NEW YORK CITY
Hasan breathes hard, though it's more stress and anxiety than anything else that's causing the heart-pounding and the hand-shaking. He's sweating, despite the cold.
He never heard from her. She said to deliver it if she didn't get in touch, and he -
He didn't forget. He would never forget instructions from her. Sure, she's smoking hot, but also so much farther above him in the hierarchy that he knew displeasing her would be bad. Very bad.
So he didn't forget, but he waited, just to make sure she wasn't going to call. He wouldn't have wanted to deliver it and then find out that she had changed her mind, after all. And then the address, it was a law office, so he assumed that it would be closed on Christmas.
The day after Christmas, first thing, he swears, he went to the address, and it was a freaking accountant, and they'd never heard of Murdock or lawyers or anything. So Hasan Googled him, and found some stuff about his cases, but nothing about a law office.
Seriously. No web page. Not even a freaking Facebook. How the hell is Hasan supposed to find this guy?
And she said, she said not to take it to Murdock's apartment, and the look in her eyes after she'd said it, well, Hasan wasn't going to cross her.
Not that he would cross her even without that look. It was her.
So he spent the last few days trying to find this Murdock guy without going to his apartment. Somebody suggested Fogwell's gym, and so Hasan went there. No dice, but then the janitor there said to try the new office, had even given an address, but Hasan can't find the place.
All he knows is that he wants to deliver this package, before she figures out that he hasn't.
He's breathing harder now, and cold, and, shit, he needs to be done, but getting something hot to drink won't take long. He skipped lunch, and it's past dinner time, and he hasn't really slept since the law office wasn't where it was supposed to be, when he realized he was going to be late.
Hasan steps into the shop, and his breathing eases a little at the warmth of the place and the smell of the coffee. He places his order and waits, and it's almost out of habit that he asks the barista, "Do you know a lawyer, Matthew Murdock?"
She - Emily, it says on her name tag - gives him a cheerful smile as she hands over his drink. "Matt? Sure, I do."
Hasan nearly drops his coffee. "You do?"
Emily smiles again, and it is the single most beautiful thing Hasan has ever seen. "Of course I do. He's in here a couple of times a week, or somebody else from his office."
Hasan carefully sets the coffee on the counter, trying to keep his hands from shaking. He's still late, but maybe he can deliver the thing, and she won't come find him, thinking he lost it when he said he wouldn't.
"Hey, are you okay?"
Hasan takes a deep breath, trying not to look too freaked out, too off. Nice girl like Emily, she won't tell him anything if he looks too weird. He smiles. "I'm fine." He picks up his coffee and takes a drink. See? Fine. "It's just that I have a package for him, and I haven't been able to find him."
Emily still looks a little suspicious. "When you say package, that's not code for a gun or anything, is it?"
Hasan laughs in relief, fumbling the box out of the bag at his side. "No, an actual package." He shows it to her, adding, "I was supposed to get it to him on Christmas." Inspiration strikes, and he adds, with a winning smile, "It's from a lady."
He's pretty sure she's a human being, and so probably a lady.
That earns him an answering smile from Emily. "Oh, a Christmas present. Well, Matt does have a way with the ladies. His office is next door, that way, on the second floor." She points him in the proper direction, adding, "They don't have a real sign yet, though."
Hasan beams, giddy with relief. "Thank you, Emily. You have no idea what this means, being able to deliver this." He pulls out his wallet and stuffs a larger bill than he can really afford into the tip jar, waving away Emily's thanks, and hurries to find the office.
It's easy enough, now that he knows where he's going. The sign on the door, though handwritten, is clear enough: Nelson, Murdock, and Page.
He tries the door.
Locked.
Of course, because it's late. Hasan considers leaving the box on the floor outside the door, but he's pretty sure that won't do. It could get stolen, and of course that would be his fault.
The lock is fairly flimsy, though, and picking it is short work for Hasan.
Of course, there are three desks, but Hasan is so done that he drops the box on the one nearest the door and goes back out.
He is careful to re-lock the door behind him before he heads down the stairs, humming in relief.
ZAMUNDA
Elektra Natchios strode down the street, idly plucking a pair of sunglasses from a display as she passed and then slipping them on. The shop owner didn't notice, of course; it was faster than paying, and Elektra found that she didn't really care about...
...well, much of anything, these days.
It was Matthew, of course. She kept turning their last encounter over in her head. Surely there was something she could have done to convince him to end that cretin's life, back at the mansion.
She had failed Stick, and the cause. Worse, she had failed Matthew. It would have helped him to kill Roscoe Sweeney, she knew it would have. Revenge, after all, was a powerful balm to the soul, and if anybody's soul needed help, it was Matthew's.
Even he would admit that, as much as he went to church. His faith helped him, she knew, though there were times when it confounded her.
She also didn't understand why.
Why hadn't he killed the man? She'd seen the rage in Matthew, that glorious darkness. He'd beaten Roscoe Sweeney's face into something unrecognizable, and then he'd just... stopped.
Hadn't he had the same training that she had? Elektra knew that Stick would never have coddled Matthew, even with his blindness.
Especially because of his blindness.
Stick would have made sure Matthew knew how important it was to finish a fight.
The sun's warmth pooled down Elektra's back, distracting her. Possibly she would need to find a hat as well. She'd gone as far as she could easily get from New York, from Matthew. That was good, removing herself from temptation, gathering her focus before returning to the battle, but she hadn't exactly been prepared for the climate change.
She stepped into a shop, relishing its dim coolness.
The trouble was that everything reminded her of Matthew. She'd passed a Catholic church earlier, and of course that had made her think of the one and only time he'd asked her to go with him to Mass.
Elektra hadn't meant to laugh at him.
Well, no, she had, but she'd expected him to laugh with her. After all, her? In a church?
