counting down to the first meeting, your eyes being multicoloured until the day they’re not and you know you’ve met your soulmate, seeing phrases of what they’re thinking at that exact moment swirling on your skin.

Matt lives for that.

So when he’s thirteen and the name of his soulmates breaks out on his arm, inky black circles spelling out three words, one name, he immediately rushes off to find out what they mean. A girl in his math class offers to tap it out for him on his braille writer, making sure each mark is correct as she does. She triple-checks against his arm before handing him the piece of paper back and his fingers slide across it in eagerness.

Franklin Percival Nelson.

That’s his soulmate.

And from that moment he’s in love.

---

Franklin Percival Nelson does not want a soulmate.

It’s the seventh day of his being at Columbia and in honor of their first day of classes the next day, Foggy takes him out for a drink. He doesn’t drink, of course. It’s just something he doesn’t do if he’s not all that comfortable with the person, not all that trusting. Plus, his senses go on the fritz sometimes when he’s too inebriated and he doesn’t particularly enjoy the pounding headaches that come after.

But Foggy’s great and he takes it in stride and there’s a buzz there that Matt can’t be bothered to move in on since he’s busy waiting for Franklin to show up.

That’s when he finds out that Foggy is Franklin. Foggy because he snores so loud. Foggy because Franklin is too serious. Foggy because he’s Foggy. It just fits.

But Foggy doesn’t have a name, he doesn’t have a mark. His eyes are the same colour (apparently) and he’s never seen the world in black and white.

“Born with a name but my parents got it removed,” he explains plainly after a couple drinks.

His voice is slightly slurred and Matt is waiting patiently to pipe up but also considering waiting until Foggy is a bit soberer to tell him. He can’t stop smiling. Excitement thrums in his pulse. This is the moment he’s been waiting for.

Then his smile drops with Foggy’s next few words.

“Don’t wanna know,” he mumbles before grinning wide. “Takes all the fun out of it.”

“Out of what?” Matt asks because he wants to know why. He needs to know why Foggy doesn’t want to know it’s him.

“Out of dating, buddy! Out of being happy and falling in an’ outta love. My dad- my dad has a soulmate. She was three years older than him and- an’ had a mean right hook,” Foggy says and he grips the edge of the table tightly, looking agitated and Matt doesn’t want to hear the rest, doesn’t want to hear why Foggy hates soulmates.

“She hit him but he stuck around because soulmates.”

He says it like it’s a dirty word and Matt edges his sleeve further over his arm, trying to hide Foggy’s name marked out in Braille. He’s lucky, he thinks later, that his soulmate mark was the one of a name in the language you know, the language you read. He’s lucky it’s Braille. Foggy will never know and he doesn’t want him to. He doesn’t want Foggy to ever know.

Never.

“My mom found him after a bad night,” Foggy continues, oblivious to Matt’s discomfort. “She doesn’t have a mark, never has and is happy like that, you know. They love each other but there are people-” And Foggy’s breath hitches here, like he’s about to cry or shout. “There are people who think he should’ve stuck with his soulmate, regardless of the bruises she gave him, because they were soulmates. Like that means something.”

Matt clears his throat. “Did he get it removed? His mark?”

“No,” Foggy says sadly. His fingers circle around the inside of his glass. “Says he’s got nothing to be ashamed of an’ he’s not gonna hide that he’s a rule breaker.” There’s a grin in his voice and Foggy takes another shot.

“So they removed yours?”

“Mmm.” Foggy hums for a long time, brushing back his hair. “Got the name down on a sheet of paper though, says they’ll tell me if I ever want to know but…” He trails off and sighs deeply. “It’s not worth it. Being caught over something so dumb. How’d you know you’re falling in love with the person and not the idea of a soulmate, right? How do you know they’re a good person or not, if all you’re doing is- is- is assuming they must be great because soulmates.”

Matt nods. “I guess you have a point.”

When Josie swings past with another couple of shots, he steals one, wanting to burn off the sour taste in his mouth. He tries not to look uncomfortable or anything but Foggy still pauses and watches him for a moment then snaps, “Oh, shit! Matt, I’m sorry.”

“What?”

“About me,” he whines. “Going on about soulmates and how they suck when you- you’ve still got your mark.”

“No,” Matt says clearly. “It’s- it’s fine.” He presses his thumb to the bottom of the shot glass as Foggy snorts disbelievingly and kicks his ankle lightly after a few minutes. He sighs and grins small. “No, it’s not but I- I get what you mean.” He swallows thickly. “So you’d never want to know?”

“Nah. I mean, the person doesn’t know me or maybe they’ve just got a different mark, like eye colour and not my name, so it’s not their fault if they get all happy because hey, we finally meet, but, no.” Foggy takes another drink and laughs. “I don’t want to know. Ever. Let me fall in love like a Markless. Let it real.”

