I have far too many stories on the go, but sometimes a story just flows out of my fingers, as this one did. I can only hope that this is good enough to subject to you for your perusal. I also thank my beta reader for checking my facts. Thanks, A. And, please read and review... I am a poor fanfiction writer who receives nothing from my scribblings but your kind or unkind words. I'll take both with a smile and a song in my heart.

The Five Senses

There are five senses that show the world to us and the power they have to
shape our lives are beyond our imaginings. Therefore, to save our sanity, we
aren't aware of our senses and don't appreciate them for the marvels that
they are.

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Battlin' Jack Murdock was a big man; tall, broad and muscular, a mountain of
a man. His hands were scarred and gnarled. He had broken his fingers too
many times to have the elegant hands of a piano player or any other artist.
Yet, as he leaned over his sleeping son and tugged the stiff Brailled papers
from beneath Matt's fingers Jack once again marvelled how versatile fingers
could be.

"Dad," the sleep filled voice of Matt Murdock drew his father's attention
once again.

"Hey, ain't it about time ya hit the hay, Kid," Jack rubbed the top of his
son's head with gentle hands. "You havta write those tests tomorrow,
don'cha?"

"The SAT's, yeah… that's why I'm studying."

"Well, it ain't gonna help if ya fall asleep during the writing, so get to
bed." Jack waited quietly as Matt packed up his books to take to his room.
"Hey, so I look stupid to you? Leave the books here and get some sleep."

Found out, Matt grinned and headed empty handed to his bedroom when he
stopped, "Night, Dad, love ya."

"Yeah, love ya too… now get ta bed."

Jack waited until he heard the even breathing of his only child before he
went to his own bed. Once he had slept with his long gone wife in the double
bed that occupied the only bedroom in this shabby tenement apartment, but
when he brought Matt home from the hospital Jack gave up the lonely, fading
memories he found in that bed. Matt needed the room to help him heal and
Jack knew his own wounds would never heal so he moved. Now Jack slept in the
single bed in the side alcove that once was Matt's. Tonight, like every
night since the accident, Jack reached under his pillow and pulled out his
rosary. Its heavy wooden beads were scarred from the fingers of many
Murdock men. He remembered his father absently cleaning his nails with the
cross and blanched at the memory. George Murdock was a punk and a drunk.
The day Jack watched his sainted mother laid to rest he had belted the
miserable old bastard, taken the rosary and walked away forever. Then Jack
became a punk and a drunk and now, as he felt the familiar heft of the beads
he thanked God for his son. He no longer prayed that Matt's eyes would
suddenly work; now Jack prayed that his son would become the best man he
could be. He knew this was one prayer that God could answer as long as Jack
worked with Him.

As quietly as his size twelve's could carry him, Jack Murdock went to his
son. He knelt next to the bed and placed his right hand on his son's head
and holding the beads in his left started his nightly ritual. Tonight's
prayers were for SAT's and the college placements they could give his son.

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"Hey, Matt," Foggy Nelson's voice broke through the haze, "What do I do with
the stuff in this dresser?"

Matt Murdock scrubbed his face with his hands, "I don't know, its just
clothes, giv'em to the Salvation Army, I guess. Most of the stuff came from
there anyway."

It had been two weeks since the murder of Jack Murdock, his college
roommate's father, and Foggy was helping Matt clean out the apartment. The
landlord had already rented it out and the remnants of Battlin' Jack Murdock
had to be cleared out by the end of the month. Foggy's dad, Edward Nelson,
had rented storage space for the stuff that Matt would keep and a truck
would be by tomorrow to pick it up so things had to get done now. Foggy
pulled a duffle bag out from under the little bed in the alcove and started
pulling out dirty towels, sweat stained t-shirts and a worn pair of
fingerless leather gloves. Suddenly Matt was beside him, his hands reaching
for the laundry. Matt brought the clothes up to his nose and pulled in the
scent of his father with the intensity of a drowning man gasping for air.
Foggy didn't know what to do, was the smell of old sweat the same as the
look of faded photographs?

"How about we take this home with us tonight?"

Matt could only nod his head.

Foggy grinned sheepishly, "I still need something to pack clothes in, got
any suitcases or anything like that?"

"Yeah," Matt finally whispered, "there are cardboard boxes beside the
fridge." With that he crammed the practice clothes back in the duffle and
went to his bedroom to finish there.

Foggy got a box and taped it so it would handle the things in the dresser by
the bed. The clothes were all clean but most were shabby. The few things
that were decent and new were from Jack Murdock's climb up to the boxing
championship. The socks might fit Matt, he thought as he opened the top
drawer. Besides socks Foggy found a small box. It held cufflinks, tie pins
and a thin gold band; the crown jewels of the Murdock clan. Nestled there
was also a brown, wooden rosary, well worn and shiny from much use. Foggy
rummaged around until he found a lone silk handkerchief and wrapped the
beads tightly inside before he slipped it into his pocket. Matt would want
these with him, not lost in a locker.

"Foggy, want an old black and white TV," Matt called from the living room.

"For what; a door stop? Keep it; it'll be an antique someday. You keep working
in there and I'll start the kitchen next." Foggy leaned against the wall and watched
as Matt carefully wrapped the knickknacks that sat on the windowsills. By tomorrow
this place would only be a memory and Matt was collecting those memories the
only way he could… with his fingers. "How about I get a pizza, I'm starving."

"Sounds good," Matt mumbled as he ran his hands along the sill, looking for
more treasures.

