Fanning the Flames

Prologue - Matt's POV

It's a windy day in Manhattan. It's the kind of day where Jack Frost nips viciously at your exposed fingers and nose and ears, anywhere he can sink his ice-cold teeth into. It's sunny, but there's no warmth. At least, I don't feel any. Foggy claims that the sun is shining brightly, but if I didn't know for a fact that he slipped on his sunglasses earlier, I wouldn't believe him.

"… sense to keep taking cases that aren't going to make us any money," Foggy is saying as we walk.

"It makes perfect sense," I argue, as I have almost every day for the past month. Foggy complaining about money is becoming almost as frequent as Foggy mentioning that his mom wanted him to be a butcher.

"I don't want to hear your bull-shit about protecting the innocent, Matt. Yes, I know that's why we got into this business, but we can't stay in this business without moolah!" Skin rubs against skin in front of my face and I know that Foggy is rubbing his fingers and thumbs together in the universal sign for "money".

"That's how it starts," I counter. "Next thing you know, we're those bloodthirsty shark lawyers from Legally Blonde."

Foggy bursts out laughing, clapping a hand on my shoulder. "Okay, which one of your past 'girlfriends' made you watch that?

My lips twitch. "Maya."

"Which one's that again?"

"The one from Zimbabwe."

Foggy snaps his fingers. "Right! Her." He stops suddenly, pulling on my arm. "Dude, I was just assaulted by the best smell in the world."

I know. I'm assaulted by it too. It's sweet pastries and delicious chocolate. It's steamed milk and ground beans. "Is it coffee?"

"Of course it's coffee! You made me skip my cup o' joe this morning so we could drive all the way down here to meet this new client of ours." He leans in closer even though he doesn't have to, his breath changing the air currents around my ear. "Can you tell if it's the good kind of coffee?"

I lick my lips. "Yeah. It is."

"We're going in."

I don't argue and let myself be pulled into the café. The door jingles as it opens and all of the sounds and smells hit me at once. It would be disorienting if I wasn't so used to it. As the door closes and the honks, tires, and wind disappear, each individual conversation begins to filter through.

"… cheated on me! The lying, dirty, rotten…"

"… how it feels to be that close to nature…"

"… learned my lesson, you know?"

"… not every day you see such a…"

"Will that be all, Sir?"

I freeze.

Female. Light accent. Low pitch. Coming from he direction of the coffee blenders and beeping cash register. I know that voice. I've only ever heard it over the course of one night, but it's as familiar to me as the glasses on my face. I reach for Foggy and grab his elbow. I have to be sure. "The barista," I whisper. "What does she look like?"

"Really?" Foggy says exasperatedly. "You thinking about sleeping with her too? You have to tell me one of these days how you can tell how hot they are." Regardless of his grumblings, he looks over at the counter while stepping in line, pulling me with him. "Tall. About your height. Long black hair that's lighter at the ends. Some kind of attractive exotic."

"Does she look Egyptian?"

Foggy pauses. "If you told me she was I wouldn't be surprised."

I curse under my breath. "What's her name tag say?"

"Let's find out." Foggy drags me up to the counter.

I turn away abruptly, trying not to be recognized. I know it's cowardly, but I need to be sure it's her before I face this. Face what, exactly? To be honest, I really don't know.

"I'll have a large dark roast triple triple please… Viola," Foggy orders casually.

I try not to stiffen, but the grip on my cane tightens anyway. It's her. The girl I slept with at a house party while I was at Columbia. The one I couldn't stop thinking about for weeks afterward. The one I pushed away because I felt... something. Please don't remember me.

"Coming right up," she says. "And for your friend?"

"Matt?"

Damn it, Foggy. "I'll… I'll have a large one milk. Please."

"Sure thing." Does she not remember me? "I don't seem to remember you taking milk in your coffee in your college days," she says casually, fingers clacking against the touch-screen cash.

Fuck. "Uh, Foggy convinced me to stop taking it black."

"Why?"

"He said I would absorb all of the bitterness one day and become a grumpy old man."

She laughs. I remember how nice it was to listen to it that night so long ago. How long has it been? Four years? Six? "That's all it took to convince you?" She asks.

I shrug, cracking a small smile. This encounter is surprisingly un-awkward, but I'm not one to hold out much hope with these kinds of things. "I also like milk."

She chuckles again. There's a rustle of plastic and metal coins falling against skin and brushing against palms. I didn't even notice that Foggy had paid for the both of us. I'll thank him later. "Well, it was nice seeing you again, Matt."

That's it? "Yeah. You too. Take care." That's it. Foggy and I move down the counter to pick up our coffees. I keep one ear trained on her voice. The familiarity of it is like a foghorn, blaring at me and forcing me to listen. What did she say her accent was? French Canadian?