But that had been early in their relationship. He'd learned, poor boy. He'd grown to understand Elektra, just as she had him.
But since she'd left New York, even small things would catch at her mind and direct it toward thoughts of Matthew: a cutting board, for example.
And then she saw it, and all thoughts of hats and churches and even cutting boards were forgotten. It would be the perfect gift for Matthew, but not yet, not now. It was too soon.
Christmas, yes. He'd be in a charitable mood, and would perhaps be inclined to think fondly of her.
Elektra took up the item to the register. "Do you ship internationally?" she asked the clerk, setting her credit card on the counter.
His eyes widened and he nodded. Perhaps he realized that this sort of of credit card was not given to just anyone.
Elektra smiled. "Here's what we're going to do," she began.
GENOVIA
Elektra frowned at the box. Three days after purchasing it, she'd changed her mind, gone back to the shop, and picked up the package. She was Elektra Natchios. She didn't need to send Matthew Murdock, of all people, a Christmas gift. She'd tucked the box at the bottom of her bag until after Christmas, and the temptation to send it had passed.
The box had remained at the bottom of her bag for much of the next year, though it had, during one heart-stopping trip, nearly been confiscated by an overeager customs agent. She'd fixed that situation, though.
And Christmas was coming soon.
She wasn't going to send it.
She was over Matthew Murdock.
No, she wasn't over him, because she hadn't ever cared that much for him, not really. He'd been a fling, a distraction.
An assignment.
Sure, the sex had been great, but she could always find great sex somewhere else.
Of course.
And that was why she was still carrying around the stupid box.
Because she was over him.
NEW YORK CITY
Foggy Nelson does not rush as he makes his way up the rickety steps to the current home of Nelson, Murdock, and Page.
Sure, he's late. Again. But it isn't like they have clients pounding down the door, so he's not feeling too guilty. At least Karen is out today, so he doesn't have to listen to her making jokes about Marci keeping him up all night.
Okay, yeah, the comments have some basis in reality, and he made the mistake of mentioning that, but that doesn't mean he wants to talk about it with Karen. Hearing Marci call him a sex god is great, but the way Karen does that thing with her eyebrows when she says it is just not right. There's history between them, too much of a could-have-been. It's weird.
He considers suggesting a sexual harassment workshop for the team, just to see the look on Matty's face, but it's not like they have the money for that anyway.
Foggy pauses just outside the office, listening to the music. Matt tends to get in early, beating Foggy even when he's on time, and he's taken to listening to something while he does whatever he gets in there so early to do. Does he even sleep these days?
Okay. The music is in English this time, at least. For a while there, Matt was listening to something that Foggy was fairly sure was a freaking requiem mass, which was pretty high on the Catholic emo scale even for Matt.
Today's song has a decent beat, but, no, they're singing about martyrs parting their hair like the Red Sea, so Foggy guesses it's going to be another one of those days at Nelson, Murdock, and Page.
There have been a lot of those days, lately. He's tried to talk to Matt about it, but Matty just shrugs and says, "December."
That led to a whole thing with Karen about whether those SAD lights worked for blind people, and she ended up getting Matt one for Christmas last week. Judging from his mood, either they don't actually work, or Matt's is currently in a box somewhere.
Foggy suspects the latter.
He eases the door open and there's Matt: sitting at his desk, feet up, leaning back so precariously in his chair that Foggy is tempted to give him that nudge that will send him ass over teakettle, as his grandmother would say. Of course, it would never work. Matt has probably known he was there all this time.
You wouldn't know it to look at him, though. He doesn't move, not even when Foggy bumps against Matt's desk as he comes in.
Foggy shakes his head, wondering why he still bothers to give cues like that. Habit, maybe. He still narrates things, too. Sometimes it makes Matt smile, so it's worth it.
Matt hasn't smiled much lately, though. December.
"Okay, feet off the desk," Foggy orders, in his best Ma Nelson voice, guaranteed to strike fear in the hearts of errant offspring for at least two city blocks.
Matt still doesn't move. Shit. Shit. Foggy flicks on the light. Okay, no blood; at least there's that.
"I'm not dead."
No, but he sounds close to it, his voice thin and distant.
Foggy gulps a breath, that knot around his heart easing.
His heart. Matt probably heard his heartbeat speed up when he started to freak out, and it isn't like that is something Foggy has any control over.
"You know, it's really creepy when you do that."
Matt doesn't reply, still looking blankly at the ceiling. Well, not looking. Or is he? Foggy's still not sure how that all works.
Foggy steps closer, notices a package on the desk, and reads the vaguely familiar spiky script: Matthew Murdock. The w is a bit jagged, but still legible.
The address is for the old office, the writing faded. No return address. Hell, no stamps or postmark. The box looks like it's been through hell, as battered as it is, and... is that dried blood on the bottom corner?
Foggy reaches for the package and suddenly Matt is up, pulling the box away before Foggy's fingers even brush the brown paper.
Well. There's further proof he's still alive, at least. Matt backs into the corner nearest his desk, clutching the package.
"Hey, no, I get it. It's yours." Foggy tries to keep his tone casual even though his stupid heartbeat is probably giving away how much that startled him.
"It's from Elektra," Matt says, his voice rough.
Well. Shit. That explains why the handwriting is familiar. Probably for the best that Foggy didn't touch it, then. Who knows what that freaky bitch would send Matt?
Wait. "Uh, Matt?"
And Matt focuses, turning his head in Foggy's direction, so Foggy ventures, "Isn't Elektra, um?"
Matt doesn't answer, and in fact fumbles for his cane before fleeing the office altogether, still clutching the package like it's a baby.
Foggy is reasonably certain it's not a baby. Mostly. The box is too small, and he doesn't think it had air holes.
But if the package is from Elektra, does that mean...?
"Yeah," he says, standing in the open door. "Kinda sucks when you think somebody's dead, but then maybe it turns out they've just been hiding."
