AN If you've been longing for some of Matt's messy, self-hating headspace...this is the chapter for you.


Matt sat on the edge of his bed, head in his hands. Nightmares, all night. He had thought—hoped—they would fade after a while. But still they came, agonizing darkness that smothered him, slunk across his skin, squeezed the life from his bones. Granted, they were happening less often, maybe a couple of times a week rather than every night, but their intensity had never lessened.

He rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands. Five years. Five long, relentless years. Maybe it was time to resign himself to the idea that he might never go back to how he had been before. The war had caused some intrinsic damage to him, maybe he just had to accept that. After all, his best solution to the problem was to escape the civility of his office and throw himself into the brutality of the ring every week.

Matt heaved himself off the bed and stumbled to the shower.

Nestled in beside the horror of the war was Claire. Claire, a strange and precious jewel in the grit of bare-knuckle boxing. Claire, who was so intoxicating that he sometimes managed to forget that he only went to the boxing hall because it was the one safe place for him to go feral. Claire, whom he had almost let himself kiss.

Matt still wasn't sure how it had happened. When he had first sat down beside her, his head was full of the seething wrath that had broken free only minutes before. Matt had gone feral in the ring, devastating his opponent until someone had dragged him away. His knuckles had been stinging and bloody with savage satisfaction.

Then he had started talking to Claire, and her gentle, sarcastic banter had eased everything else from his mind. She had been lovely, from her teasing conversation to her hair pinned in countless curls. Even though she was clearly exhausted, her smiles had been sweet enough to make him wonder what they tasted like.

Thankfully, he had called himself back before he made a complete disaster of things. Her expression had been one of shocked hurt, but he knew in his gut that it was better this way. He couldn't trick her into thinking he was suitable to be cared for like that. Normally, Matt kept his barbarity in check, but the devil had a way with him that made up for every second of lost time.

If they'd met before, if he had just been a law student and she merely a tailor's assistant, Matt liked to think things might have worked out. He would have gladly taken on the odds with her, defying social convention if she was willing to have him. But there was no way he could justify putting her through a social gauntlet as well as condemning her to loving a broken man.

No, not broken. A man whose bones had been forged from Hell itself. Matt couldn't put anyone through that.

He got ready for the day, pulling on clothes and making breakfast without really seeing anything. There was a persistent ache in his throat, like his body was resisting his efforts to breathe.

Work wasn't enough to distract him. Thoughts of Claire and how they could never be kept sloshing around in his head. Claire had been so pretty, a curl of long dark hair hanging loose next to her face, the scent of her lavender soap heavy in his nose. It had been a herculean effort to pull back and resist kissing her, but he had done it. That counted for something. He just didn't know what.

Dugan swung through the office unexpectedly, boisterous and irreproachable as he groused and guffawed over their warnings to keep a low profile. Dugan was a character in and of himself, wearing a thick mustache and bowler hat that barely contained his verve. Matt had no idea how he managed to come back from the Great War with so much energy. Matt mostly felt like sleeping and never waking up.

"Really, though, Mr. Dugan, you need to be careful," Foggy insisted as he walked with Dugan to the door. "Newspapers are beginning to poke around, and a simple assault case can easily become complicated with all of your drinking and, you know, assaulting."

"A couple of bar fights never hurt anyone," Dugan dismissed, shaking his head.

"Except for the guy whose arm you broke," Karen sniffed from her desk.

Dugan turned to look at her, surprised delight making him grin. "Baloney! If he was man enough to take it, he would've been fine. I warned him not to start anything, fair enough."

"Unfortunately, none of that is admissible in court," Matt countered. "Please, Mr. Dugan, try to contain yourself until after the case is over. You just have to last a week."

"Yeah, yeah," Dugan grumbled, tromping out the door.

Karen snorted and continued sorting through her papers once the door swung shut.

"You were encouraging him," Foggy said, wheeling around and pointing a finger at her.

She looked up at him, eyes wide in perfect innocence. "What, me?" she asked, pressing a hand to her chest. "I'd never."

"How you're not exhausted by him, I'll never guess," Matt sighed, running a hand through his hair.

"I think he's funny, in a zany sort of way. I mean, how many people do you know can go from flirting to talking about bar fights in under a minute?"

"But you don't like that, right?" Foggy asked, fidgeting with his suit cuffs. "I mean, it gets kinda suffocating after a while, doesn't it?"

"Oh, yeah, certainly," Karen said. She stood up and carried the stack of papers to a filing cabinet. "It's not actually going to work, but it's cute that he tries."

"Oh. That's…comforting," Foggy said. He looked torn between sighing in relief and wilting while Karen's back was turned.

Matt mentally shook his head. This was why he rarely went to the pictures. The ongoing saga of Foggy hopelessly liking Karen was drama enough.

"Why?" Karen asked, facing them again. She raised a teasing eyebrow as she leaned against the cabinet. "You got a girl you've been scoping out?"

"You got him," Matt said, interceding before Foggy literally exploded from embarrassment and anxiety. "Foggy Nelson, about to sweep some unsuspecting girl off her feet with bravado and a heartfelt suggestion of lawbreaking."

