This is a bit of a rough chapter - please see the endnotes if you want triggers/warnings.


He wonders, later, if Stick does it on purpose.

Stick must have been watching him for awhile. And he could have approached Matt in a more private setting. He even could have intervened when Owlsley took out his taser.

Instead, Owlsley gets away. Lying against the ground, Matt hears the slow, stilted tap of his mentor's cane. He recognizes this first, then registers the calculatingly hesitant facade of the man's walk. His steady, too-strong heartbeat and sour smell.

Like dryer sheets. And vanilla.

He's embarrassed. He curls and pushes against the pavement, trying to get up, while Stick comes up to his side and taps at the ground contemptuously. His muscles are still spasming. His heart flutters. Matt shudders and lies still.

Weak, he hears Stick say in his mind. As though it's not bad enough to have him be here in reality.

"You just gonna lie there all night?" Stick mocks.


In the early days, his training with Stick is an exercise in futility. Battlin' Jack never wanted to teach his son how to fight, and Matt learns to be bitter about this. Stick's methods are harsh, his lessons aimed at learning swiftly.

He teaches Matt to fall by unbalancing him, shoving him, and kicking his feet out from under him until Matt is sore and aching from a dozen different spots. Matt learns his lesson; he must, as a matter of self-preservation. He comes to understand that this format is not the exception but rather the rule for Stick's methodology.

Critique is handed out through shouted insults. Grudging praise is offered rarely, but when given it means all the more for that same scarceness.

Matt works very hard for his praise.

"Sometimes I think I'm wasting my time on you," Stick says. Matt senses a low rush of air as Stick swipes at his feet. He leaps to avoid the blow, landing half-bowed as he whips one tensed arm toward Stick's abdomen.

The man bats it away with contempt.

"You're slow," he says. He thwacks Matt on the shoulder with his cane; Matt doesn't manage to dodge. "Can't even beat an old man."

The 'old man' in question spins around and lands a hit to his skull that makes Matt's ears ring. He stumbles and barely keeps his footing before Stick lunges forward again.

Through the confused haze the last hit has sent him into, Matt blocks two more strikes and with a burst of energy ducks around Stick and kicks out at the back of his knee.

Stick shouts and falls, jabbing behind himself with his cane. Matt endures the hit and grabs his mentor's arm, trying to push him down.

It doesn't work very well. The older man leaps to his feet and twists around, grappling now at close-quarters. Within seconds Matt's sent sprawling to the ground. His elbow cracks painfully against the dirt.

"Better," says Stick.


It hurts more than he would expect, to stand and have Stick criticize him. "Hell's Kitchen hates your guts," he says. "They have you pegged as a cop-killer or some kind of mad bomber."

This is mostly difficult to hear because it's true.

"I'm taking care of it," he says tersely.

"You ain't taking care of shit."

Stick taught him that there is no room for attachments in his life. There is no room for Stick in his life. But when he asks why Stick is in his city, Stick answers that he's here to save everyone – and his heart never stutters.

Which means that for now Matt doesn't have to face the question of whether or not to turn him away.

This does not mean things are easy. Matt takes Stick to his apartment, and he shows disdain for everything. "A woman was here," he says immediately. He raises his hand, incredulous. " - Silk sheets?"

It makes Matt defensive again. He shouldn't have to explain his own home. Foggy laughs about his sheets, sometimes. "Who are you going to be entertaining, Matt," he might tease. "Have big plans?" But it's never cruel.

What right does Stick have to criticize him? Stick hasn't been his teacher for twenty years. Matt's a lost cause, after all.

Stick says one thing that stops him:

"I'm proud of you. I really am."

The words come out grudgingly – and he follows it with, "But, this? Surrounding yourself with soft stuff – it isn't life. It's death."

This is almost worse, not because it's insulting but because it rings with truth again. Stick's heart is steady. He believes what he's saying. It is real to him, the words earnest.

Stick calls him a warrior. But that was the reason Stick left, wasn't it? Because Matt couldn't be a fighter – because he couldn't be anything more than simple Matt Murdock.

"You're worse than your old man. 'Born to lose' Battlin' Jack - "

Hitting him is refreshing. God, has he wanted to hit Stick. He has dreamed, fantasized, about hitting Stick.

His fantasies never included being laughed at afterward, though.

And Matt tries to pretend it doesn't matter, (it doesn't, it doesn't – maybe if he recites this enough, like a mantra, he'll believe it) and he agrees to help Stick eventually. Of course he does. Hell's Kitchen is his city.

And anyway he can't imagine what Stick would say to him if he said no.

Stick has more to say, though, before they leave. Of course he does.

