AN nothing like a traumatic new bit of canon to motivate you into posting again.


Matt stared at the pew ahead of him, hands clasped tight.

Service had been good. Father Lantom had a certain way of crafting his sermons that removed all the external guilt. That was likely why Matt was so dutiful in his attendance; he'd probably die if he felt much more guilt in his life. He already wanted to be buried alive, and that was just from a single slip up, one moment when he hadn't guarded his tongue. Who knew how he would feel after something genuinely terrible.

Father Lantom let Matt stew in his seat for a good fifteen minutes before he sat down beside him. Lantom had been kind after Matt returned from war. His son had been overseas as well. Apparently, his letters had stopped sounding like the boy long before they stopped coming at all.

They sat for a long moment, Matt hunched over, hands clutched together like he was begging for mercy. Lantom leaned back, examining the ceiling as he waited for Matt to speak.

"It was a good sermon," Matt said after a moment, voice creaky like it had forgotten how to sound.

"Thank you," Lantom said. "I've been piecing it together for a while."

Matt shifted, making his bullet wound burn. He had found that if he stretched his arm a certain way, pain would slither up into his chest—another attempt at penance.

"What would you do," Matt began, testing the words out, seeing how much they stung, "if doing the right thing…caused something terrible to happen?"

Lantom was quiet a moment. Then he said, "It doesn't sound much like the right thing, then."

"No." Matt shook his head in frustration, rethinking his words. "What if…doing the right thing on a grand scale…caused you to sin?"

"If one thing you do caused good for many people, but difficulties for you?"

"Yes."

"I suppose you're referring to something serious."

"Yes."

"Well, that depends. Will the sin cause harm that can't be undone?"

"Yes," Matt whispered, almost choking on the word. Images of Claire, battered and bruised at his hand, flashed into mind. "Maybe. Likely."

Lantom was quiet for another moment, and Matt chanced a look at him. He was examining the altar, eyebrows furrowed in consideration.

"I haven't known you to be a man that gives into temptation easily, Matthew."

Matt scoffed. Less than a week with Claire in his home, and already Matt felt like his body might betray his soul at any moment. Coveting had never seemed so pernicious as it had the last few days.

"It depends on the temptation," he said darkly.

Lantom considered another moment. "What are the stakes?"

"They're high." Matt didn't want to drag Lantom into this madness, not when the threat was so real.

"What are you afraid of, Matthew?" Lantom asked, finally turning to look at him. They stared at each other, both waiting; Lantom for Matt to speak, Matt to not be so terrified.

"I'm afraid of becoming a monster, Father," Matt said, making himself meet the man's eye. "I can't—I feel this darkness inside me. I told you before the war, it was just…anger, rage that I could hold back, but now…"

"Do you feel compelled to do bad things? Hurt people?"

"No, I just—I get the sense that everything I touch needs to break, and what if—" He bit his cheek and looked away. "It was fine before anyone got close. Now I'm afraid…am I wrong to want to keep her safe?" he asked, suddenly turning to face Lantom again.

"I'd say that's noble. But…what does she want?"

Matt laughed, exhausted. Claire didn't want much, but she deserved plenty.

"She wants something I don't think she understands. And I don't want her to. She trusts me too much for me to break that, and yet every time I try to get close, I'm convinced I'm also getting closer to being something I don't want to be."

"How does this tie into the big thing you were asking about earlier? Is she involved with you sinning?" Lantom asked, shaking his head in confusion.

Matt grit his teeth, frustrated Lantom wasn't understanding. "If I don't keep her safe, I won't be able to live with myself. But keeping her safe almost doesn't feel worth it."

Matt hunched his shoulders. He knew how it sounded. It wasn't that he wasn't interested in helping Claire for its own merit, that was plenty on its own. But the only way he felt certain she was safe was if she was with him, and every burning second she was just a breath away was a second Matt felt his strength falter. The moment he gave in, the moment he kissed her and told her he loved her, that he needed her, that yes, yes, he hated holding her away, yes, he was willing to do anything… That was the moment he started the timer until he lost his mind and found Claire on the receiving end.