Foggy takes a deep breath. “So what about you, Matt? What’s your name, buddy?”

Matt wants to say it’s Foggy, explain that he’ll be better than Foggy’s father’s soulmate, better than any soulmate, tell him how he already likes Foggy as a person and he’ll love him like a person. He’ll be a good soulmate.

He’ll be the best soulmate.

Instead he says, “Steven Grant Rogers.” He swallows as Foggy chokes. “That’s the name.”

As Foggy tries to soothe him over the fact that his soulmate is not only Captain America but dead, Matt laughs it off easily, tries to pretend like his arm isn’t burning where his mark is stitched into his skin.

“Steven Grant Rogers is not just Captain America’s name,” he pretends to whine, trying not to enjoy the way Foggy’s draping himself on him. “Other people could be named Steven Grant Rogers.”

He’ll make Foggy fall in love with him, he thinks. He’ll make Foggy want him. And Foggy already does. He can hear it in his heartbeat every time Matt’s stripped or touched him. He just needs to get Foggy to make the move. If Foggy goes for it, then Matt’s not forcing the mark on him. If Foggy asks him out, then Matt’s not doing anything wrong. He can tell Foggy then. And Foggy will love him so it won’t matter. Foggy will want him and being his soulmate won’t matter.

Foggy will love him.

And they’ll be the best soulmates.

Mary Lynn Nelson is a lovely woman.

She also knows who Foggy’s soulmate is and when Foggy introduces Matt to the family for Christmas, she gives a slight jump. Her heart beats faster and that’s when Matt knows in perfect certainty that Foggy is his soulmate.

Neither of them say anything and when Foggy’s mother asks about Matt’s mark in passing, her heart pounding in interest, he lies and says, “Steven Grant Rogers.”

His voice hitches wrong when he says that name but Foggy just slips him a lozenge, mistaking the hitch for a suppressed cough.

Later, in the light of the lit menorah candles, he sleepily leans into Foggy, searching for additional warmth. They’re strewn out on the couch, Matt curled into Foggy. His head dips into Foggy’s chest, listening deeply to the beat of his heart thrump happily in his chest. He smells like turkey and vanilla, an interesting but strange combination that just works because it’s Foggy. Matt lets out an exhausting and embarrassing yawn in the middle of Foggy’s father’s horrible rendition of Silent Night.

Foggy laughs easily. “Tired, buddy?”

Matt makes a weird noise that he’s not sure how in the world he possible could have made but Foggy giggles again and helps him up. Eager eyes watch them stumble up the stairs into Foggy’s old bedroom. Tugging on a sweatshirt and some soft cottony pants with Foggy’s help, he falls down onto Foggy’s bed grinning wide.

“You’re all smiley today,” Foggy teases, humming as he pushes Matt’s bangs out of his face. Matt catches his wrist and tugs. Foggy laughs. “Okay, okay. Give me a minute.”

Twisting his head, Matt listens to Foggy undress, humming happily. Foggy reaches over him, for his bag, searching for his pajamas but Matt grunts and catches Foggy’s wrist again, tugging like a child.

He feels so comfortable here and everything smells like Foggy and it’s all warm and he’s happier more than he has been in a long time.

He’s also slightly drunk.

He nearly tugs Foggy into his chest with a needy snarl.

Maybe a lot drunk.

Foggy laughs again, a nervous trill, and his heart is beating faster than normal. Matt stops tugging but he shifts over on the bed and taps the space beside him. He holds back a whine.

Sort of.

“Matt, I really need my jammies, buddy,” Foggy says, reaching for his bag which Matt has snatched up, rolling away and tucking it underneath himself.

Foggy clambers on the bed, heaving himself on top of Matt, all sharp elbows and tough knees. “I will squash you, Murdock.”

Matt giggles and rolls over into Foggy’s chest but he keeps the bag clutched to his chest. “Turn on the heat.”

“Matt, no, come on, seriously, just give me the bag!” Foggy swats Matt’s side, heaving upwards and over to a small heater. “You’re a dick, buddy.”

“That’s fine with me,” Matt drawled, scooting over more to accompany Fogg’s big frame.

“A dick,” Foggy repeats for emphasis as he dumps into space beside Matt, yanking a heavy blanket on top of them. He’s so damn warm and Matt rolls straight into the source of heat. Foggy shoves him away weakly, muttering, “I can’t believe you’re stealing my body heat too, Matt Murdock.”

“Warm,” Matt retaliates.

“Stole my family’s love.” Matt snorts and Foggy swats him, dropping his arm over Matt’s side. “Stole my jammies. Stealing my body heat. You’re a damn thief, Matty.”

Matt rolls his eyes and tousles Foggy’s hair a bit before dropping his hand to rest completely on the side of his face. “Whatever, Foggy.”

“Damn thief,” Foggy says again but he doesn’t move Matt’s hand.