"This isn't what I expected you to do with your training. What I wanted you to do with your training."

"All I ever wanted was to function and live like my dad wanted. I'd say I've achieved that and more."

[What's it gonna be, Mattie? You gonna spend your life crying and rocking yourself to sleep at night? Or are you going to dig deep, and find out what it takes to reshuffle those cards life dealt you?]

"I taught you to hide yourself and survive," Stick says. "Not to run around in some stupid get-up getting yourself killed for people you don't even know."

"What else would I do with my training?" he replies. "I can help people like this." He turns away.

"Everyone but yourself. And what have you accomplished, really? Lowering yourself against common criminals."

"As opposed to fighting in your war, I suppose. The one you never even explained."

"That would be one alternative."

Matt doesn't rise to the bait. "You're not a very convincing recruiter, Stick. I have my cause, you keep yours - "

"Cause? What cause? There are real fights out there, but you're beating up purse-snatchers and muggers. Very big of you, I'm sure. You have no idea what you could be doing, punk - "

"And whose fault is that?" Matt snaps before he can stop himself.

But Stick doesn't hesitate. "Not mine," he says. "I didn't make you soft. You can hammer the metal all you want, kid, but you can't do anything with flawed iron."

To this, Matt can only say: "You chose to train me."

"And I've had the chance to regret it, believe me. You think it tickles me, hearing about you running around and getting beat up by every Dick and Joe on the streets because you want to stand up for little old ladies? It's fucking embarrassing. You still can't control yourself. That's all this is. You can't resist helping people any more than you could shut out noises and the smell of rotten eggs when I first met you. Still have that temper, I bet."

And the funny thing is, he hasn't thought of it like that. Not before.

He's thought of it as using what Stick taught him. Not making Stick proud, exactly. Really. Probably. The thought of Stick being proud of him... it doesn't seem real. But it would be nice to not be thought of as a failure.

He didn't think his efforts would actually be found insulting.

"I have control."

"Try again," Stick says. "If you actually need a polygraph to measure your own heart, you've regressed more than I thought."

"I have control," Matt repeats. "When you showed up tonight, I didn't - "

"What? Kill me?" Stick shoots. "Cry? Pussy. Don't make me laugh. If you want to prove yourself, don't fuck up tonight. Now quit your yapping and let's go."


After Stick kills Black Sky – after Stick kills a kid, a child, and won't even say why – they fight so explosively that it wrecks Matt's apartment, and later he's frankly surprised that none of his neighbors called the police. He's left picking up shards of wood and glass from the floor, a slow and painstaking task at the best of times.

Among all the debris, he finds a worn, weathered bracelet made of very old paper. After all these years, it still smells faintly of vanilla.


They are due to start on knives in ten days. Matt has made great strides in the past year under Stick's tutelage, but he's been excited since Stick signified the intent to start with knives soon, because this means Stick considers him to have essentially mastered hand-to-hand fighting. He is not done learning – one is never done learning – but he is proficient, and that is enough.

Tonight, though, their training is interrupted. Stick receives a phone-call that leaves him in a fouler mood than usual.

"Bastards ordering me around like I'm their bitch," he tells Matt. "Like I have nothing else to be doing!"

"Who's giving you orders?" Matt wants to know. It's not the first hint that Stick is working with a larger organization. He makes a lot of vague allusions to some greater goal, an upcoming war that 'everyone' will need to be prepared for – and it's very clear that by 'everyone' he is only referring to all those who have been specifically trained to deal with it.

This being said, he can't imagine Stick taking commands from anyone. He could easily be the head of an organization, but Matt doesn't want to imagine any structure powerful enough to command Stick's obedience.

The reply is half-expected. "You keep your nose out of it," Stick snaps. "You'd know if I wanted you to know. Stay in tonight and practice your form. I've got a job."

"I could help."

"Probably." Matt's already accompanied Stick in taking down various street-criminals, mostly randomly selected, just for the practice. "But this is going to get ugly. I don't need to babysit you puking on the sidelines. Now quit whining and shut up."

Matt stops whining.

It's late when Stick gets back, and the sounds of the city have fallen into the sort of distant, low-level hum of background noise where Matt can easily tune out everything if he wants to. He's practiced the latest moves Stick has taught him, and his muscles ache with fatigue. He's ready to give up on waiting and rest when the door to the training area creaks open and Stick steps in.

He's drunk, which is the first thing Matt notices. This is a point of alarm immediately. Stick drinks plenty, but the sharp stench of alcohol around him and the unusual speed of his heart indicates that he's had more than usual. Stick doesn't like drinking enough to impair his senses or his reasoning. Matt straightens, immediately trying to account for this behavior.