What were his alternatives, though? Letting Claire go home, making her go—that was a death sentence. If nothing else, last night had proved that. But sending her somewhere else, to Karen's maybe, was not a risk he wanted to take. And yet, keeping her there, in his home, making food, wearing his clothes, using his things, sleeping in his bed, sitting just close enough for him to put his hand on, willing and eager and wanting his touch—

Matt flinched. He was in a church, for shit's sake.

"Matthew," Lantom began, the word slow like he was sounding out the place he wanted to step, "I'm afraid I don't follow. You seem…disjointed. Unclear of what you want."

Matt growled and leaned back in the pew, hands raking through his hair and over his face. He knew what he wanted, and he knew he absolutely should not have it.

He had been fine yesterday, that was the terrible truth of it. Men had been shooting at him, he had not been sure if he would live, and yet he had been fine. Matt was at peace with violence, sick and twisted as it was. That was no one Claire should ever be with.

"All of my choices lead to something bad," he said, hands still over his face. "Either she suffers because of someone else, or…"

Lantom didn't make him say it. He sighed through his nose. "Perhaps it is an issue of the devil you know, rather than the devil you don't."

That thought failed spectacularly to satisfy.

They sat for a few moments. Matt dropped his hands to his lap.

"I wish I weren't so broken," he whispered, a confession for all the saints in heaven to hear.

Lantom gave him a hard look, but said nothing.

Matt stood up, grabbing his hat from the pew. He stepped into the aisle, hesitating for a moment. "Thank you, Father, for listening."

"I'm willing to hear the rest, if you'll share," he offered.

Matt forced out a smile and left the church.

He walked the streets. He couldn't go home. His head was too full for him to face Claire and the thousands of problems she wore around her neck. They both needed a break.

Matt's feet found the boxing hall before he knew what he was doing. All the reasons why he shouldn't do this ran through his head, a pretty parade of 'Matt, do not's.

It was a Sunday, the day of rest. He was still injured from the chase. Foggy would go ballistic if Matt got a black eye right before they appeared in court. Claire wouldn't be happy. Matt would only feel worse afterward.

He found Sweeney and put his name in for a fight.

The boxing hall held a different crowd on Sunday. It took something particularly interesting to lure men out of their chapels and into the gambling dens. Sweeney's weapon of choice was female boxers.

Matt walked by one of the rings, which held a woman waiting for her opponent to enter the ring. A few of the men hooted at her and made requests that she change from her sensible pair of pants and undershirt into a chemise and bloomers. She shot them a rude hand gesture. Rumor was, Sweeney had offered to make her a star and rebrand her as Jewel. She had offered to break all of his teeth.

The hall was hot, even after Matt stripped down to just his pants and shoes. He threw a few punches in a half-hearted attempt to warm up. He didn't see Santino anywhere. That was a relief, at least. The less time that boy spent in places like this, the better. He didn't need to end up like Matt, craving the next fight no matter how hard he tried.

"Murdock, you're up," Sweeney called.

Matt nodded and climbed into a newly empty ring. He couldn't hear anyone placing bets over the dull roar in his head. He eyed his opponent. He was short, with brown hair and broad shoulders. Matt had seen him around, but couldn't remember what he was called. He listened for the fight to be announced, maybe he'd get the man's ring name, but things stopped making sense after he heard his own name.

Daredevil. If he didn't change his behavior, they would cut it in half, leave him exposed for what he truly was.

The Devil of the Ring.

The fight started and Matt walked forward, hands barely up, barely studying his opponent. Just step, step, punch. The man dodged, eyebrows furrowed like he was confused. Matt waited, then threw another punch.

This time, the man shot back. It hit Matt on the mouth, splitting open Matt's partially healed lip. He stumbled back a step, then blocked. He could feel that he wasn't right, that he needed to settle in to focus. He shook his head, hard, but that just made things worse.

It took two rounds before the man finally threw Matt. He landed hard on his back, the world jostling slightly. He closed his eyes.

He didn't even know what he was doing.

Matt waited a few moments after he left the ring to sign up again. He could hear the steady thrum of don't don't don't in his head, but he found Sweeney anyways.

"Another fight?" the man asked, eyeing Matt with condescending interest. It was the same way a person looked at a particularly tenacious, if arguably stupid, dog.

Matt gave a stiff nod.

Sweeney chuckled and considered, he rubbed his chin, eyeing the rings. "Eh…you'd probably kill Parker if I put you in with him, even with that sorry lickin' you just got."