Without thinking, Matt traces the edges of Foggy’s face and takes a breath as his fingers slide over the curve of Foggy’s ear. It’s a lovely ear with a dent on the side, shifting inwards for a bit then puckering right back out. He’d never noticed it before. He pushes his hands back and threads them through Foggy’s hair.

Foggy lets out a content hum, leaning into it and Matt snorts. “Still a thief?”

“Hell yeah, buddy.” Foggy twists his head slightly so Matt can knead his fingers deeper into his hair. “But I might be willing to overlook it.”

Foggy’s hair is smooth like silk, not too oily so it feels sticky on his fingers but not too dry so that it feels too crisp and crunchy. It’s just right, absolutely perfect, and Matt adores threading his fingers through it. After a while, Foggy passes out, snoring deeply like he does when he’s exhausted, and Matt has to grope behind himself to get the bag, rifling through it before slapping a breath-rite strip across Foggy’s nose, which doesn’t stop the snoring but lessens it to a much more manageable sound.

He keeps stroking Foggy’s hair afterwards until he himself falls asleep, content in his soulmate’s arms.

David Tyler Nelson is not a quiet man.

Well, he probably is. He’s just not quiet to Matt.

In the pitches of early morning, how early is debatable seeing as Matt’s not really fond of moving currently and can’t see a clock, he can hear him hissing below in the kitchen. Foggy used to whine about how he both loved and hated the placement of his bedroom, atop the kitchen so it was easier to catch a sniff of what was cooking but so close that it got unbearably hot in the summer and heat rose up through the floorboards and caked into his room.

The kettle’s on. Matt takes a sniff. Coffee. French vanilla. He closes his eyes, thinking as his mind coaxes itself awake. French vanilla with caramel.

“We should tell him,” Foggy’s mother whispers patiently. She’s stirring her spoon in her own mug of coffee, the metal clinking loudly against the ceramic of the mug and Matt’s half-tempted to stop listening right then and there because frankly, he doesn’t have time to deal with mug clinks. It took him a solid month before he managed to get Foggy to stop.

On the other hand, he’s almost certain they’re talking about Foggy’s removed mark and the fact that Matt is most definitely his soulmate. At that thought, Matt strokes a finger over Foggy’s collarbone, right where the collar of his shirt would be. Removals always leave a noticeable mark, a noticeable sign that this is a person who was not born Markless.

Well, noticeable for sighted people anyway, Matt thinks bitterly, fingers dragging across the raised and bumpy skin that his senses don’t pick up on.

Foggy shivers.

Matt stops.

“We don’t know it’s him, Mary,” Foggy’s father says firmly. “And if it were, don’t you think he would’ve said something about it.”

“Not unless Foggy said something about not wanting to know,” his mother stresses and it’s amazing how correct the woman is. “Not unless he’s afraid Foggy won’t like him back.”

His father grits his teeth. “Mary-“

“David,” she interrupts, “you saw the way he acted when he said that name. It’s a lie. The boy is smart and talented but he cannot lie for the life of him.”

Matt frowns. He’s a perfectly good liar.

“I know, I know,” Foggy’s father agrees and Matt gives a bristle of annoyance because he is a good liar. He’s been lying about his senses for years now. To everyone. Including Foggy.

That particular thought makes him wince and he swallows thickly.

Is it really lying if you just never mention it? he thinks. Is it really lying it just never comes up in conversation?

No.

Yes.

A fine line of confusion.

He stops thinking about it and goes back to listening, pretending fully like he isn’t eavesdropping and just hasn’t got a hang of his senses so early in the morning yet.

“-tell him. He would want to know,” Foggy’s mother says and now she’s slurping at her coffee and Matt wonders if it’s really worth it to pretend like his senses aren’t in his control yet just so he can listen in on whether or not they’re going to tell Foggy that Matt’s been lying to him.

Another lie he’s done well, he thinks vaguely.

“Mary-” Her husband takes a breath. “Compromise. We don’t tell him but we give him the note. A copy of it just in case.” He pours the coffee into his own cup, the liquid sloshing against the walls of the mug. “And that’ll be that. If Matt wants Foggy to know, he’ll try to get him to read it. If Foggy’s curiosity gets the best of him, he’ll read it himself.”

“He won’t,” Foggy’s mother says slowly. “He’ll take it but he’ll never read it. Even if he wants to. Even if Matt edges him on. He’ll never read it. You know that.”

“But he won’t be happy about it if we tell him either.” He takes a long, dragging slurp from his mug and Matt wonders why people do that, why they have to be so irritating that way.

His wife sighs. “Compromise,” she agrees finally.

Later that week, when Matt and Foggy are heading back to campus, he hears them hand Foggy the note, the copy with his name on it.

Later that same day, when Matt and Foggy are in their dorm, he hears Foggy snort and rip the note into pieces, dumping them all in the trash.