"I'll be right back," and Foggy turned to leave Matt alone to say his goodbyes to his home.

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He gripped the end of his billy club tightly, swinging to the next rooftop
with the grace of a trapeze artist. A flick of his wrist and the high
tension line snaked back inside the stick, ready to be used again. Tonight
he faced the Purple Man and for the first time in years felt his remaining
senses used against him. It was only his steely will and his blindness that had
saved him from the control of the megalomaniac and had thus saved Karen
Page's life.

Karen Page, what a world of possibilities that name conjured up in his mind.
Daredevil had saved her life more than once, but it was Matt Murdock who
loved her. Matt Murdock knew the feel of her arm when she guided him on the
street. He knew the sound of her heartbeat and the scent of her perfume but
he longed to know every bump, dimple and freckle that covered her skin.
Now, all Matt had to do was get up the nerve to ask her on a real
date.

Damn. Why was he so hesitant? He had dated a lot of girls in high school and
college. Bernadette Belanger had taught him that a home run was so much more
fun when you weren't playing baseball, but with Karen Page he couldn't even
get to the plate, let alone first base.

Suddenly his radar senses told Daredevil he was about to over shoot the
roof. "Damn," he muttered as he snapped the billy club once more to save his
ass from the concrete street below. Echoes bounced back at him, guiding his
throw. The line snaked out to the spire of Mary Immaculate Church and found
purchase there. He landed with a jerk and cursed under his breath as his
boots slammed noisily down. The slate shingles on this roof were slippery,
so Daredevil went into the bell tower to gather his thoughts and keep him
from ending up street pizza. The damn costume was probably dirty again.
Whatever had made him choose black and yellow for his alter ego's outfit?
Why, because of his father, that was why. The last time he had 'seen' his
father spar Jack Murdock was wearing these colours and Daredevil was at
heart a sentimental Irishman.

Beneath him Daredevil could hear the quiet sounds of an electric organ. The
player must have had headphones on, but that was not enough to keep the
music from Daredevil's enhanced hearing. He smirked when he realized the
organist was playing 'Route 66' and not 'Faith of Our Fathers'. The sound of
footsteps stopped the song.

"Are you ready for the Thurston wedding, Kathleen?" a gravely male voice
asked.

"Yes, Father Keenan," the teenaged trill accompanied by the quickened
heartbeat of a lie was the answer. "I'm just getting every last note perfect."

"Yes, you'll be a regular Nat King Cole by the time you're done," the priest
shot over his shoulder as he walked away.

"Busted," Daredevil whispered as he got ready to fly to the next rooftop.
Maybe he'd go past Karen's apartment… again. Maybe, this time, if she was
awake he would change his out of his costume, into his street clothes and
knock on her door. Then again, maybe not.

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Salt. Once, after he had learned Matt's secret, Foggy had counted the
grains of salt on a pretzel stick. Afterward, Matt ate the pretzel and
guessed correctly that there had been nine grains of salt on the damn thing…
Foggy paid him five bucks and swore he'd never gamble against his friend
again.

Salt. Jack Murdock always drenched his cooking in that particular white
death. After his accident Matt had to learn to cook so he could keep from
gagging each time he sat down to a meal. Ketchup, pepper, sugar… these
flavours hit Matt like a sledge hammer to the palate.

Salt. When tears slid down his cheeks and into his mouth Matt Murdock hadthe
taste of salt crowd out all others. Jack Murdock, Karen Page, ElektraNatchios
and now Foggy Nelson were names that conjured up brine in his mind.It was
overpowering. It was oppressive.

Salt was the taste of sorrow.

Now, on Ryker's Island, even the taste of salt was muted by the taste of
filth that permeated the air around him. Wilson Fisk was in here, waiting to
catch Matthew Murdock in an unguarded moment. So was Benjamin Poindexter, or
Lester Poindexter or whatever the hell Bull's Eye was calling himself at the
moment. Who else was here, the Owl, the Purple Man or any other of the
criminals that he had cleaned up off the streets of the Kitchen? Never in
his life had Matt Murdock ever thought he'd be included in the populace of
Ryker's. Well, there was another assumption all shot to hell.

Tonight, as the guards led him to the mess hall where the food was laced
with saltpetre a foot was stuck out in his path. He knew it was there; he
knew he had to trip and fall on his face to keep up the charade of
helplessness in this hopeless place. Then the coppery taste of his own blood
hit his taste buds. Rough hands grabbed his shoulders, flung him onto a
seat and voila, dinner was served.

There was one bright spot in this whole, god damn mess. Milla had phoned him
and admitted she still loved him. He had a wife waiting for him outside the
walls of the prison and Matt knew he had to keep her safe. He had not been
able to do that for Elektra, Karen or Foggy but Matt vowed he would keep his
wife safe even unto his last breath.

Matt made it back to his cell and remembered the feel of Milla's skin, the
scent of her hair and the taste of her lips. Time to let the dead bury the
dead, but first Matt Murdock had to find out who killed Foggy Nelson. He
could take his time. Revenge was a dish best served cold.

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There was a scuffle outside the door.

The body guard was holding back whoever was demanding to be let inside.

Whoever? The heartbeat, the smell, the voice that wasn't supposed to exist
anymore drew Matt up like a siren's call. He pushed the door open.

"Foggy?"

Familiar arms wrapped around his neck as Matt grasped his friend.

"Damn, Matt," Foggy's emotion clogged voice filled his ears. "You are a
sight for sore eyes."

Fin