Matt worked his jaw. He genuinely despised Roscoe Sweeney. He saw the suffering of men and decided to make a penny off it. Which made Matt hate himself a little more, because he kept crawling back.

Sweeney remained oblivious as he picked out another fighter, this one rangy, limbs twitching like he needed to fight, needed to draw blood. Which he did. The man—Fitz-something, William, maybe—had made it a trademark to be as savage as possible. Matt ran his tongue over his teeth. The numbness in his chest burned away into something ugly, something with horns and fangs and senseless destruction.

Matt thought about holding it back (what would Claire think?) about retaining some decency (what does it matter, she probably hates you at the moment, anyway), but the impulse faded as he stared at the other fighter. Cocky, careless, thinking his brutality and strength would get him through. Fitzwilliam laughed and postured for the crowd, somehow missing the wrath boiling off Matt's shoulders.

What did it matter, he was working his way to hell anyway. He couldn't have what he wanted, couldn't be good and happy and decent and safe. He couldn't stay away from the fights, couldn't control the gangsters chasing Claire, couldn't even have Claire because he knew, he knew that one day the hate and anger raging in his chest would fall onto her.

Matt stepped forward for the beginning of the round.

Then he was being hauled off Fitzwilliam—was it Fitzwilliam? It had to be, there was no one else it could be, but his face, oh hell, what had happened to his face

People restrained Matt from behind, yanking his arms back. He fought against them, first to keep fighting, then to get away. There was shouting and howling, men demanding more or declaring that he was an animal. He felt like an animal, terrified and desperate and needing to get away from the noise.

He wrenched himself free and stormed from the ring. He ignored his prize, held shakily before him. What had he done, he should have gone back, there were so many people in the way, why did he fight he wanted to go back he needed to leave could the people just move what had he done what had he done what had he done.

He burst from the hall, panting as he stormed away from the doors. The still-cold April wind made him shiver. He paced a moment, ignoring the stares from some men farther down the road. They were smoking, he wanted a cigarette, why had he given up cigarettes, he wanted to smoke one down to his fingertips, he wanted to smoke and drink and fight and have a reason for feeling like this.

He fell back against the wall, breaths coming hard. The concrete scraped against his shoulders, but he made himself stay there, propped up on pain and perseverance.

He ground his palms into his eyes, plunging himself in damnable, controllable darkness before lights popped into existence, gritty and mocking.

He wanted to go home. He wanted to sit on the couch and hold Claire and say nothing because his whole world was flying apart and he did not know what to do.

"Well, that was a damn spectacle."

Matt looked up at the voice, struggling to see a moment after he took his hands away.

It was Frank, posture completely unimpressed as he loped closer. He was wearing a shirt, but it was more of a sloppy formality than anything. The sleeves were haphazardly rolled around his elbows, and it looked like he'd tucked the tails into his pants with a half-hearted swipe. He had a flask in his hand.

"Never seen you act like that," Frank continued, settling near Matt on the wall. "The others? Sure. But you bury your crazy in church."

"You think that was from shell shock?" Matt asked, the words like vinegar on his tongue. He pursed his lips, hating how shaky his voice was.

Frank shrugged and took a sip from the flask. Matt let go of the breath he was still holding.

"Have you…you ever blacked out like that?" Matt asked. "Moved, and yet…not realize it?"

"Nah."

Matt closed his eyes, wishing Frank's brutal honesty had at least a little room for gentleness.

"So why're you out here?" Matt asked. "They tell you to make sure I behave?"

Frank scoffed. "No one thinks you're that dangerous."

Matt suspected Fitzsomething might.

"Nah, I just wanted some place to drink this without getting hounded by everyone for a drop. Been through enough shit this week."

Matt glanced at Frank again, surprised to notice the surly bruises on his face. They were a few days old, his blackened eyes fading to sickly yellow on the edges.

"Who gave you those?" Matt asked. Frank wasn't the sort of person that readily gave in to a pummeling.

Frank shrugged, eyes skittering over the street, looking for Germans, looking for mortars, looking for the newest threat. He ran his tongue over his teeth and said, "A determined son of a bitch."

Matt sighed out a breath, thoughts already moving on when Frank asked, "Who gave you that cut on your shoulder?"