He's not sure if Matt hears. He's never sure, really, when it comes to what Matt can do. But the exterior door closes, and when he looks out the window, he sees Matt stumbling down the street, still hanging on to that box.
Almost, he follows, but he knows Matt won't listen when he's in this state. Foggy picked up the pieces when Matt and Elektra broke up, after that semester Matt had stopped going to class.
Matt had been tight-lipped about the why of it all, but all it had taken was "she's gone" for Foggy to break out the alcohol. Later, he'd been able to say, "it didn't work out," but that had been an understatement.
The office phone rings.
Foggy will, he decides, check on Matt later. Maybe not with alcohol, though. Matty is already looking pretty rough.
The phone rings again; Foggy picks it up. "Nelson, Murdock, and Page."
He may actually have work to do. Go figure.
BELGRAVIA
Elektra wasn't over him. She'd been certain she was, sure enough not to send the Christmas gift to Matthew the previous year, but no. She wasn't.
Stick had got it right, all those years ago, though he'd sounded like an arsehole when he'd said it. Called her weak. Said she'd come to him with her tail between her legs which of course she had not.
Told her she'd failed, when, really, she had done Matthew a favor by keeping him out of everything.
Said she was in love, which, well, okay, was true, but she hadn't been able to admit it at the time. Not even to herself.
If he hadn't been on the other end of the continent, locked in yet another battle with the Hand, Elektra would have finally told Stick: yes, she was in love with Matthew Murdock.
She imagined Stick's reaction countless different ways: disgusted, annoyed, amused. Really, though, what did it matter what Stick thought? Sure, he had shaped both her and Matthew's childhoods, made them the adults that they were, but so what?
Did she even care what he thought?
After all, who was better suited for her than Matthew? She'd had the occasional fling in the time that they'd been apart: meaningless encounters that had been more about satisfying her needs of the moment, be it for sex or companionship or just someone to drink with when she couldn't face the world any longer. None of them could hold a candle to Matthew Murdock.
And she, of course, had no doubt ruined him for other women. Oh, he might try, the poor boy, but he would never fit with anyone else quite like he had with Elektra. She almost felt sorry for him.
Almost.
Of course, she'd come to that realization - that she loved Matthew - in January, and so she couldn't send the box. Not with "Happy Christmas" written on the card.
Next year, she wouldn't wait so long.
VESPUGIA
Elektra closed her eyes as she waited for her flight, trying for patience, listening to the sounds around her. Of course, she couldn't hear as much as Matthew would have...
Matthew. Everything always came back to him. It was maddening. She wasn't sure why she still thought of him, after all this time. She also didn't know why she still carried his gift, but she couldn't stop either the thinking or the carrying. Whenever she got a moment to herself, her thoughts would inevitably drift to Matthew: the look he got when he knew she was about to suggest something outrageous, his ready smile, the way they just seemed to fit together.
He'd be a lawyer by now, no doubt using that silver tongue of his to charm everyone. Of course he was a success. How could he not be?
He'd moved on, no doubt. Surely he no longer thought about that fling he'd had back in law school, the woman who'd almost made him leave Columbia and lose his inevitably brilliant career.
And yet the weight of his gift tugged at Elektra's bag.
Stupid. It was stupid. She'd bought the gift so long ago, she'd forgotten -
No. She hadn't forgotten what she had bought him. But by now, after so much time, would it still have any meaning? Of course it wouldn't. If she sent it, he'd probably read the card and think, Elektra who?
Elektra dug the box out of her bag and strode to the nearby trash bin. That's where the gift belonged; she would be done with it, once and for all. She -
She couldn't.
She took a deep breath. Life had been difficult lately. She was reacting in ways that she wouldn't have, on another day.
She returned to her seat and carefully tucked the gift at the bottom of her bag.
Maybe she would send it another time, when she'd gotten over how much it hurt that he had no doubt moved on.
NEW YORK CITY
Foggy braces himself as he knocks on Matt's door, takeout bag in hand. He's not sure which Matt he's going to find. Deflecting Matt? Avoiding Matt? I'm Fine Matt? (He was never fine. It didn't take Foggy long to figure that one out.)
Foggy has seen all of these Matts, and more. After the breakup with Elektra, it was all he could do to convince Matt to get out of bed, let alone go back to class, but he'd done it.
He can handle whatever Matt is waiting for him now.
Probably.
He knocks again and, after hearing no answer, calls, "I'm coming in."
He always knew that spare key would come in handy.
Still, Foggy opens the door slowly and listens for a moment before going inside. It's quiet enough that Foggy wonders if Matt is even there. But, no, he's curled on the couch, blanket wrapped over a hoodie, thick socks on his feet.
And the package, apparently unopened, is on the table. Great.
"Hey, Matty, I brought you some food."
Nothing.
Foggy opens the bag, the better to let the food smells waft into the apartment. "Come on, I got Hell's Chicken. You know we're not going to be able to afford this for much longer, the way our client base is looking."
Matt turns his head. Actual movement; this is a good thing. Foggy puts the bag down on the table and moves to grab dishes and such as he talks, rambling to fill Matt's silence. "I did get a call from a Mrs. Vasquez, though. Looks like she wants to get a divorce. Our friend in the leather jacket took some incriminating photos, I guess gave her our name?"
By the time he gets back to the table with the dishes, Matt is sitting up. Progress.
Foggy starts unpacking the bag. "I got that spicy soup you like, and the thing I always get, and one of those kimchi burritos. Oh, and bad news: no more avocados on the salads."
Matt makes a soft sound of disbelief, not quite a laugh. "You got a salad? From Hell's Chicken?"
"Well, no, but I thought you'd want to know that avocados are no longer on the menu." He slides the soup over so that it nudges Matt's hand, adding, "I do eat salad." That draws an actual snort from Matt. Good. "Sometimes."