"I'll admit I was a little surprised Dugan led with going to a speakeasy while standing in a legal office," Karen said.

"Yeah, I usually scope people out before bringing them to Josie's," Foggy said.

"Ugh, but that's barely a speakeasy," Karen laughed, walking back to her desk.

"But still you went!"

"Desperation, Mr. Nelson. Not because I think it's the bees knees."

Matt shook his head and retreated to his office now that Foggy was back on level ground. He tried following up on one of their cases, but his mind kept skipping, stumbling back through the same things. Claire's breath on his face and his bone deep exhaustion and the ugly rush of the ring and the simple emptiness of his apartment and the ruthless pleasure of winning and the endless careworn prayers that had stumbled past his lips, all shot through with the devastating dark of the trench.

Matt ground his knuckles into his forehead. He needed to work through this. He would work through this.

He picked up his pen to continue adding notes. Each word was laborious and didn't make sense, requiring re-reading and long pauses to understand.

"Shit," he hissed, scribbling out his notes and throwing his pen down. He glanced up to see Foggy staring at him from his doorway. Heat flashed through Matt's face as he registered Foggy's shocked expression.

"Did I catch you at a bad time…?" Foggy asked weakly.

"I—uh—no, it's just…didn't get a lot of sleep last night, is all."

"You okay, though?" Foggy stepped into the room and eased the door shut. "You've been a little off all day."

"Really, just not getting enough sleep. Give me a good weekend to rest up and everything will be Jake."

"Now I know something's wrong," Foggy said. He leaned against the wall and folded his arms, settling in. "You only talk about taking a break when you want to get me off your back."

"Foggy—"

"Have you been having nightmares?"

"Not been having. They're happening less, I told you."

"But you had one," Foggy insisted.

Matt sighed and ran a hand over his face. He hadn't told Foggy exactly what happened in his dreams, knowing that the horror and the smothering silence and the dark of the trench wasn't something anyone needed to hear about. Especially when Foggy had been saved from the war by being ineligible for the draft. His father had died the year before, leaving all of his family dependent on him. Combined with Matt's vague, cautionary letters from overseas, Foggy had known things were too horrible to even contemplate. But he knew those horrors even existed, which was its own little form of comfort. At least Matt didn't have to deal with everything alone.

"Yeah, last night. It was bad."

"How bad?"

"Not the worst."

Foggy sighed. "I'm sorry, buddy. That's…it's just terrible."

"Like I said, not the worst thing I did all night," Matt told him, a thin smile on his face.

"What? You really lose a fight or something?" Foggy asked. Matt didn't miss the way his eyes strayed to the new bruise on Matt's face.

"No."

The face of his opponent the night before flashed to mind, misshapen, covered in blood, pathetic as Matt slammed in every blow he could get before he was dragged away. And to think he had been that wild moments before almost kissing Claire.

"I…kinda made a mess of things with a girl."

"Girl? Girl? I haven't heard anything about a girl," Foggy said, perking.

Matt laughed and shook his head. "There hasn't been anything to hear. She just…I dunno, it wasn't right, I guess."

"She turn you down?"

"No. It just wasn't right."

Foggy watched him for a long minute, chewing over his thoughts. He sighed and smoothed his hands over the front of his navy vest. "Well, Matt, I think the only thing you really can do is try to make it right."

"That sounds ideal," Matt said, not even bothering to hide the miserable longing in his voice.

If he could have corrected things with Claire, if he had the ability to purify himself of the monster he harbored, he would have done it in a second. But he couldn't. The only thing he had found so far was regulating himself through boxing, but clearly that wasn't enough. Not when Claire's safety came into question.

Foggy sighed like he was giving up and shookhis head. "At least try, okay buddy?"

Matt forced out a smile and nodded.

He couldn't fix himself, but he could attempt to explain things to Claire. They wouldn't work out, he just had to give his reasons why and hopefully she would accept. Matt was keenly aware that explaining didn't actually count as fixing. He couldn't go back and kiss the soft hurt from Claire's face for having pulled away. He couldn't even promise that he would never pull away again. The best he could do was show her that none of this was her fault.

The next few times he went to Sweeney's boxing hall, Claire wasn't there. Matt kept himself from asking about her, forcing the words to stop up in his throat. No one else needed to know what had happened. Santino wasn't at the hall, either, making Matt think (entertain the slightest hope) that maybe she stayed away for reasons other than him.

The thought didn't actually help much.

He felt edgy when he went into the ring, his murmured Hail Mary clunky and disjointed as he got ready. Matt wondered if his opponent, an older man named O'Connor, could see it in his eyes. The other spectators and boxers called him the daredevil of the ring, reckless and confident as he endangered himself for a victory. Matt privately thought anyone willing enough to climb into a ring with him was the real daredevil. He hit people to make them go down. No amount of praying changed that.