He pretends like his heart isn’t breaking with each flutter of paper that lands in the can.

Marcelle Candace Stahl is pure evil, devil incarnate.

Matt hates her immensely.

Marci is Markless. Marci is what Foggy wants. It doesn’t help that she’s obviously beautiful. Everyone’s heart speeds up when she passes by. He can’t tell how many arousals he inhales every time she flashes the littlest bit of skin.

And it doesn’t help that Foggy likes her. A lot.

Gritting his teeth, Matt forcibly grips his hands into fists and listens to Foggy go on and on about Marci while he pretends to be happy for him.

“She’s just-” He laughs and groans, covering his face. “-fucking perfect, Matt. So out of my league but she likes me.” He laughs again, longer this time and the sound make Matt’s heart beat double time. “And the sex is great, of course.”

His heart flat-lines.

“Of course,” Matt says and he tries not to spill the venom in his chest into his words.

“Skipped vanilla and went straight into kink,” Foggy continues, humming happily as he flutters his fingers across his stomach.

Matt can do kinky. Matt can do bondage and biting and whatever else it is Foggy wants. But Matt doesn’t say any of this. He rolls his shoulders, turns around and thinks vehemently about how much he wants to punch Marci in her perfect, flower-scented face as Foggy continues on about how much of a goddess she is in bed.

He’s only slightly grateful when Marci barrels in and drags Foggy off to dinner minutes later. She ducks her head back in for a moment and Matt can hear her lipstick dragging slick across her lips. “I wouldn’t expect him back tonight, Matty,” she says and there’s the glee in her voice as Matt tenses. “Actually, I think I’m gonna keep him for the weekend.” She flutters her fingers in his direction, a swishing and irritating movement. “Have a nice night!”

Matt hates Marci.

He decides right there and then that he will tell Foggy, the moment the two break up, about his mark. Well, maybe not the moment, he thinks. An hour or so afterwards. Once Foggy’s properly mourned. It’d be rude to throw it at him in the light of his breakup and Foggy wouldn’t be pleased.

Matt sighs and traces the piece of paper carrying Foggy’s name in his pocket.

It’ll be okay, he thinks. Most soulmates end up together. Of course he and Foggy will.

Steven Grant Rogers is not dead.

Captain America was unearthed, alive and relatively healthy, from a block of ice. He broke his way out of the room where they were keeping him at SHEILD and burst into Times Square literally an hour after Marci and Foggy broke up, a minute away from Matt clearly his throat and coming clean about who his soulmate really is, and Matt is pretty much sure he’s cursed when the announcement breaks out over the news, filling the campus with uncontained excitement and causing someone to throw themselves into the room yelling about it.

Steven Grant Rogers has one brown eye along with his blue. The blue is natural, they can assure him now, medical science being what it is. The brown is for his soulmate.

Foggy is overjoyed.

Matt wants to die.

Somehow, through weird means, Foggy manages to get him to meet Steve. For a moment, he panics sure that they’ll want to check his mark, sure that they’ll tell him it’s not Steven Grant Roger but Franklin Percival Nelson and then Foggy will know but no one asks, no one checks and they’re picked up by a four people who are definitely armed, even if their weapons aren’t flashing around in public.

It’s in a small but tall room at SHEILD. They’re there first. There’s a man above them with a bow slung over his back, perched up in the highest corners of the room. Matt wonders if anyone knows he’s there. Foggy keeps jumping up and down on his heels. He’s excited to meet Captain America. Matt kind of is too but he feels bad for the giving the man false hope.

He feels bad being there.

He should’ve said something, he thinks, hearing footsteps patter their way down the hall towards the room. He should’ve told Foggy the truth before this could spiral into what it is now.

Captain America - Steve, call me Steve - steps in, followed by a man in a crisp suit. Matt can’t hear the folds of the man’s clothing. For a minute he assumes that it’s spandex but it fits differently on him than spandex does. It hangs, effortlessly, and smells plain. The man in the rafters jumps down when the suited man – Coulson – snaps his fingers.

Soulmates, Matt clarifies in his mind when they’re hands glide together in passing as the man with the bow shifts behind Coulson, both hearts beating faster the moment they touch before fading softly back to normal.

He’s wondering what kind of marks they have when he shakes Steve’s hand. There’s a beat of silence and Foggy’s heartrate falls. His shoulders drop. For a person so uninterested in his own, Foggy sure does care a lot about Matt’s soulmate.

“I’m sorry,” Steve apologizes immediately as someone behind Matt shakes their head.

“It’s fine,” Matt replies smoothly because unrequited soulmates are rare and he really doesn’t want to be Captain America’s. “I didn’t think it’d be you. That would be too lucky.”