"Are you alright, Stick?"

Instead of answering, the old man throws his cane across the room. It clatters against the far wall and makes Matt flinch.

"Fucking disaster!" Under the overpowering odor of alcohol Matt registers the more familiar scent of blood. It's not enough to alarm him, but clearly his mentor has not returned unscathed. "What did they expect, of course I looked suspicious in a place like that - !"

With a sudden shout, Stick turns and slaps a hand against the wall. Matt listens to the sound of harsh, angry breathing, then the catch of skin-against-cement as Stick turns and slumps onto the ground.

There is no more movement.

Matt waits, but when he only detects labored breathing he slowly steps forward.

Stick doesn't move as Matt drops down beside him, reaching out hesitantly and brushing a hand against the man's blood-soaked sleeve.

Stick heaves a long sigh and lets his head fall back against the wall. It's not an annoyed sound, so Matt takes the risk of shuffling forward on his knees and shifting until he's half in the man's lap. He reaches up and wraps his arms around the man's neck, resting his head on the hard chest where a heart beats steadily against his ear.

It used to calm down his dad to hold onto him and talk after hard nights at the ring. He's still a bit surprised – and relieved – when he feels Stick's hands slowly come down around him.

It's nice to help.

The man rubs circles on his back, at first. It's very quiet; Stick's pulse thrums in his ear. Smoke and whiskey burns his nose. The hands drift lower.

Matt squirms uncomfortably. Stick's lap feels strange. His dad never held him like this. Or touched him like this.

One hand drifts between his legs; it's a weird feeling. Not a good one. Matt thinks about getting up, because Stick's fine now. Probably. But the man's other arm is still wrapped around him like a vice, and Matt doesn't want to fight to get away from him. He doesn't know how Stick would react to that.

He buries his head against the man's shoulder, instead, as the hand between his legs moves up. It goes under his shirt and rubs the hard muscles of his stomach, pressing into the skin. The fingers dip down into the line of his waistband. Matt feels a little nauseous.

When the fingers keep moving, keep searching, Matt asks: "What are you doing?"

Stick stops.

"I don't. I don't think I like it," Matt says. "Are you alright? Or is this something I should learn?"

The hand resting under his jeans is rough with use and age. Matt's skin is sensitive, but he is familiar with these hands and also with the pain they can bring. He yelps when Stick suddenly jerks away, grabbing Matt by the shoulders and shoving him back.

Matt lands on the concrete in a confused sprawl. His head is spinning. Maybe he's sick after all. He still feels like he might throw up.

"Anyone do that to you, you punch them, you idiot," Stick spits. "That's your lesson, you, you – fuck, you're young!"

Matt doesn't dare move.

"Idiot. Idiot. Shouldn't have – you should have known better, kid - "

"I'm sorry," says Matt.

Even from here he can feel the heat from Stick's skin. It radiates like a furnace. He thinks back to the day they met. They watched a young couple in the park. That heat means love, right? Stick said so. So Stick loves him.

He's never thought so before. But Stick loves him.

"Get the hell out of here," Stick says.


He doesn't have time to think about Stick – to really think about Stick – until after Fisk is in jail.

Around the same time that his nightly activities start to slow, cases begin to trickle into Nelson&Murdock. Their involvement in Fisk's trial has already brought them some attention, and it's doing good. Matt uses the opportunity, and the extra money, to properly repair the damaged steps and walls of his apartment.

Somehow, it's this that brings up the memories. The wood around the new renovations sounds slightly off. His apartment aches with echoes of the fight months after it has happened.

Foggy, when he comes by, comments that the place "Looks a little less like a homeless vagrant lives here, good job, Matt."

"I suppose that's an endorsement," Matt responds.

"No one expects the blind man to have a superb sense of aesthetics, you get a pass. The broken everything was kind of suspicious, though."

Looks don't really matter to him. But the place holds memories which are suddenly in the forefront of his mind now that there are no more important matters to occupy it. He can't sleep without hearing Stick's derisive voice - "Silk sheets?"

And, after awhile, the solution becomes obvious.

He just needs to sleep somewhere else.


Jeremy Lane has been given the rare and unusual honor of having his actual name programmed into Matt's phone – or, almost his actual name. Given Foggy's propensity for stealing Matt's phone, the placeholder for his name actually reads 'Lane Associates'.