"Marci makes you?"
"Pretty much, yeah."
Foggy laughs. Matt doesn't, but he almost smiles. He used to smile more, Foggy remembers. Back at Columbia, it seemed like you just needed to look at Matt to get him to smile. Lately, not so much.
He finishes unpacking the food.
"You got a lot."
Foggy shrugs. "I was hungry."
And he hopes that something in the assortment will tempt Matt. He starts in on his own food, that thing with the noodles, and manages not to sigh in relief as Matt opens the soup and begins to eat it. Foggy would never eat that soup - too spicy - but what else is the Devil of Hell's Kitchen going to eat but something likely to melt your taste buds?
"So, you just hang out here all day?"
Matt gestures to the room. "You guys are always saying I need more sleep."
"And yet I note that you do not say that you actually slept."
"No, counselor, I did not," Matt replies, though he sounds more amused than annoyed.
"I'm not objecting. Anything halfway approaching rest is a good thing. But I think the world will end before you take a nap without first getting hit on the head."
"Hey," Matt protests. He pauses to swallow a bite of soup. "Sufficient blood loss will also do the trick."
Foggy manages not to sigh. This is not where he wanted this conversation to go. "So will you call Mrs. Vasquez tomorrow? She doesn't speak Punjabi."
Matt nods.
Good. That means he's probably coming back to work tomorrow.
Foggy eyes the package. Matt's focus has shifted to eating, which is for the best, so Foggy does the same.
They split the kimchi burrito, but Matt eats most of it. Good.
"So," Foggy begins, as he starts to clear off the table. "That box."
"I don't want to talk about it."
Foggy sighs. "Yeah, I know, Matt, but it looked like it kind of messed with your head, and I don't want -"
He doesn't finish. There are a lot of things that he doesn't want for Matt, and he knows that some of those desires are just plain unrealistic.
Foggy wants Matt to be happy, to find that helping people in ways that don't involve grievous bodily harm can be enough. Maybe even to take that nap on occasion.
He's pretty sure that Elektra was bad for Matt in some ways, what with the whole skipping class thing. Matt had also occasionally let a detail slip that suggested that they had done some highly illegal things together; not the best idea for an aspiring lawyer. But he also knows that Elektra made Matt happy, met some need that Matt hadn't been able to fill elsewhere.
And he doesn't mean the sex, though he's pretty sure they got up to some kinky shit. But somehow Matt was more relaxed when Elektra was around. Happier. He smiled more.
That doesn't mean that Foggy wants Matt mooning over Elektra again, though, not when he's pretty sure she's not coming back. But if he pushes too hard, Matt could shut him out again.
"I just worry about you."
"I'm fine, Foggy."
There is a significant pause.
Foggy studies Matt. His friend looks almost fragile there on the couch, bone-tired in a way that Foggy does not like. He clears his throat.
"Okay, not fine, but I'm not worse. Okay?"
Maybe it's time to push a little after all. "Did you go back to church yet?"
"No." The word is sharp and cold and makes Foggy think of knives. Matt repeats the word, softer. It's almost an apology. "No. Not yet. Father Lantom..."
"I get it," Foggy says, and he mostly does. But he knows Matt needs something to anchor himself, and he's always thought it was the Church. If that's not there, well, he's not sure what Matt will find in its place. "But when you go, I could go with you? If you want."
"No." This is the softest yet. "Thanks, Fogs. Thanks. Maybe soon. I heard the new priest is settling in, so I guess we'll see."
Foggy has a pretty good guess how Matt heard about the new priest, though he isn't sure that Matt knows he knows. Between an overheard phone call, and spotting Matt at a coffee shop with her, and, well. He was at Fogwell's the day that older boxer took Matt aside and set the picture of his father and that nun in his hands, saw the poleaxed look on Matty's face, the way Matt's fingers tightened on the picture. Foggy put one and one together and came up with three.
Corrupting a nun. Respect, Battlin' Jack.
Foggy even has one of those boxing nun puppets squirreled away, ready to give Matt when he's more open about all that, and Foggy cannot wait to see the look on his face. He was tempted to bring it today, but, not knowing which Matt he would find, he decided that food was safer.
This is clearly the right choice as Matt looks, if not happy, at least calm.
So Foggy tries, "Are you going to open it?"
Something that might be frustration crosses Matt's face. "It's from Elektra."
"Yeah, I got that."
Matt is silent for a long moment. "Foggy, maybe..."
Maybe she's still alive. Matt doesn't say it, but Foggy can tell that's where he's going with that.
"You didn't see her after... at Midland Circle?"
Matt shakes his head, something in his expression making Foggy think maybe he should have just let the whole package thing go. "I mean, we were together, but then everything fell, and..."
Matt makes an odd, pained noise, and Foggy feels like he kicked a puppy.
"I made it," Matt says, his voice barely above a whisper. "Maybe she did, too."
"Look, Matty, I get it." Matt's mouth twists, but he doesn't deny it. Hell, if anybody understands that awful uncertainty, it's Foggy. "But you can't... you can't let it eat at you like this. You have to just go on. Somehow."
But Matt's already shaking his head. "It's not the same thing, Foggy. Elektra, she's..."
Foggy sighs. He does understand. "I know, she got you. Gets you," he adds, as Matt lifts his head in a swift, sharp gesture, something that reminds Foggy of wild things and danger. "But, Matt, if she could, don't you think she would have come back to you by now?"
Matt doesn't answer. He reaches, seeking, and his fingers find the package. One hand traces the corner. "I can't do it, Fogs. I just can't open it."
Foggy gets the sudden mental image of Matt years from now - assuming he doesn't do something stupid and get himself killed, which is not a place Foggy wants to go again - still carrying around the box like some sort of security blanket. "Okay, Matt," he says, trying to understand.