Steve’s a nice guy. He feels bad about the mistake and interprets Matt’s happiness wrongly as sadness because of his words. “Well, even if we’re not, would you like…”

He trails off, leaving the question open but it’s obviously an offer for a date. Matt’s ready to say no when Coulson takes a step forward, his arm raised to touch Steve gently, perhaps to dissuade him from finishing the offer, and the guy with the bow shifts agitatedly. Steve twists his head slightly, turning to the arm, and he laughs.

“Come on, Clint,” he whines, voice teasing, turning back to look at the man with the bow, who shrugs. “I thought we were good.”

There’s a moment where everyone is aware of something and Matt isn’t and he hates it, clenching his teeth. Foggy’s snickering in his ear, murmuring low, “The agent guy, Coulson, he’s got a thought mark.” Foggy takes a moment to laugh again. “It said ‘stupid star spangled ass’ on his hand.”

Matt laughs too, quietly, and listens when the man with the bow, Clint, says, “What can I say, Cap? I’m a jealous man.”

He moves swiftly and tucks himself into Coulson’s chest, swatting his arm away from Steve and everyone laughs again. Coulson snorts, unamused, but his heart beats out a happy tone and he wraps one hand firmly around Clint’s hip. Matt shifts, jealous. Foggy’s too busy to being excited over meeting stupid Captain America to even bump his shoulder like he would and they’re not moving so there’s no sense for Matt to be touching him.

Steve clears his throat and Matt gets ready to say no again when Foggy does bump him eagerly. It hits Matt that it’d be stupid to deny a date from Captain America. Foggy would want to know why he didn’t want it. He’d stew at it for hours, no matter the excuse. And Foggy’s smart. He’d figure out why Matt said no. He’d figure out that Matt lied. He’d know.

Foggy’s not supposed to know.

He doesn’t want to.

Steve asks again.

Matt says yes.

His mark burns.

Steven Grant Rogers could charm the pants off a nun.

Actually, Matt’s pretty sure he could charm the pants off a nun and then get her into bed without question. It’s an amusing thought, if not a little disgusting. Still, Steve is lovely and asks a lot of questions. Matt tries his best answer them but his heart’s not in it. He’s too preoccupied listening to a heartbeat across the city. He sighs when another heartbeat joins Foggy’s. There’s a steadiness in them and then suddenly Foggy’s is pounding. So is the other one.

Matt switches his focus back to Steve, trying to remember what question they were on. Something about… pie? Clocks? The economy?

He’s faintly aware of Foggy’s heart beating faster and faster and heavily aware of the tension rolling between him and Steve. Guilt slams into him. He’s been a bad date.

“I’m sorry,” he says, pushing his fork to the side so he doesn’t fiddle with it during his apology.

He looks at Steve’s face, more cut than Foggy’s, less soft around the edges, which doesn’t make it unattractive per se, just not perfect. Sure, Captain America’s supposed to be hot but he’s shaped like a Dorito. Matt isn’t the biggest fans of Doritos.

Marshmallows are better.

He licks his lips. “I’m just-”

“Preoccupied,” Steve finishes easily. “I got that.”

“I’m sorry,” Matt says again.

Steve shakes his head and laughs. “It’s okay. We’re not soulmates so you’re not interested.”

Matt swallows. He’s normally better at this. “It must be awkward for you anyway.”

Steve pauses with a forkful of pasta to his mouth. “Why do you think?”

Because you’re from the forties and probably homophobic on some level, Matt thinks. Out loud, he says, “Because there- I mean, you’re probably not comfortable with- with being out like, um-”

He has absolutely no idea where he’s going and is slightly mortified and mostly relieved when Steve cuts in, “I’m bisexual, by the way.”

Matt chokes. Steve laughs.

“Yeah, even with soulmates, it wasn’t- wasn’t accepted much back then,” Steve says. There’s a grin in his voice. “So I never said anything but, um, yeah.”

“That’s- that’s nice.” Matt clears his throat. “It must be one benefit of being here. Now. In the future. The present.” He’s beginning to ramble he realizes. He stops and “stares” at his feet. God, he’s a disaster today.

Language, Father Lathom’s voice chastises and Matt considers just throwing himself off a bridge. It’d make everything easier. And effectively ruin this failure of a date from his mind. And the fact that Foggy is having sex.

“Mmm.” Steve relaxes in his seat. Matt can feel him staring, his gaze piercing Matt’s skin, and he shifts. “Actually, I do still have a question. If you’re willing.”

“Shoot,” Matt says and then backtracks wondering if Steve even knows what that’s slang for.

He does apparently judging by the fact that he steeples his hands together and asks, “Why did you say I was your soulmate?” Matt swallows down a half a glass of water as his heart races. “Or rather that my name was?”

The water Matt had chugged seems to evaporate in his mouth because his throat is drying again and his voice cracks. “What do you mean?”

“Your boyfriend. Franklin. He’s your soulmate, right?” Matt freezes but Steve plows on. “Did you just want to meet me?”