Lane is the sort of unsavory character who is very good at sex, in the sense that Matt approves of his technique and probably no one else does anywhere. Matt is fairly certain that Lane is so agreeable to their rare arranged encounters because he enjoys the feeling of power he gets by fucking a supposedly-weaker blind man. He also has a sneaking suspicion that Lane intends to kill him one day and bury his body in his basement, and is just trying to work up the nerve. Which is fine, really. Better Matt than someone who won't see it coming, and won't be able to properly defend themselves. Matt can deal with that when it happens.

The phone rings three times, and when Lane answers he sounds annoyed, which isn't unusual. "I don't want to hear it," is his opening line.

"That's a shame," Matt says. "I was just thinking up my best lines, too."

"What?"

"This is Matt Murdock. I was just wondering if you were free."

Jeremy isn't stupid enough to miss what this means. He releases a frustrated groan. "I – fuck. No." Matt exhales in honest surprise. Lane's never turned him down. "I – fuck, I'm really busy. Raincheck? Tomo – no – next week?"

"...Maybe," says Matt guardedly.

Lane curses again. "Well. Tell me if you change your mind."

"Sure," Matt agrees, and hangs up before he can do just that.

Well, now what?

He's hardly one to call it quits after one try. Matt spends some time reading and waits until it's nearly dark before he heads out.

The Fairytale lounge in Hell's Kitchen is a perfectly respectable place, but Matt can always find the less savory frequenters of an establishment if he puts his mind to it. He's only been here a few times; he doesn't much see the point in frequenting gay-specific places, usually. But today it might provide a quick partner, and that's all he's looking for.

He extends his senses and waits for the mix of signs that promise what he needs. He finds it in a man sitting against the far wall of the room, watching everyone else. The sour-sliding scent of arousal; the humming thread of anger bouncing in his pulse; a musty, sterile tang of medication and plastic. Older. He will do.

Usually, Matt likes to string things out. It's not difficult when you know how to do it; it's even easier when you can hear the respiration of your target and detect every twitch and interested head-tilt a person makes.

Today, he's not feeling especially patient.

He slides into a seat in front of his target, scenting a tinge of surprise in the air. Matt smiles pleasantly, in what he's told is a rather self-effacing way, but his words somewhat belie any appearance of innocence.

"Want to fuck?" he asks pleasantly.

The man pauses. His heart jumps a little in his chest. " - You for real?" The man asks after a moment. He sounds incredulous.

Matt smiles and tries not to make it seem too feral. "I'll make it good," he says.

"I don't pay for sex, kid."

"I'm not asking. I just really need sex." Matt tilts his head, tapping his cane against the ground impatiently. "I'll do whatever you want. Are you saying no?"

This isn't the way to go about things. Men like this prefer to feel in control; but, making someone feel wanted is also another way of imbuing power. He waits.

The man pauses for a moment. Maybe still trying to figure out if he's joking. "Your place," he says at last.

"Sure."

The guy stands close as they walk, bumping into his side as though trying to warn off poachers now that he's found a victim of his own. It's annoying. But Matt's found what he needs, so he can ignore this particular brand of irritation.

Until -

"Hey, Brad! Glad to see you, we were waiting!"

Someone shoulders their way between Matt and his partner, grabbing Matt by the elbow. He jerks away, but the grip is tight. "What?" he asks.

"We're in the corner," says the stranger unhelpfully. "Hey, Gabe, how are you? Sorry to cut in."

"Knew it was too good to be true," the first guy – Gabe, presumably – snorts. He turns and moves away before Matt can protest.

"What the hell? Who are you?"

"Sorry, man. But you don't want to leave with him. Gabe messes people up bad. He's – he's not very nice to his partners."

Matt would normally appreciate the thought. To anyone else, it would be a kind gesture.

Right now, he's mostly furious.

"Maybe I want to get messed up."

"I," says the stranger, and stops.

Matt shakes off the man's hand. "Are you okay?" the man calls. Matt ignores him. He walks out of the bar, the raucous music fading away behind him.

He could probably find Gabe again, but he doubts the man would come with him now. The night is going poorly. He wants – he wants to beat something, really. And he wants to hurt.

He really, really wants to be hurt.


Matt is a sentimental person.

He keeps a lot of trinkets from the past. He can't look at them but he can touch them and recognize the scents of what has been. The equipment worn by his father during his boxing-matches smells of sweat and chemical excitement, of whiskey and oak and sawdust and something that's uniquely Jack Murdock. He never thinks twice about keeping the vanilla-sweet wrapper of the ice-cream cone Stick buys him. Meeting Stick is the start of something new. It's salvation from his own senses and the possibility of achieving independence, of becoming something great.

Later, he dares to think that it's also the chance for a family.