"Go home," Matt says, though his dismissal is kind. "Go home to Marci. Maybe if you two get started early enough, you can make it in to work on time tomorrow."
"Hey," Foggy protests, but Matt is almost smiling, so he laughs and nods, going along with it.
He gets to his feet, and Matt reaches out suddenly, fumbling for his hand, gripping hard. "Thank you. You... this helped."
Foggy just hangs on to Matt's hand for a moment, nodding. "You're welcome."
And he leaves, not sure he's making the right decision, but feeling like he might have accomplished something.
MYPOS
Elektra wrenched open her eyes. Everything hurt. She'd been trying to recruit another ally to the cause. It had all seemed fine, and then out of the blue everything had gone sideways. Elektra still wasn't quite sure how or why it had gone wrong.
Well. She was injured, so clearly something had happened. Maybe the Hand had gotten to Dimitri first.
Fortunately, Dimitri was a wretched shot. Really, if he couldn't kill her at such close range, why had she bothered trying to recruit him in the first place? She'd double-check that intel, but later.
She was, it seemed, in a medical establishment of sorts, though not one to inspire much confidence. A fine patina of dust covered everything in the long, narrow room, and what little she could see of the instruments monitoring her condition suggested that they were somewhat less than the latest model.
There also wasn't a soul in sight. Really, all it needed was a flickering light bulb to feel like the latest indie horror film.
She inhaled to call out to someone, perhaps to the person who had brought her there, whoever they might be. The dust caught at her throat, sending her into a paroxysm of coughing that left her breathless and curled around the agony of her abdomen.
When her body remembered how to breathe and she had managed to straighten once more, she tried to investigate her wounds. There was a bandage, yes, and beneath it stitches that seemed to be capably done, however grim her surroundings.
Well. A new scar to show Matthew, whenever she managed to make her way to New York.
Thinking of Matthew made her realize that that her bag was missing. She'd decided, finally decided to send the gift to Matthew after dealing with that sheep Dimitri. Everything had been in place.
Elektra struggled to a semi-upright position, trying to... yes, there was her bag, on the chair next to the bed. She could just get up and take it to the post office. She wasn't that badly injured. If she made it before close of business, it would still reach Matthew in time.
A few minutes later she stumbled back to the bed, the box clutched to her chest. Only sheer willpower had allowed her to claim it. Muttering a few choice profanities, she leaned back against the bed, ignoring the sweat that had sprung up on her forehead and the way she couldn't catch her breath.
Her traitor body and its weakness kept her from sending the box, but she would do it next year.
She drifted back into something resembling sleep, still clinging to the box.
Definitely next year.
GUILDER
Next year came and went. Things had escalated with the Hand, and for a while there it was all Elektra could do to keep track of herself, let alone the date. Once, she had even managed to get to a post office in what she was pretty sure was early December, but then she didn't have any local currency, and so still hadn't shipped the package.
She had just shaken her head and laughed and called it fate. She was, clearly, doomed to carry the package for the rest of her life, like something out of a Greek myth. At least nothing was pecking at her liver and she hadn't been turned into a spider, though some days it did feel like she was pushing a boulder up a mountain.
Despite that, the box remained a familiar, reassuring weight in her bag. In a rare free moment, she found herself resting it on her knee as she first looked up flights to New York and then shoved aside her phone in frustration.
Elektra couldn't go to New York. She couldn't. The mission. She had to focus.
And if she occasionally took out the package and held it and thought of Matthew, well, so what? People noticed, she was sure, and cast sidelong looks in her direction, but they knew better than to say anything to her about it.
It wasn't their business. And she would send the box.
Someday.
Not today, she thought, as she tucked the box away once more. That day, she allowed it to remain in her bag, a security object of sorts, a reminder of pleasant times in the past and a hope for the future.
Hope. What a thought.
Looking up to see someone looking askance at her, Elektra offered a challenging smile in return, and was pleased when the other looked away.
They could think what they wanted. Even with the box and all it had come to represent, Elektra could focus.
NEW YORK CITY
It happens in the afternoon, mercifully close to quitting time. Karen comes back with coffee and a curious smile. "So," she says, dropping off the drinks. "Emily said some guy came by the shop day before yesterday, trying to find our office. Something about a package for Matt?"
Foggy sighs. Trust Elektra to have some weird package delivery system. Maybe the guy was somebody she offered not to kill, if he delivered the box for her. He tries to make a subtle sort of gesture to Karen, encouraging her to stop talking.
"What did you get, Matt?"
Perhaps Foggy is being too subtle. He considers suggesting that they not talk about Matt's package at work, but that's heading a little too close to sexual harassment seminar territory.
Matt appears to be focusing on his coffee.
"Karen," Foggy tries. "Did you get that initial paperwork done for Mrs. Vasquez?"
"I'll get to it tomorrow." Karen is all breezy cheer, but there's something keenly curious about her eyes. Maybe it's the reporter in her; she senses a story. "Come on, Matt. Was it something good?"
She waits, and Foggy would find her enthusiasm contagious in any other situation.
Matt finally looks up from his coffee, his expression one of brisk distance. "I didn't open it."
"What? Why not?" Karen asks, and it's all Foggy can do not to pull her into the stairwell and tell her to shut up, Karen.
But Matt's a grown-up, theoretically, and he has certainly proved that he can fight his own battles, so Foggy keeps his mouth shut.
"I'm not going to open it," Matt says after what feels like four years of Karen giving him that open, expectant look, and Foggy can absolutely see how she gets information out of people.
Karen perches on the edge of Foggy's desk. "But Emily said it's a Christmas present. You have to open it! She said the guy was really happy to find the place."
Foggy bets Elektra definitely would have killed the guy if he hadn't delivered the box.
He realizes that he's thinking of Matt's batshit ex in the present tense, and sighs.