There’s a long silence. Matt’s pretty sure the echo of this silence is going to make him deaf. It’s pounding. His throat is drier than the Sahara Desert. He swallows. It doesn’t help.

“Fog- Foggy’s not my soulmate,” he says. He clears his throat, tries to sound firm but it comes out weak and desperate regardless. “My soulmate’s name is Steven Grant Rogers. He thought that-”

“But it’s not,” Steve cuts off and there’s tension rolling off his shoulders. He drops his hands and swallows audibly, aware that he’s said something he shouldn’t have, rolled into a topic he shouldn’t have.

Matt takes a breath. “Foggy’s parents removed his mark when he born and he doesn’t want to know who it is.” He licks his lips and squeezes his hands together. “He’s not interested in having a soulmate.” Steve’s heart beats in interest and Matt laugh tonelessly. “He asked me about it. Right after spilling that knowing who his soulmate is something he never wants to know. The bar we were at was playing a rerun of an old Captain America movie.”

“And you just said my name,” Steve finishes and Matt wants to break.

He nods. “I have a question.”

Steve snorts. “Um…” He pauses for a moment then says, “Shoot?”

Matt swallows, giving a slight grin and nod of approval. “How did you know?”

“They told me about the claim and I-” He sighs deeply. “It’s been a long time since I’ve seen someone not wearing a SHEILD uniform. I figured it wouldn’t be you but I thought it might be fun to try and get out anyway,” Steve confesses and he rubs the back of his neck nervously. Heat flares from his face. “I asked them not to check the mark but they did when you came in. It was an accident though. Carri, the short stocky girl?”

Matt nods, remembering her. She smelled deeply of perfume, probably to mask the cigar odor underlying it. She’d asked him to remove his jacket so they could get it through a scanner. He had. Since it was a cool day, he’d worn a short-sleeved shirt underneath. His mark was on full-display, splattered across his arm.

“Her brother’s blind and she learnt Braille when he did. To help him out anyway. She noticed the name was wrong and told Coulson who told me,” Steve says. He taps his watch, new and digital.

“But you came anyway.”

“Like I said, I wanted to see someone not wearing a SHEILD uniform for once.”

“And get outside,” Matt adds.

Steve laughs again and nods. “And get outside.”

Matt’s not really sure if this qualifies as outside. The restaurant is pretty much devoid of all people besides the SHEILD agents surrounding it and the staff in the kitchen, who, judging from the brisk way their waiter walked, are probably SHEILD agents as well. The restaurant is also three hours away from the city and Matt’s actually kind of convinced that SHEILD is capable of building restaurants in a day, much less a week, which is how long he had to stew on this date and consider turning it down.

He twists lightly in his chair. “So you used me?”

“Not as well as I had hoped,” Steve says, making it evident that this is probably not what he qualifies as “getting outside”. He shrugs. “It’s only for another month though. They just want me to be properly adjusted before I get to live on my own.”

“How can you adjust if you never see the real world?” Matt counters.

Steve laughs, loud and blaring. It’s not a Foggy laugh but it’s close enough to make Matt grin earnestly. “I am using that,” Steve assures him. “And when Hill asks me where I got that line from, I am blaming you, Mr. Murdock.”

“That’s quite alright, Mr. Rogers,” Matt says. He smiles a little stiffly and reaches for his glass. “That’s quite alright.”

They end up breaking out and disappearing into the night on Steve’s motorcycle. Steve has clearly defined muscles if Matt can feel them through his jacket but it’s not what Matt’s into. He likes strong, he likes muscular. But soft and squishy muscular. More fun that way. More surprising when they can pin you down and hold you and it’s nice to touch.

They stop just before the city since Steve is a little paranoid about not having a valid license and not knowing any new road laws. He offers to carry Matt the rest of the way, if only to ease his feet. Matt accepts, if only to rub it in Foggy’s face later that Steve Rogers, Captain America, carried him piggyback style for a good twenty minutes.

They go into a nearby art gallery and Steve describes the art failingly for a good hour before they’re caught. Matt gets dropped off at his apartment and thanks them for a lovely evening for curling up in bed and sending Foggy all the pictures he sent.

He wakes up to a good number of angry texts from a horrified Foggy who forgot that Matt was even going out with Captain America that night.

“You should’ve called! What if your poor taste in clothes killed his colour sense, Matt?” Foggy hisses over pancakes. “You could’ve scarred an American legend, buddy.”

Matt snickers and cuts up his pancakes, nodding at Foggy. “Like what you’re wearing is any better.”

“What?” He can hear the telltale swish of Foggy’s hair swooping down his face as he ducks his head to look at his own clothes. “My sense of fashion is perfectly- Oh, fuck you, Matt Murdock.”

He throws sugar packets at Matt’s face and Matt laughs and wonders for the billionth time if he should tell Foggy about his mark. Later, he rationalizes. Later.

The only problem is that he doesn’t know how much longer later is.

