A/N: New to this fandom. I was listening to some Spotify, and this song happened to come on shuffle. It's one of my favorite Christmas tunes, and I thought it would fit poignantly with whatever it is that I'm trying to do here. Hoping to write more canon-y things for Daredevil, especially with season 3 confirmed. This short 600 word fic was all I could commit to for now. If you enjoy, please let me know. I've got a few ideas bouncing around for this fandom and I could be persuaded :)


Wham.

There was a song his father used to sing him to help him sleep, a lullaby of sorts.

Crack.

It eased him to sleep after the accident – the sound of his father's voice, thick with a busted lip or the weight of a loss, attempting to force out notes despite his lack of pitch and broken vocal cords, rusted like drain pipes from years of yelling in the ring.

Snap.

It often came to his head during times like this, the crisp snow falling on his shoulders as he pounded mercilessly on thugs, murderers, lowlifes. The snowflakes barely made a sound, but they were there, a whisper tickling at his eardrums as they gently landed on his armored clavicles.

I was following the pack all swallowed in their coats, with scarves of red tied 'round their throats…

December in Hell's Kitchen was just as hot, in a manner of speaking. Daredevil, admittedly, was not as nimble in icy conditions, and it had been quite a learning curve for Matt to steady himself on his feet. He'd started pulling up the mat at the gym when he used the bag, placing a soft hand towel under each foot on the waxed hardwood floor beneath it. After falling on his face dozens (hundreds, Foggy would estimate, Matt was sure, considering the number of mornings his friend muttered "Jesus…" under his breath when Matt walked into the office) of times, he became light and gentle, something that had never been a core part of his practice. Sure, he was constantly bouncing on the balls of his feet, ready to dodge or jab, but this was a different sort of agility.

He spun around quickly, catching one of the group behind the knee with his boot. The man clambered to the ground, a pile of bones and regret. Another jab with his arm, catching one of the muggers in the jaw. The noise was satisfying. He cocked his head to the side and smiled, a reflexive response. What had he told Claire? That he did it because he liked it?

It certainly hadn't been a lie.

A heartbeat thundered behind him and he dodged, righting himself quickly as his body threatened to slip on a patch of ice. Ice, unfortunately, did not make a sound. If he focused enough, he could hear the difference in the reverberations that come off it – asphalt created a dull clap, but ice was pristine and sharp.

His right leg kicked out and connected with the man's sternum. His foe collapsed to the ground with an oof. Matt waited a beat, poised on his knees, surveying the area around him. There was the fallen men's heartbeats, soft but steady, the gentle dusting of snowfall, a plow roaring to life in the distance. And –

To keep their little heads from falling in the snow, and I turned 'round and there you go…

— like that, he was on the ground, staring uselessly at what he expected was a dark sky above him, dotted with gentle flakes caressing the ebony landscape that surely loomed in the oblivion. A missing heartbeat, lost in the tendrils of ice, the rusty blood of bruised men, and his own arrogance. Murdocks get back up, he thought fruitlessly, an explosion of color revealing itself behind his sightless eyes as his combatant's steel toe met his nose. Get back up, get back up, get back up…

Nothing. Tenebrous expanse. Infinite flurries.

And, Michael, you would fall, and turn the white snow red as strawberries in the summertime.