Karen continues, "Don't you want to know what's inside it?"
"It's almost definitely not a baby," Foggy says, without thinking.
Karen stares at him, and even Matt turns his head, his expression one of bafflement. "Why would Elektra send - you know what? Don't answer that."
"Elektra?" Karen echoes, and Matt's head lowers just a little. "But she's -"
"Karen," Foggy interrupts, before she can say it.
Matt sighs. "It's like Schrodinger's box."
"So there's a cat in the box?" Foggy asks. He's trying to be funny, but it falls a little flat. But that's still a better thing to say than what he's actually thinking: More like Pandora's box.
Matt shakes his head. "But whatever is, it'll give me clues about when Elektra sent it. Maybe if I open it, I'll be able to tell... I don't know, something."
"So until you open the box, she's both dead and alive? Um, theoretically," Karen adds quickly. "Sorry, too many zombie movies."
Foggy really wishes Karen hadn't mentioned zombies; if anybody could pull that off - again - it's Elektra.
Shit. He knows he's going to remember that the next time he gets up for a drink in the middle of the night.
But Matt nods. "It's not like it hasn't happened before. Maybe she just needs time. Maybe..."
Foggy sighs.
"Matt," Karen begins, and the apology in her tone is enough, no doubt, for him to guess what she's going to say. He smiles, a tight, pasted-on expression that gives no hint whatsoever to what he's thinking.
"It's fine," he says, too lightly. "I'm fine. Look, I'm going to knock off early."
"Okay, buddy," Foggy replies, trying not to let his worry show. But Matt has been saying I'm fine too much for his comfort, lately.
Karen looks stricken as Matt leaves. "I didn't mean..."
"I know, Karen. So does Matt. He just needs time, I guess."
But Foggy can't stop thinking about Matt's blank expression. After Karen leaves for the night, he reaches for his phone.
Time to call in the big guns.
ORSINIA
Elektra's focus was shot. She had come close to botching her last task, and had been called to Stick to account for herself. That had gone as pleasantly as she had expected, which was to say not at all.
Other people had been around, so he had come down particularly hard on her. Elektra knew that was to counter gossip in the organization that he treated her differently.
Of course he did. He expected more of her than of any other two operatives, and she delivered.
Usually.
Some time earlier, she had used organizational channels to have someone keep an eye on Matthew. Subtly. At a distance. No interaction.
The reports came sporadically, usually full of mundane details.
She treasured every one, though it had been a while since she received the last report.
The most recent had mentioned that Matthew had a fledgling law practice, apparently with his shaggy roommate, and had included a new address. Elektra finally had time, so she pulled out the parcel, frowning over the rather bedraggled packaging. She should re-wrap it, but there was hardly any packaging in the safe house where she was holed up.
A new address label would have to suffice.
She scrounged a bit of paper, then began to write his name. The cough behind her startled her into ending the w with a jagged line as she dropped the pen in favor of a knife.
Stick. Of course.
"Time was, I couldn't sneak up on you, Ellie."
There's nothing she can say to that, so she turned back to the package, frowning over the W. She could start again, but that would mean getting up, brushing past Stick in search of more paper.
"What do you have there?"
Elektra felt the urge to hide the box, put it out of his sight, but there didn't seem to be a point to that. Besides, she was certain he knew what it was. Enough people in the organization had seen her with the box; somebody undoubtedly noticed Matthew's name and reported on her to Stick.
"Were you thinking about Matty during that last mission?"
So, yes, he knew. Of course he did. She still didn't answer, taking her time as she finished the label and taped it to the box.
"I'm just trying to figure out what this is, Ellie. Have you really been mooning over him for all these years?"
"No."
And it was true. There had been times in the past several years that she hadn't even thought of Matthew Murdock.
Elektra set aside the box, pointedly away from Stick, and turned to face him, challenge in her eyes. "It doesn't matter, Stick. Matthew is in New York, where he will always be, and I am... here."
Stick shook his head, an odd little smile crossing his face. He reached into a pocket and then handed her an envelope.
Addressed to her.
Opened.
It had to be the missing report on Matthew.
Elektra started to object, then caught herself, opening the envelope instead. She skimmed its contents. Mask... vigilante...
"It seems that Matt has found a taste for violence again," Stick observed.
Elektra nodded, though she knew that spark of darkness was always there within Matthew, no matter how deeply he buried it under the trappings of legitimate justice. There would always be something he couldn't fix within the system.
"And I'm wondering how objective you can be about him."
Elektra controlled her reaction, letting none of her hope reach her face. She shrugged. "That was years ago."
Stick nodded at the package, gestured toward the report in her hand. "And yet."
Elektra smiled, a challenge. "Who can deal with him better than I can?"
That sparked a smile from Stick, and a nod of acknowledgment. "Let's see what he does with it, and how things go elsewhere. With you."
Ah. So it was a bribe. Toe the line, do as she was told, and she might get a reward.
Elektra knew Stick well enough not to take his words as read, particularly as vague as they were, but she could work with them.
"No more of that, though," he said, gesturing to the report. "I need your focus here, not on Murdock. I've instructed your informant to discontinue his surveillance."
Elektra felt a flicker of resentment, but didn't argue. She could find another contact, or perhaps not. Maybe she would let Matthew's life be a surprise, when she saw him in New York.
Stick continued to talk, and she let his words wash over her.
She idly reached out and touched the edge of the package with one finger. She would not send it. Perhaps next year she would give it to Matthew in person.
NEW YORK CITY
Elektra stood still, letting the ebb and flow of people move around her, ignoring the occasional annoyed look. She had been in more cities than she could count in the last several years, but none of them was New York.
Matthew was here, somewhere. She felt that if she just closed her eyes and walked, she would find him.
Of course, that was impractical. Even if she wasn't sure where he was at that moment, she knew where he would be. Before she went there she had an errand to complete. Though she had never been to the place, she knew the street, and found the proper location without much trouble.