O'Connor gave the first blow. It was good, connecting with Matt's chest and knocking the air out of him. It was also enough to settle him into the fight. O'Connor danced away, but Matt came in fast. He slammed out two punches, both shaking up his arm and rattling his ribs. O'Connor stabbed out a few frantic blows to keep Matt away. Matt dodged, blocked a blow, and cracked his jaw with his fist.

O'Connor panicked, going in to grab Matt by the waist and throw him. Matt smashed his fist into O'Connor's back again and again and again—

"That's the round, you lay off him for fifteen seconds, then go," the referee yelled, shoving the two of them apart. He had a heavy accent, probably no more than a year out of Ireland.

Matt slunk to his corner, waiting. He didn't feel the crowd around him, barely noticed someone forcing him to drink water, someone else wiping blood from his face (it wasn't his). He could only feel his heartbeat, heavy, dangerous, unyielding. He was going to break O'Connor next round.

The second round began, and Matt crept forward, feeling out every step. O'Connor hung back, nervous then—

Matt knocked aside both jabs, punched his side, and swung him into the ropes. O'Connor tried blocking but Matt pushed his arm away, kicked the back of his knees, then smashed home a blow to his face.

O'Connor crashed into the side of the ring. He moaned but didn't get up.

Matt shouldered through the crowd before the referee finished announcing the winner. He shouldn't have done that. He shouldn't—that was savage—winning had felt so good, but—

"Murdock! Matthew!"

He sucked in a breath and looked around. Santino jogged over, his curly hair bouncing slightly with each step. The boy was always a little too bright-eyed for Sweeney's hall. Matt wanted to take him aside and tell him to leave bare-knuckle boxing, find a decent place to train like Fogwell's if he wanted to keep fighting. But he knew that wouldn't work. Santino was only there to raise money for his mother's medicine. No matter how good a boxer he was, he would leave once his mother was better.

Which was probably for the best. He deserved something more than broken bones and back alley doctors before (if) he established himself.

"Uh, hey," Matt mumbled.

"You were great in that last round. I knew you were fast, but—wow, blink once and you miss half the fight!"

"It wasn't really a fight."

"I know! How do you know to block him so fast?"

"You just…feel it, I guess. Forget everything and you just…focus."

It had taken him months of tedious focusing with his old trainer, Stick, to master it. Matt hoped Santino wouldn't be boxing for half so long.

"Hey, is, Claire here?" Matt asked, heading off any more ill-fitting praise.

"Claire? No, she didn't come today. Did you get hurt? I didn't think he landed more than a couple blows."

"No, I—I need to talk to her," Matt said. He watched Santino, straining to figure out if he knew anything. They were practically brother and sister, so she might have mentioned…

"Oh. I don't know when she'll come back. She doesn't really plan when she comes here."

Matt chewed on his cheek. He couldn't let the matter sit much longer. If he was going to bring it up, it needed to be soon. He didn't want to chance waiting until she eventually came back, and pushing the subject through Santino sounded like a bad idea. Which meant Matt would have to go to her.

"Is it important?" Santino asked, eyebrows furrowing in concern.

Matt lifted his head, forcing a lighter expression onto his face. "Hm? Oh, no, Nothing to worry about. She asked me something and I wanted to follow up."

"Oh. Okay, well, I'll tell her you've got it, then."

Matt forced out another smile and bobbed his head. "Anyway, I'm headed out. Take care, Santino."

"Always do!" he called, even as Matt walked away.

Matt's hands were slow as he wiped the blood from his face, pulled on his clothes, and slid his winnings into his pocket. He never liked the cash prizes for fighting. He didn't like that he was rewarded for turning into an animal. 'Prizefighting' always felt like too tame a word, too noble and kind. The matches weren't a contest of strength or ability for him. It was a ritual, a purge.

But Matt knew that attracting attention was a bad idea in this part of the Kitchen. He could be a strange combination of ruthlessness and religiousness when it came to fighting, but deviating outside of that was where he found trouble. The men around him were only family by culture until he labeled himself as too good for their daily struggle.

He slid his father's newsboy cap onto his head, then left the hall. The rosary in his pocket was a comforting warning as Matt's fingers traced the beads.

What was it like for Claire and Santino, he wondered. Lawbreaking was an effective equalizer, bringing together rich, poor, men, women, Italian and black and Irish and Poles and Hispanics. Borders still remained, though. How those two, decent, kind people could bring themselves to cross barriers, weather slurs, and keep their heads high… They both had a strength Matt could barely understand.

Claire. She had looked so wonderful, her pale purple dress flattering against her warm dark skin and lovely black hair. Wonderful and compassionate and straightforward. She deserved a lifetime of safety that couldn't happen with him. Not when their clashing skin tones would always make them stand out in a crowd. Not when he had a brutality he doubted he could ever truly control.

Matt tugged his hat brim a little lower and kept walking. His fingers were still tangled in his rosary, like maybe by touching something holy he could burn away a little bit of his sin.


AN Probably no one else cares, but I am very, very invested in the fact that Matt wears his daddy's hat. And that's his grandmother's rosary. I just imagine him to be a pretty sentimental guy when it comes to people he really cares about.