Eve Melinda Smith does not have her father’s name on her wrist.

Even if she did, Matt knows he’d still be punching the man within an inch of his life. If it were her father’s name wrapped around her wrist like a bracelet, it wouldn’t be. It’d be another person with that name. A pure coincidence.

But it’s not and even if it were, Matt would still be in the yard beating this man to death. Hell, he could be her soulmate and Matt would still be in the yard beating him to death. Soulmates or not, no one deserves to get touched without their permission and little girls definitely do not deserve that from their fathers.

With that thought, Matt slams his fist right into the side of the man’s face hard enough that he feels it shiver and shake up his bones.

“You touch your daughter again,” he snarls, his other fist raised, “and I will know.”

He lands another punch and then another and then another after another, until the only sound he can hear is the thudding of his heart, the gasping breaths of the man beneath him and the constant thud of his fists on the man’s face.

The smell of blood is tangy in the air, reeking off the man’s face, reeking off Matt’s knuckles. The man’s breathing has lulled from its previous gasping and choking. Matt takes a breath, pushing up. A sick desire in him thrums to crush him, step on his neck and snap it. Choke him.

Kill him.

Instead, he brushes bloodied fingers against a cut on his lip and shivers. The cloth around his eyes are tight and there’s a badness in him that is burning a hole in his chest. Behind the cloth, his eyes flutter and he clenches his fists tight, no matter how much the pain burns from the open wounds on the back of his hands.

He breathes deeply and marches off.

After meticulously washing the blood off his hands, he unties the cloth, lets it flutter to the ground and pitters back downstairs, dropping a few quarters into a payphone. He dials nine-one-one and in the second before someone picks up, he considers hanging up the phone and going back to finish the job. Then the second’s up and he gives them the address and goes back upstairs, listening quietly to Eve mumbling in her sleep. An hour later a phone rings. Minutes later, Eve is up and heading out, her mother’s hands shaking. There’s a pep in her heartbeat, one Matt hadn’t heard before in the long time he’d been listening.

It’s happiness.

It’s relief.

Matt exhales and grins.

Eve Melinda Smith does not have her father’s name wrapped around her wrist. And now she won’t have him wrapped around anything else.

Matt breathes and covers his face, trying to suppress his grin by thinking of saddening things like Foggy finding out that Matt, blind as a blind man can be, went and beat up a man close to death.

That thought’s a bit too sad. He rolls over and buries his face in silk covered pillows. A one-time thing, he assures himself. For a little girl who needed it. For a little girl who needed help.

Deep down he knows it’s not going to be a one-time thing. He knew that when he continued training, continued going to the gym in wait of the day he would snap and start wailing on someone.

He wonders if he should tell Foggy about the churning, wanting need to hurt.

No, he decides. It’d make it harder to be his soulmate with that looming between them. Frankly, because Foggy would a) be pissed off about it and undeniably mad and b) because Matt knows, even now with only one man decked out in his long list of future punches, that he’s not going to stop, that he can’t stop and he’s pretty sure that’s going to be the breaking point between him and Foggy.

So he listens to Eve’s heartbeat until it fades out too far away for him to hear it with straining himself, without focusing hard on it, and goes to sleep.

It’s one of the best sleeps he’s ever had.

Karen Susan Page is innocent.

Her breath hitches harsher than it had been the moment Foggy and Matt walk into the room and Matt tenses even as he fast talks the officer out of the room. Unrequited soulmates are rare but, knowing his luck, it’d be bound to happen to one of them. And judging from Foggy’s quick heartbeat and flushing skin, he’s a little bit more than attracted to Karen and probably more than willing to date her, especially if he assumes that he’s her soulmate.

“How long have you been practicing law?” Karen sniffles, tugging at her sleeves. Her skin is hot, the warmth of it radiating hard off of her.

Matt pauses then glances in Foggy’s general direction. “What time is it?”

Karen’s breath hitches again, like she’s nervous where this is going, she’s aware of the joke meaning behind asking someone that question.

“Twelve twenty-two a.m.” Foggy pulls his sleeve over his watch and Matt, calculating quickly, says, “About seven hours.”

Karen lets out a bubble of nervous laughter, disbelief in the tone. Foggy sighs, voice lowered but still loud enough that Karen could easily hear it behind her hitching sniffles. “Well, if you go from when we passed the bar…”

“I was going from when we got our own desks.”

Foggy’s hair swishes as he nods in understanding. “Oh, then yeah. Seven hours.”

Karen lets out a broken laugh, scared, and her voice is hoarse as they begin to talk. Her voice is still hoarse when they get her out of her cell, but this time more wrecked from screaming, the man’s blood still staining her fingertips, even if it’s not noticeably there anymore, even if she can’t feel it rub wet and warm over her skin.

Foggy talks low and sweet, murmuring gently as she shakes and shudders.

(NAME) is a nice guy if anything.