The man inside looked up from his newspaper: how prosaic. He seemed mildly irritated, but then his attention sharpened and he scrambled to his feet, drawing back in alarm.
"You know who I am?"
He nodded, a fervent, jerky gesture.
"Good. I have a task for you." She pulled the package from her bag. "Can I trust you not to lose this?"
He nodded once more, his eyes gone a little wide.
Elektra sighed. "It won't explode, and it's nothing illegal. Keep it safe, for now. Deliver it on Christmas. It's a gift."
Now that the time had come to give it up, Elektra found herself strangely reluctant. This gift had been the focus of all her hopes and dreams about Matthew, all her angst and frustration. But she couldn't risk Matthew coming across it in her belongings; that would be far too awkward. She exhaled an annoyed breath and all but shoved the box into the man's chest.
He stumbled back a step, but he cradled the parcel with reassuring care. "Don't lose it," she repeated, as she turned to leave.
Pausing in the doorway, she added, "But don't deliver it early. I may change my mind and come back for it. Christmas. No sooner."
He nodded once more whispering, "Christmas."
Elektra gave him a long, steely look, and was pleased to see him flinch. Good. He'd do it.
She left the building, her bag feeling lighter than the package's absence would account for.
Her pace quickened as she headed for Matthew's place.
She knew the way.
NEW YORK CITY
Matthew Murdock closes his door behind him, feeling the ease of home surround him. He walked around the Kitchen for a while after he left the office, trying to get lost in the noise of his neighborhood, before finally making his way back to his apartment.
He strips off his clothes as he moves to the bathroom, careful to put them where he won't trip on them later, and turns on his shower. It's not that he's dirty, and it's not - he can hear Foggy saying it - some weird Catholic thing, but the act gives him something to do without having to think too much. He really wants to turn off his brain, to have a little peace, and this is the closest he can get to that without doing something violent. He gets in while the water is still cold, relishing the bite of the spray on his skin, then turns the hot water tap to near burning, enough to sting a little, just to feel it.
To feel something.
He didn't lie when he told Foggy that December was part of his problem. His city takes on a grey undertone in December, something Matt feels in his bones. The cold bites harder. The hordes of tourists don't tend to make their way to the Kitchen, barring a hardy few, but they are near, lurking. Worst, the holiday season always brings the sense of what Matt has lost.
This year is particularly grim.
Foggy knows, Matt thinks. As usual, Matt received an invitation to spend the holiday with Foggy's family, who have always welcomed Matt as one of their own. Usually, he accepts.
This year, he did not. He knew that his refusal would worry Foggy, especially after the year they'd had, but the thought of all the hugs and the greetings, all the chit chat and small talk, made Matt cold inside.
For once, he said no.
He loves Foggy, he does, and he appreciates Foggy's family, but not in December. Not this year.
Matt spent Christmas waiting on rooftops for the inevitable conflicts. They came, of course, and he prevented what he could, but there was always more.
There was always more, no matter what he did.
He didn't go to Midnight Mass, Father Lantom's absence an ache under his ribs that was worse than the guilt. And then, of course, he saw Maggie - his - he still fumbled over what to call her, even in his mind. She sought him out, and was bracingly sharp with him, but understood. She didn't say it, but Matt could tell it was hard for her, too.
Matt turns off the water and gets out of the shower, standing before the mirror because it is there, in the logical place to be. He dries off and scrubs at his hair with a towel, no doubt leaving it in disarray, and pulls on a pair of sweatpants.
The knock at the door makes him wish he had stayed out just a little longer. While Foggy's appearance the previous evening had been welcome, he feels the need for a little solitude. He considers not answering, then, as the knock sounds once more, drags himself to the door and opens it.
The rush of cold air reminds him that he didn't put on a shirt.
"Is this a bad time?" Maggie's voice holds an edge of amusement, and Matt sighs at the timing, despite the flicker of nervous pleasure he feels at her presence.
"Of course not. Come in." He ushers her in and closes the door, then fumbles a bit and finds the hoodie on the couch.
"You've healed up nicely," Maggie says, which means that she noticed the new slash across his ribs. It hadn't been bad enough for stitches, so Matt had let it go. He hadn't wanted to bother her.
It's still so new, this thing they are trying to find.
This is the first time she's been to his apartment, though, and he hears her turn as she looks, surveying it.
He suddenly wonders just how messy it is. He usually tries to keep it reasonably tidy, out of self-preservation if nothing else, but he's not sure if there is some mess that he just doesn't notice.
He probably dropped a sock or something when he went to the shower, and now she thinks he's just the kind of person who leaves socks on the floor.
Matt realizes that perhaps she is waiting for him to say something. "Uh, thanks," he replies, awkward. "Do you want anything? I could make coffee."
Maggie makes a sound of vague negation, and then settles on the couch before patting the seat next to her. "Come talk to me."
A little wary, Matt moves to join her. "Should I be worried? Suddenly I feel like I'm in trouble."
"Well, what have you done?" is Maggie's immediate, pragmatic reply.
Matt is reminded of his childhood at the orphanage, and the nuns' uncanny ability to root out trouble. Is it something about the habit? "Nothing to cause any concern."
"I just haven't seen you since Christmas, and I wanted to find out how you're doing."
Mercifully, she doesn't mention the box, which is still on the table.
"It's only been a few days... well, almost a week, I guess. New Year's soon." And the end of December. Maybe it's all in his head, like so many other things, but Matt feels like everything will be better if he can just get through this month.
Maggie makes a sound of agreement, and Matt wonders if maybe she feels the same way about December. She's seemed like her usual self, but, then, he's tried to act like everything is fine, too.
"With Father Lantom's death and, well, everything, I know it's been difficult for you," she says, her voice careful, as if she's testing the waters. "Maybe it would help if you came back to church."