Matt stiffened, recalling the graze of a bullet wound he had on his arm. He glanced at it, dully noting the blood dotting the bandage. He hadn't noticed the pain of it since…he didn't know, really.

"I dunno," he said lightly. "Sounds like the same person as you."

Frank scoffed again, eyes still on the alley. "Your shit luck, then."

He took another sip, then offered it to Matt. Matt took it on reflex, the act so reminiscent of the war. Two soldiers, wounded and weary, waiting for the sun, waiting for the madness to cease, waiting for the war to be over. Matt grimaced at the burn of the alcohol, then his eyes widened. It wasn't some flask of bathtub gin that usually circulated the boxing hall, watered down, bitter, and borderline lethal. It was bourbon, the kind smuggled in from Canada and far too rich for Matt's blood.

He stared at Frank, who actually let himself laugh.

"That's not coffin varnish," Matt said, mind wheeling back to the tales of Frank's personal war against bootlegging. What was he doing with expensive stuff? Or alcohol at all, for that matter?

"I never really got into that 'body as a temple' thing, but I'd have to have a death wish before I started drinkin' that stuff," Frank said.

Matt nodded and handed back the flask. He had considered drowning his sorrows when he came back, except the Prohibition had gone into effect overnight, and the hassle hadn't seemed worth it.

"How'd you get it?" Matt asked.

Frank shrugged, eyes sliding away from his face again. Frank Castle might have had eyes that saw everything, but he never liked meeting anyone's gaze. Matt couldn't blame him. If the eyes were the windows to the soul, then everyone they met must have caught sight of carnage and mayhem.

"I thought you were a teetotaler," Matt said, tilting his head.

Frank shook his head, wearing something between a grimace and smile. "I hate the rumrunners, not the stuff they're packin'."

It was Matt's turn to scoff. "I get that," he sighed. He hesitated, tempted to ask for another swig of bourbon. Alcohol wasn't part of his life out of sheer habit, but it some days it the thought of a stiff drink was the only way to get out of bed.

Matt froze. Claire would hate knowing he'd been off at a fight, but smelling the bourbon on his breath would probably make her go ballistic.

Great.

"How's Temple?" Frank asked.

Matt jumped, eyes snapping up. Frank was relaxed and indifferent as he watched Matt's alarm.

"Uh—uhm, Claire?"

Did Frank know? How did he know? Had Santino let slip that Claire was staying with Matt? He hadn't expected her family to share that news, but—

"Yeah," Frank said. "She's the only one. Haven't seen her around, lately. Her or Velasquez."

"I—I dunno," Matt said. "Fine? I haven't seen her in…a while."

"Ah-huh." Frank looked back down the alley, took another sip of bourbon. "You get tired of spewing that bullshit?"

Matt set his jaw and stared at Frank, who shot him a sideways look.

"Come on, Red. Half the hall knows you're goofy for each other. One week, you're trippin' over each other, the next, Temple doesn't show up, you're in a daze, Velasquez is so distracted he can barely hit a wall, then you show up like you've had a falling out with your old lady. So I ask again. How's Temple?"

Matt closed his mouth and grimaced down the alleyway. He couldn't help but feel a wriggle of conflict at Frank's words. On one hand, he had to wonder if they were all that transparent. Could they be so easily traced if someone knew the right string to pull? And then another part of him squirmed at the implication in Frank's words. It wasn't like they had done something and Claire had moved in to hide from her disappointed family. They weren't stepping out with each other, not if he could help it, they just…

"It's not like that," he said (Why? Why, why, what a stupid thing to say you're a damn disgrace as a lawyer). He leaned his head back against the wall. "Shit, it's a lot of things, but it's not like that."

If only that were entirely true.

Frank gave an unimpressed grunt.

"But…she's okay," Matt said, needing to get that strange, overwhelming attention off him. "She's safe."

Frank gave him a long look. "That's a specific word to use there, Red."

"Yeah, well, it's a specific set of circumstances."

Matt pushed himself upright, eager to leave the conversation, but also sensing there was something more hiding under Frank's words.

"What is it you do again?" Frank asked.

"I'm an attorney," Matt said, surprised at the sudden change in topic. "Nelson and Murdock." He stood very still, wondering for a moment if this was when Frank startled and took flight.