Foggy's elbow jabs me in the ribs like the knife from last night. Pain sends a flare up my torso to my neck and I barely manage to disguise the flinch behind my glasses. "What was that all about?" He whispers, though to me it's like full volume. "You totally turned up the charm."

"I did not," I say truthfully, resisting the urge to rub my side, where I can feel the bandages peeling. I'm going to have to change them soon.

"I'm giving you a look of disbelief right now."

"She's a… an old flame."

"Ex-girlfriend?"

"No. More of a… one-night stand."

"One-night stand? And she still remembers you? Dude."

"I wasn't expecting her to, but she did. That night didn't end well and I was expecting it to be awkward or for her to be mad, but she wasn't."

"Maybe she's ready for round two?" Foggy's elbow continues prodding me in the side and I grit my teeth. "C'mon, Murdock. Get back in the ring!"

I almost snort. "Yeah, no. Not happening."

"Why not?"

That is a good question.

I can't get her out of my thoughts. She's like a sticky note attached to the inside of my head that I can't shake off. I can't bring myself to peel it away either. Sticky notes function as reminders and this is something, someone, I don't want to forget.

Foggy and I get cabs downtown and back, sometimes taking turns, sometimes together. We have regular meetings with our client and every single time we go, we pass Viola's coffee shop. I can always smell the fresh pastries. Occasionally the door will open when we're nearby and I'll strain to hear her voice. It's a temptation that gets harder and harder to resist.

I wonder if she sees me through the window. I wonder if she thinks about me. I wonder if I'm like a sticky note or a parasite that just won't go away or if maybe I've been pushed from her mind as easily as wiping away a drop of water.

My alarm clock fails me and I'm late. I only got home an hour before I was supposed to get up and I slept through the music that was supposed to startle me back into the land of the living. The meeting is over by the time I get there, hastily dressed and out of breath.

Foggy catches me by the arm before I can go in. "Where were you?" He asks sternly, letting go almost reluctantly. His fingers are tense. He probably wants to punch me. I don't blame him.

"Foggy, I'm sorry-"

"Where were you?"

"I-" I wince. "I slept in."

Foggy knows why. He sighs. "Are you hurt?"

"Just bruised."

There's a swish of hair, Foggy shaking his head at me, before I'm steered down the street, away from our client's building. Foggy doesn't let go. "Have you had breakfast yet? Or lunch, for that matter?"

"No."

"Then come on. We're getting food." He practically shoves me along the sidewalk, then pulls away roughly. I can only assume that manhandling a blind guy doesn't look good in public. Or anywhere, really.

I smell Viola's café and Foggy grabs my arm. "No," I say immediately, digging my heels into the pavement. "Not here."

"Why not? You said it wasn't awkward."

"That was then. This is… now."

"Stop being such a child. Come on. Their coffee is to die for and after the morning I just had, I'm in dire need of some." The bell over the door jingles too quickly and too loudly.

I sigh. I don't think it's me who's being the child. Regardless, I'm a mature adult approaching thirty years old. I can do this.

I tap my cane against the one stair and step into the café, swarmed by the warm, delicious atmosphere of the place. As soon as the door closes, bell jingling, I hear her.

"… -tually that's Starbucks-" Her voice is breathy and slightly strained.

"Well, why don't you serve it?" Old man. Grumpy. Scratchy voice.

"Because we're not a chain-"

"Well, you should be! I want my name written on that cup!"

"I can do that if you really want. What's your-?"

"Good! And don't spell my name wrong!"

"What is your-?

"I'll be sitting over there." There's the tapping of a cane, a wooden one for people who can't walk rather than for people who can't see. The tapping continues past me and I hear him mutter under his breath: "Damn immigrants."

I frown and reach for his arm to stop him and force him to apologize, but Foggy has yanked my other arm and dragged me towards Viola's voice.

"Hi guys," she greets. I can hear the smile in her voice. She doesn't seem at all bothered by the racist customer she just had to deal with. "What'll it be?"

"Is there a special today, Viola?" Foggy asks, his jacket sliding against the counter as he leans toward her. My frown deepens. What is he doing?

"No, but we've got Valentine's Day-related everything."

"Can I get a double espresso please?"

"I can pour some candy hearts in there if you'd like."

"No thanks. I'm going to throw it back and don't want to choke and die."

"Wouldn't want that," she chuckles. "Matt?"

Right. I exist as more than a ghost watching a conversation. "Uh, one of those holiday drinks," I say.

"Which one? We've got tons. Cappuccino. Latte. Mocha. Hot chocolate."

"Let's go for a mocha."

"You're feeling uncharacteristically sweet today," says Foggy faux casually.

I shrug. "I'm trying something new."

"She's smiling," he informs me with a smile of his own.

I try not to grin, but don't quite succeed.

"Mocha it is, then."

I pay this time and Foggy and I move down the counter to get our drinks. He keeps elbowing me, but I ignore him. It's easier when there's no knife wound there.