No.
It's an immediate reaction, visceral and sharp, but that's not how he wants to talk to her. He manages, "I'm not ready yet."
"Matthew, the longer you put this off, the more difficult it will be. I've enjoyed our talks, and I certainly want them to continue, but I think you need more than that. Coming back to church could help. You've found comfort in the ritual, yes?"
Yes.
It's odd, how much he misses it. He's said the words so often, he could probably say them in his sleep. Hell, he probably has said them in his sleep. He must have nodded, for Maggie says, "You could sit at the back. Nobody would bother you, but when you're ready, the new priest -"
"No." It's quiet, but no less fervent for his lack of volume.
"Father Manuel is a good man. He's -"
"Don't tell me he's just like Father Lantom."
That draws a short chuckle from Maggie. "He's in his thirties and wants to do a Spanish Mass. He's not much like Father Lantom." Matt relaxes, and Maggie adds, "But his faith is strong, and he's a good man, Matthew. He cares about his people."
"They're not his people," Matt snaps, though he wants to take the words back as soon as they have left his mouth.
"They are," comes the quick rejoinder, and Matt almost laughs. Maybe that's where he got that temper. Maggie takes a moment, then speaks more gently. "Father Lantom is gone, Matthew, but the last thing he would have wanted would be for his death to drive you from the church."
This, Matt knows, is absolutely true. "I'll think about it," he says, and he will. He has been, if he's truly honest with himself.
He's missed it. The incense and the rumble of the people's responses, and just the feel of the place. But Father Lantom was the heart of the Church, and Matt has a hard time imagining it without him.
Maggie reaches over and pats his arm. She doesn't quite call him a good boy, but the sense is there, and Matt shakes his head, amused. Is this what having a mother is like, this feeling?
He wants to make her happy.
And he will go back to church; he's always known that. He just needs to find the right time.
"Maybe Sunday?" Maggie suggests, and Matt turns his head in her direction, not quite smiling.
"Don't push it."
He's amazed that he feels comfortable enough with her to say it, but somehow he does.
Maggie makes a sound, half a laugh, half a sigh, and gets to her feet. He supposes that she's not that much taller, with her standing and him sitting.
She rests one hand on Matt's shoulder and says, her voice level, "I know what it's like to lose someone you love, Matthew. I know how easy it is to get caught up in the grief and the pain of it all." Her grip on his shoulder tightens, and Matt wonders just how that awful time after his father's death was for her. How had she heard about it?
Had she wondered about him, how he was handling everything? He shoves that thought aside. He'd imagined her enough in those days, sick with grief over the loss of his father, wondered where she was and why she wasn't with him. No need to think about that now.
But she's certainly not talking about his father, now, and suspicion begins to form that she's not talking about Father Lantom, either. But how would she know about Elektra?
"Did somebody talk to you?"
"A lot of people talk to me."
Matt doesn't say anything in response. It usually works, making the other person uncomfortable enough to talk. Maggie has clearly been down this road before, though, and maintains the silence.
So he says, "I'm fine."
That draws a short laugh from Maggie. "Lying is a sin, Matthew."
"That's not... It's just something you say."
"Just then, in that context, it was a polite little thing to say?"
He changes tacks, wryly wondering if maybe he got his tendency to argue from her, too. "Did somebody suggest that you should come talk to me today?"
"Yes."
Well. An honest answer. Lying is a sin, after all.
Maggie continues, "Your friend is worried about you, Matthew, and thought I could help."
Foggy. It has to be Foggy. Not that Karen couldn't have figured it out, but Foggy just understands him better. That does raise the question of how, exactly, Foggy found out about Maggie, but time enough to figure that out later.
"Look," Matt begins, but then he's not really sure where to go from there.
Perhaps Maggie senses that, as she gives Matt's shoulder another squeeze before removing her hand. "Open the box or don't, Matthew, but don't let it consume you."
"I'm not," he begins, but, no, he is, and he shakes his head in acknowledgment of the fact. If he's not going to open it, he should put away, out of sight, so to speak.
He can feel Maggie's hesitation, and then she says, "I'm always here for you, Matthew. No matter what."
Matt nods. He knows. She's worried about him; he knows that, too. "I really am all right," he says. She makes a sound, something that hints at her concern, and he adds, "Or I will be. After the new year. Maybe I'll come back to church, then, too."
She's smiling when she speaks; he can hear it in her voice. "You come when you're ready, son." There's a pause, and then she speaks a little more briskly. "The Church will always be there."
It almost sounds like a threat, and Matt wonders if that son just slipped out. He's been careful not to call her anything, not until he figures it all out.
She's ready to leave; he can tell. He gets to his feet to escort her to the door, shivering a little at the crossbreeze.
"Even if I don't come to Mass, I'll stop by to see you; how's that?"
"A good compromise. I'll see you next week?"
"Yes."
Matt sends Maggie on her way, though the chill in the apartment seems to linger even after he closes the door. He considers dinner, but it seems like too much effort, so he sits on the couch instead, the package before him.
He should open it. No matter where Elektra is or isn't, it won't change based on whether he opens the box.
He reaches out, feels the roughness of the packaging, and pulls the box closer.
It doesn't matter. He could put it away, but he knows that it will continue to call to him. Maybe if he just opens it, sees what she sent, he'll be able to let it go.
Let her go? No. He's not ready for that, and may never be, but the box is another matter.
So. A decision. Matt inhales deeply and releases the breath slowly, trying to quell the sudden flare of nerves that sets his stomach roiling. He pulls the blanket around himself, and then fumbles with the package, wondering at the cold. He'll have to call the super.
A breeze licks at his neck. A breeze? Why is it so cold?
He turns toward the open window, and his heart leaps, beating a ragged tattoo.
He knows what - who - waits beyond the window.
He smiles.