But Frank just shrugged, settled back where he stood, and took a sip from the flask. He seemed satisfied at Matt's answers, vague as they were.

Matt considered him a moment, head tilted. "Where'd you get the bourbon, Frank?"

They watched each other, Frank's head tipped back like he was assessing what risk and reward Matt posed. He settled on an answer and said, "From the source. There was one hell of a discount."

So the rumors were true, then. He really did rage against the rum runners and

Matt drew in a slow breath, suddenly remembering the papers, the slew of articles about the vigilante that used violence to stop bootleggers. The one that Karen thought was being fed to the papers about Solano's murder, as a sort of double-edged smoke screen.

No. There was no way—not for real. Nothing could be so neat (although, Matt couldn't really describe the past week's events as 'neat').

Matt steeled himself, then took a leap. "Are you the vigilante?" he asked, voice a little quieter than before. "The one that's in all the papers?"

Frank looked at him, a wickedly wry smile on his face. "The one that killed the tailor?"

"I know that can't have been you."

"And why're you saying that, Red?"

"I saw it happen," Matt whispered, blood running cold.

Frank watched him a moment, all of his bits of information clicking into place. He looked up at the miserable sky.

"Huh." He looked back at Matt. "And you said Temple's safe?"

"Yes." Matt waited, fists clenched at his sides.

"Get on home, Red," Frank said, pushing himself off the wall and headed toward the end of the building. "Use your winnings to buy her some damn flowers."

Matt hesitated, then walked back inside.

He didn't buy Claire flowers. It felt too much like a slap in the face, after all they had just fought about. But he did buy her oranges, which could at least be seen as a show of peace.

The apartment was dark when Matt walked in. Surly rain clouds had risen up as he returned home, an echo of the day before. He set the oranges on the table. He meandered through the kitchen before he braved the living room.

Claire was curled up on the couch, silently thumbing through Solano's journal. He stopped in the doorway.

They eyed each other, not saying a word. Claire had changed into a simple green dress, her hair hanging loose past her shoulders. There was a weariness to her eyes. He could only guess what he looked like, with his lip split, his shoulders tense, and his knuckles bleeding.

"You went to the boxing hall," she murmured, the words as flat and condemning as they needed to be.

"I bought oranges," he said, the best sort of apology he could give.

Claire looked down at Solano's journal. "You bought oranges," she repeated.

Claire slid her legs off the couch and stood. Matt watched her, helpless, waiting for her to leave the room. He deserved it. He deserved any form of warfare she had to give. That's all men like him were good for, these days.

Instead, she asked, "Where do you keep the medical supplies?

Matt blinked at her, then pulled the battered medical tin from the shelf. She took it, still avoiding his gaze.

"You might want to take off your coat," she told him.

He startled, then shrugged out of it. He hung it up, then returned to find her sitting at the kitchen table. The bag of oranges sat open, tempting the air with a smell like love and sunshine.

"Is it just your mouth and hands?" she asked, filling a dish with water.

"Yeah," he mumbled. He sat down, eyes tracking her, afraid to speak. If she noticed the stolen swig of bourbon on his breath, she didn't say anything.

When Claire sat across from him, Matt realized she no longer smelled like lavender. Bit by bit, she had lost that scent to the bland freshness of his own soap. The thought hurt a little for too many reasons for him to count.

He expected her touch to be rough, but instead it was kind. Claire, the kind, practical, unnecessarily compassionate saint that she was, had no hate left in her. Not for him, not for the suffering he knowingly put her through.

He ran his tongue over his teeth. His discussion with Father Lantom kept ringing in his head, about suffering and sinning and what was worth it. Claire was worth keeping but more importantly Claire was worth keeping safe and he didn't know how to do both at the same time and he didn't want to risk making a mistake.

Claire carefully dabbed at his lip, intent only on tending his hurt. Matt focused on his breathing, his eyes tracing the grain of the table. It took him a long moment before he was strong enough to look up.

Their eyes met for a long, breathless moment. There was sadness in Claire's eyes, dark and beautiful and tragic. Underneath, though, was the steely strength that had made him fall in love.

He was tempted to look back down, remembering that his eyes revealed too much, that they showed all of the horror he had seen. But Claire knew that already. She knew, had guessed, probably suspected, that the suffering he had witnessed had cut its way into Matt's soul, leaving it deformed, hollow, and blackened. And yet she looked.