"Gregory!" Viola calls.

The tapping of the wooden cane resumes, getting closer. "It's Greg!" Splatsplat! Some spit lands on the wooden floor.

"Considering you never told me your name, I think I did pretty well." There's a sort of smugness to her voice as Greg's fingers brush against the Styrofoam cup.

"Humph!" More tapping before Greg grunts and falls into his chair.

"Double espresso and a peppermint mocha for Matt and his friend?" This voice is new. Closer. Female. Young. Probably adolescent. High-pitch. On the quiet side. Very calm.

I turn towards her. "You know my name?" I ask, reaching for the cup.

She gently places it in my hand. "Yeah. Viola wrote it on the cup. The other one says 'Matt's friend'."

Foggy snorts. "So she can deduce Mr. Gregory Gargoyle's name, but not mine?"

Clothing rustles and I assume the barista just shrugged. "She said his name was written on the tag that was sticking out of the back of his shirt. Don't know why she wrote your name, though. You someone special?"

It's two o'clock in the afternoon and the café isn't busy, so I can understand that she has time to make friendly conversation with the customers. What I don't understand is why Viola wrote my name on that cup.

"No," I reply, shifting my fingers around the cup so that the heat doesn't burn. "Just a…" Friend is too close. Ex is too personal. "… an acquaintance."

As the trial nears, the visits to our client in downtown Manhattan become daily. So to do our visits to Viola's café. Foggy claims that the sole reason is because the coffee there is magnificent (which it is), but I think there's something more to it – for him and for me.

Every time, I learn a little bit more about her and she learns a little bit more about me. She congratulates me on successfully becoming a lawyer and I congratulate her on being able to afford an apartment in Manhattan on a barista's salary. She laughs. Almost every day, she laughs. It's a beautiful sound. Sometimes I can't get it out of my head.

I think about her way too much to be just "acquaintances". But that's all we ever can be. It's all I'll ever let us be. She deserves better.

I learn that she lives alone and is trying to get her life back together after something happened, something she won't tell me. We both have secrets, so I don't mind her not telling me, even if I'm insanely curious. I keep coming back to the "break-up" theory, but she doesn't strike me as someone who would run from that or let it control her life. I could be wrong, though. Which is why it bugs me so much that I don't know for sure.

She tells me about how she's having a bit of a crisis because she doesn't know what to do with her life now that her job no longer exists. I caught her on her break one time, having come without Foggy because at that point it was simply routine, and she confided in me. I don't know why she feels like she can trust me or that I'm someone who would give good advice. Maybe she doesn't have anyone else.

Her last job was all about helping people. Now she's a barista at a café. She told me not to get her wrong – she likes her job, she really does, but it's not fulfilling. I can understand why. It's why I became a lawyer. To help people. To get something from my job that I couldn't get in my everyday life. It's why I became the man in the mask. I'm not about to suggest that she become a vigilante. That would be stupid.

It's stupid that I have to keep telling myself that.

I told her that she could be whatever she wanted, but she didn't know what that was. I said that there was always law school. She laughed, breaking the tension, and thanked me for listening. She said she didn't need me to have an answer, just someone to hear her without judgment.

I stop going to the café after that. We won the case. And I didn't want Viola to get the wrong impression. Foggy keeps "subtly" mentioning her, but I pretend not to notice. Eventually he drops the subject altogether. I'm supposed to forget all about her and move on with my life. We're not supposed to see each other again.

But somehow… by fluke or divine intervention… we do.

Author's Note: Hello! Thanks for reading this far! I like you already ;)

So this is a story that takes place within the MCU and, considering the main character will be an OC, does change things up, but I do try and relatively stick to canon. Please don't ask me about ages and timelines. I tried to figure it all out once. *shudders* It should make sense (or at least it should seem to). To clarify a couple of things, this story takes place between S1 and S2 of Daredevil and partway through S2 of Agents of SHIELD (don't ask how, it just does). It's early 2015 (again, don't ask). It will kind of bounce back and forth between the two shows so hopefully you're caught up with them. I will be doing some episode re-writes of AoS to fit Viola in somewhere, but I will try to avoid that as much as possible.

One other thing. This does take place within my Coffee Chronicles series, but you don't have to read those to understand this. This is a spin-off and only touches on the other stories in typical Marvel easter egg format. At least, that's the plan.

With all that said and done, I hope you enjoy the prologue to Fanning the Flames!

P.S. The rest of the story will be from Viola's POV. I was originally going to alternate between her and Matt, but realized that she was more central to the story and would ultimately dominate anyway so... he gets to be the narrator here instead :)

Disclaimer - I don't own Daredevil, Agents of SHIELD, etc. I own Viola Stevenson and the cafe she works at as well as the other cafe workers and OCs you may notice.