Bringing fancy coffees in is not something Matt can afford to do very often, and there's a perfectly functional coffee pot at the office, so it's not until the following Monday that Matt detects that odd odor and foreign cloth. On a whim, he changes his own order from to-go to sit-down and asks the barista to hold off on the other drinks for half an hour. This time he's the one sitting at the stranger's table.
"Still visiting?" Matt asks.
"Oh, I imagine I will be here for a while. See the sights. Take care of some business, perhaps."
Matt's a little proud that he doesn't shiver at the emphasis placed on "business", though he really, really wants to. "And what is it you do?"
"What I like, mostly." There's a pause to reconsider. "What I think is best."
Matt smiles. "For whom?"
And maybe that was a mistake, because that too-fast heartbeat kicks up a notch and the man's grin becomes brittle. Matt can feel cold, of all things, rising from the seat across from him. What was clearly becoming a threat is quickly gone, though, and Matt feels the need to explain before it returns.
"I was teasing," he says. "It's something we do here." Jesus, this guy's keyed up. You wouldn't know it to look at him, Matt's sure. He doesn't know why, but Matt's next sentence is said softly: "Not so much where you're from, though, huh?"
A laugh. Strained and loaded with memories. "Oh, yes. There is quite a bit of that in my land."
"Murdock!" is called, and Matt gets up for his coffee. He thinks about what he's going to say when he gets back, but surprises himself when he sits down and blurts, "What do you want with me?"
The voice is cool and considering, but not offended. "What makes you think I want something? You sat with me this morning. I did not seek you out."
And Matt just knows this man is waiting for something, looking for something, but Matt's tired and a little bruised on his left side and running out of patience for this. So he takes a breath and centers himself and reminds himself not to mess this up because he suspects it's very important, though he has no earthly idea why.
"Okay. Fine. So you're just sitting here with your tea that you did not buy here in a cup they do not serve in here talking in riddles to a blind man you don't know. Maybe you intrigue me."
And there's that pleased feeling wafting over the table at him again.
"Well, blind man, you are slightly less boring than the mass of people I encounter in this land."
"You're easily bored? That's your problem?"
A put-upon sigh. "One of many, I am afraid."
"I'm not a clown. I'm not here to amuse you."
He really didn't mean to say it that tartly, but Matt hears approval when the man says, "And what are you here to do, then? Fight the evils of this world?"
Matt starts a little, though he tries not to. So this is the man he sniffed out near the alley last week. And he knows. Somehow, he knows.
"It's what lawyers do," he tries to cover. "Well, some of us, anyway."
"Is that what the children call it these days? And here I thought trial by combat was no longer the fashion." Before Matt can respond, can try to look confused or laugh it off, the stranger is continuing. "There is no call for alarm. Not regarding that. I do not disapprove and I want nothing from you." A sly smile that Matt actually hears, then, "At the moment. I spoke truth before: I am intrigued." A pause as the not-man sips his foreign tea. It occurs to Matt that being at a loss for words is not good practice for an attorney. But he remains silent. Waits. But the stranger is more patient than Matt.
"What do I call you?"
"Are you asking for my name?" Again, Matt can feel the path diverging beneath his feet and knows he must choose wisely.
"Would you give it? A real one?"
"It might be amusing to give you a name you would recognize, if only to see what you might attempt. But a real name? What would that even be?" The man is leaning in, and Matt feels pulled as though by gravity to do the same. "What is your name, Matthew Murdock?" Matt doesn't know if you can be hypnotized by voice alone, but this sure feels like it. All he knows is breathing in, breathing out, and a low, clear bell of a voice. "Tell me: are you the devil who takes lives and gives pain? Are you the daring and dashing angel of the alleyways guarding these mere mortals from harm? Perhaps you are but a madman playing at roles greater than you ken. A child, a villain, a cripple," the man continues as a pressure builds in Matt's head and burns his eyes. "… an orphan, a tool, a scapegoat, a monster."
There's a cool presence on either side of Matt's head, and he leans into long, soft, chilled fingers. The voice is clear and blue and deep and there are twin fires of green drawing him forward. It's a force of nature, and Matt's always been a city boy. He's lost. He needs the stench of tarred roofs in summer, the wail of a half dozen sirens, the skittering of rats in the walls to feel at home. This peace is beautiful and alien and he wants it so fiercely he knows it can't be good. Nothing he wants is without a steep, steep price.
Matt shoves himself away from the stillness and back into the overwhelming cacophony of his real world. This hell is where he belongs, and he clings to every sensory overload in a two-mile radius. He's standing, his chair tipped against the wall, his paper cup of coffee still teetering on the table's edge, his hands clenched at his sides, breathing hard through his nose. No one notices the disturbance, which is yet another wrong, wrong, wrong screaming through his brain.
The man - not-man - green eyes - how the hell do I know that?! A slim, powerful hand retrieves the coffee cup before it can even think about toppling over and sets it easily in front of Matt. "Well, then," he says, "that was… rewarding." Matt wants to launch himself over the table and tear out this creature's spine and he wants to run away whimpering and he wants to beg to be taken back to that heavenly cool stillness, so of course what he does is fumble the chair back onto its four legs and sits back down to aim his sightless glare at those impossible green eyes.
"What are you?" His voice isn't steady - not even close - but considering that he has no idea what the hell just happened, he's counting it a win just to be able to string three coherent words together. In order, even.
"I am something your kind had, until very recently, forgotten existed. But your world is changing. The inevitable foolishness of you creatures has caused Old Things to turn their sights this way, and I have debts to repay." Matt could taste blood at the word "debts." Alien and gritty blood. He could feel ash at his fingertips and hear echoes of wordless screams of pain and smell the stench of entrails ground beneath a broken body.
"I have come to my decision, Matthew Murdock, the daring devil of Hell's Kitchen. We will speak again."
The thing was gone, then, between one moment and the next, and Matt puts his head in his hands and shakes.