It was enough to tempt him. Everything about her was enough to tempt him. But temptations weren't actions and he was strong enough not to give in. He could—would—survive. As painful and difficult as this all was…he would keep putting himself through this. Of course he would. No one had died of a broken heart before, even if it was because they never let themselves have love.

Claire's eyes flickered for a moment, dropping down to his battered hands. Her eyebrows furrowed as she asked, "Do you…normally go to the boxing hall on Sunday?"

"No," he murmured, the word a rasp in his throat.

She nodded, hesitated, then asked, "And don't you have a court date later this week?"

"Yeah," he said, surprised that she had remembered. "Foggy's going to hate it."

He paused, afraid to let the conversation stop, because things always turned dangerous when they fell silent. Usually because that was when he tried to kiss her.

"Why?" he asked. "Do you disapprove?"

Claire cut him a look that stopped his breath a moment. "It's not really my place to disapprove."

Matt closed his eyes. "I…didn't mean it like that."

Claire's shoulders remained rigid for a moment before slowly sinking.

"I…I know. I just—yesterday was hard." She bit her lip, suddenly uncertain. "Reading Mr. Solano's journal…he knew he got in deep with bad people, but he couldn't find a way out and it—" She sucked in a shaky breath and leaned back in her chair.

"It sounds like us," he whispered.

Claire cracked a smile made of fear and flint. "Hopefully we find a better end."

Matt smiled back, watching her in all her sadness. "If there is any way, I'll find it."

They were quiet for a moment, tangled in something that was equal parts discomfort and unquestioning trust. That was what made them work, Matt thought—they trusted each other more than life itself, because they had no other choice. And because it was the only aspect of their idealized, impossible future that they could cling to.

Matt looked down at his bandaged hands. He wasn't sure what to do next. He knew he should tell her about his suspicions regarding Frank, but it didn't feel right. Now was a time for silence and comfort, not theories and plans. Only, he didn't know how effective his comfort could be, pointedly lopsided as it was.

Claire blinked hard, her hands jumping up as though she could push her tears back. "I'm so tired of crying," she laughed, the sound almost sticking in her throat.

Matt leaned forward on impulse, then caught himself. The rational part of him screamed distance, while everything else begged for him to wipe her tears away.

Claire spared him the trouble by hurriedly walking to the living room. Matt stared at the still open tin on the table. He listened for a moment, unsure what he would do if he heard her sobbing. But Claire was quiet, biting back her unhappiness and fear.

Matt put away the medical supplies. He returned to the table and picked up an orange. He hesitated, then peeled it. He carried the fruit into the living room, then sat beside Claire.

She was rigid, shoulders taut as she waited for his next move. He offered her half of the orange, barely daring to look at her. Claire hesitated, then took it. She relaxed slightly, just allowing her side to rest against his.

Matt took a deep breath. He had said a lot about him and Claire over the last day, had threatened and promised and sworn so many things that they all blurred together, losing definition. And yet, his actions cut through them all, craving the closeness Claire so freely gave.

He loved her. That rang true in the shrapnel of his mind, so desperately honest he ached with the need to confess it. He loved her more than he thought a human able, and she knew it. She could probably see it in his face whenever he looked at her, feel it in his hands whenever they touched. That was probably why she had looked so wounded when he pushed her away the day before.

He still hadn't apologized for that, not really. He didn't know how, not when he wasn't sorry for trying to keep her safe. He just wished the methods weren't so cruel.

Claire rested her head on his shoulder, toying with the orange slices still in her hand. "I never expected things to be so hard," she whispered.

He closed his eyes. He knew their situation would only get harder before they were easier, but at the moment, he couldn't imagine anything more difficult than this.


Due to the high demand of alcohol and the fact that the production and sale operated entirely on the black market, there was no quality control for alcohol during the Prohibition. The best alcohol was generally smuggled into the country, typically from Canada and Mexico, but on occasion from European countries as well. This was exceptionally expensive, however, so most gin joints opted for either watering down their product to make it last or buying from dubious sellers. 'Bathtub gin' became a catch-all term for cheap alcohol made at home by amateur producers. It was often bad tasting, and on occasion was even toxic.