He does help Matt up to Claire’s and doesn’t say anything else about him to anyone which is nice.

(MORE)

Claire Georgina Temple has a thought mark in the center of her lower back.

Matt finds this out when he clumsily presses his mouth to hers. She likes him, he knows this, and he likes her, he knows that. And maybe this will help him move on from Foggy, like Elektra did.

Sort of.

Not really.

Elektra was no help on that front at all, to be honest.

But still, Claire is great and Matt likes her and she likes him so it’ll work.

Except it won’t because she pulls away and laughs quietly under her breath, “I’m not really looking for a beard, Matt.”

Matt’s not fast when it comes to informal conversation. Especially informal conversation between people who aren’t good friends as of yet. He swallows, takes a moment to think, process and then says, “What is the lesbian equivalent to a beard?”

Claire smiles lightly and socks his shoulder gently, her movements smooth but tired. Her arm drops to her lap. “I don’t know.”

“We should look it up,” Matt suggests, already up and moving. He remembers watching birds that would fly into the gym and sit up high on the rafters, their bodies moving twitchy and quick. He’s pretty sure that’s how he looks right now, at the counter, head twisting one way and then another, arms flickering out.

Twitchy.

Like a bird.

He does not like that comparison.

There’s a stammer in Claire’s heartbeat now and her breath stops for just a moment before hitching and exhaling out. “Matt?”

“Yes?” he says, starting two cups of tea for the both of them.

“What’s the name on your arm?” she asks and she sounds scared, nervous, worried.

Matt closes his eyes, steadying himself with the motion, and breathes the panic in his chest out slowly.

“It’s not yours,” he assures her after he’s calmed down some. “I just thought-” His hands shake and this was a stupid decision, he thinks vaguely while steadying his palms on the counter. “I thought that you liked me.”

“I do,” Claire assures him. “Just not like that.” There’s a beat of silence before she asks, “So who is it?”

When he doesn’t respond, too busy squeezing the counter and trying to breathe easily because the name on his arm doesn’t want him and he can’t stop thinking about it lately, she stands up, shoulders sagging, and slips over beside him.

“Mine’s on my back,” she says. There’s a ruffle of cloth and Matt can hear her fingers tapping against her skin, butterfly light. “It’s a, uh, a thought mark. I read it backwards every morning.” She shifts, turning all the way around so her back’s to him. “Can you see it?”

Matt laughs. “No, I can’t see it.”

Her shirt drops and she turns back around, leaning against the counter. “What can you see, Matt?”

He laughs again, tonelessly now. There’s nothing all around him. His eyes see pure black and will never see anything else. He swallows and taps the counter. “Nothing,” he says simply. “Not a damn thing.”

“So then how-”

“I don’t know,” he says, feeling bad for cutting her off but this is bad topic and he doesn’t like talking about it, even though the only people he’s ever discussed it with are Stick and Elektra, and with Elektra it was not willingly. “I just know where things are. I- I sense them around me and I can- I can move around them because of that, I can follow people because of that. But other than that, everything-” His breath quivers and he finishes off her tea. “Everything is black.” He taps the edge of his eyes. “No light perception. Total and complete blindness.”

Claire makes a noise. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s not your fault.”

“I know,” she says, reaching for her mug. “I’m still sorry.”

There’s a palpable tension pulling between them, thick enough to choke in and Matt takes a few delicate sips of his own cup of tea, each one silent to the ears, before mumbling, “What did it say? This- this morning?”

Claire pauses, drums her fingers on the counter and thinks. Matt twitches at the sound as it thuds angrily in his head. “‘I need milk’,” she says finally, pulling her hand off the counter as she moves back to the couch. “That’s what it said this morning.”

“Mine,” Matt begins. “Mine says-” He laughs awkwardly and turns to the window, the thudding of rain pouring against the glass the only reason he knows it’s there. “Mine says Franklin Percival Nelson.”

“Nice name,” Claire says. She takes a loud and obnoxious sip of her tea. “Sounds nice too.”

“He is,” Matt says. “Perfect.”

Claire doesn’t ask how Matt knows that.

Matt doesn’t tell her.

They think about their marks in silence, breathing in and breathing out and hoping.

(MORE)

Franklin Percival Nelson knows the identity of Daredevil.

He shouts and helps Matt sit up.

He shouts and helps Matt get dressed.

He shouts and leaves.

Matt cries the entire time.

I stopped there since I couldn’t bring myself to finish off the season, which I had never watched in its entirety anyway. Naturally it would go into the other episodes after their fight, wrap around the end of season 1. I was debating whether or not to keep it compliant to season 2 but that was dependant on whether or not i actually watched it or not.

Anyway, I hope this was a nice enough wip. I’ll probably never finish it. It’s just too much and I’m not interested in Daredevil that much anymore but I liked it well enough irregardless. :)

#my writing #wip

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