After The Incident, Matt holds the wrapper in his hands for awhile because he knows that Stick loves him. And this is important. Stick has been acting strange for awhile but family can get through anything. So it's fine. Maybe Stick just needs to know that Matt cares, too.

Matt gives him the bracelet as both a symbol of forgiveness and apology. He does not understand exactly what he is forgiving. He does not understand why he is apologizing. But Stick stinks of self-recrimination, and forgiveness absolves guilt; Stick is also angry with Matt, and maybe an apology will make up for whatever it is he has done.

He has tried very hard to think of what he has done wrong. Perhaps Stick will tell him, if he asks.

Stick is never hesitant to say what Matt has done wrong, after all.

But Stick just takes the bracelet and crumples it in his hand; and Matt's hopes are destroyed with it.


If anything the frantic energy humming under his skin is worse, now, with the continuous disappointments of the night. He needs something he can't define, and going on patrol sounds both inviting and monumentally horrible. Matt enjoys violence on some nights. Most nights. Today, he could go too far. Or he could get lost in the fight and get himself killed without caring.

There are easier ways to be hurt.

He knows Hell's Kitchen well, but for once, he isn't concerned about where's he's going. He just lets himself wander, hugging the walls of buildings, walking slowly and tapping at the ground with slow sweeping gestures as though he doesn't know where he is.

It's a careful appearance, as is the soft white shirt, the tight dark pants, the carefully swept hair. As he walks one passerby asks if he's alright, if he's lost. Their voice seems a bit concerned, which is galling. He says he's fine. He keeps walking.

On West 41st Street he first hears the footsteps and the quick, eager heartbeat of someone doing a poor job at being discreet.

It's easy to wander into the mouth of an alley, lay down his cane, and stop to tie his shoes with exaggeratedly slow movements. Impatience pulses through him as the heart-beat comes closer. Skittering gravel is a dead-give away to the presence of someone else, but Matt pretends not to hear. He's just straightening when his stalker works up his nerve, letting loose a strangled shout and tackling him against the ground.

Matt lets this happen, only bothered by the fact that his cheek scratches the pavement as he falls. This guy's a real amateur, he notes; probably his first time.

Hands grip tight around arms – hard enough to bruise. Heavy, eager breaths fall on his face as the attacker looms over him. Matt leans back his head and lets his senses expand. The man's heartbeat is rapid, but healthy. He's young. Thirty, perhaps. His skin is heated with the beginnings of excitement, his skin fetid with sweat and musk.

Matt tilts his head and feels obscurely disappointed.

"Sorry," he says. "You're not really my type."

The man's heart jolts.

This is not the expected reaction to assault.

"Wha - "

With one brutally efficient twist, Matt rolls the pair so their positions are reversed and he's on top of the would-be rapist. Swinging back his arm, he strikes the man across the jaw, then repeats the gesture on the other cheek. The man tries to yell and is interrupted by a sudden flurry of vicious blows.

Matt might have come looking for this, but it doesn't change the fact that this guy is scum.

He grabs the man's collar to pull him up, then throws him sharply against the pavement. The crack of bone sounds like branches breaking. Matt pauses, listening to the murmur of the man's heart fade into the familiar lull of unconsciousness. He waits a few seconds longer. Then, sighing, he rolls off the limp body and stands up.

It wasn't much of a fight.

It helped a little, though. More restraining is the realization that he needs to tip-off the police so this asshole can get to a hospital, and hopefully get questioned.

He's too unstable. He's dangerous tonight. He can hear distant sounds in the city – moans and whispers and cries – and he doesn't trust himself to follow any of them.

He heads home.


When he goes the second time, Stick leaves him a bracelet made of an ice-cream wrapper and Matt can't figure it out. It's probably not the same one. Time alone would have eroded such a fragile thing. But it's a symbol, as so many things are symbols. Matt was an English major in undergrad but the particular meaning of this one eludes him.

Stick is returning something. Returning – love? Fondness? Is he showing that he still cares? After all this time. After twenty years. It's what Matt would like to believe. It's what the child would have believed.

But Matt remembers the crinkle of ruined paper. By giving this bracelet to Matt, Stick no longer has it for himself. He is relinquishing it. Rejecting it.

Maybe something has been lost instead of gained.

Matt just wishes he could understand.


He goes to his apartment because he is certain all other attempts to find company tonight will be equally useless; three strikes is enough. He stands in front of his kitchen sink and lets cold water sluice away the blood from his hands. His cane stinks of dirt and iron. The scent strangles him.

You're getting soft, he hears Stick say.

He still can't sleep.


Warnings: non-graphic child molestation, and an adult character seeking dangerous situations with the intent of inciting sexual violence.