The apartment echoed with each slow footstep, as soon as the front door clicked shut he felt an intense desire to turn around and head straight back out again. To be anywhere, just not here. It was too empty, too ghosted by memories. Pulling the mask free from the paper bag he hefted it around, dipping his head thoughtfully as he traced a thumb along the edge of a curved horn.
It was never really empty here though, sound crowded in, hounding him always. Right now it just dragged at his patience, adding to his agitation, to the encroaching miserable sense of solitude.
With a sudden rough snarl of frustration he hurled the mask far across the room.
Sighing he ran a hand over his face, pinching the bridge of his nose before shrugging off his coat, hanging it with the rest. "Well..." he growled softly, pulling himself together with a shake of the head "...that could have gone worse."
Trailing his hand lightly along the wall he paused, feeling the sharp edge of a dent. His fingertips gently explored the clean deep groove cut into the plaster, left by the strike of a straight sword.
Couldn't stop that either could you?
A chemical scent still hung subtly in the apartment, like a whispered accusation, far too delicate for anyone else to notice. The tart sting of industrial cleaner, from where the boys blood had been obliterated from the carpet. It would probably linger in the air for weeks yet, just on the edge of his perception. Leaning his hand flat over the long mark he flinched slightly, a tilt of the head away in recognition.
He was just a boy... Just feet away from you, and still he died in a needless rush of spilled blood.
If he tried to explain it, who would believe him? The Hand... The War... The Chaste... It sounded ridiculous, too far fetched to ever be true... but Elektra was dead. Buried. It was real.
A whole world lost...
Pushing himself away from the wall distractedly he wandered past the sofa, over to the high industrial window. The ice frosted panels caught the light, glowing like liquid stained glass around him. A kaleidoscope of lurid colours sliding across the surface from the imposingly bright billboard right outside.
He replayed the distress he had just inflicted upon Karen, the raised heartbeat, the tremor in her voice, the eventual anger and accusation directed back at him. What had he expected?
With a muttered curse he rested his forearms against the glass, banging his head once against the cold surface. Following each minuscule sound, each shake and rattle that ricocheted up through the old metal frame in response.
"Idiot"...
What else could he have done though?... Keep spinning the same old lies? He valued her friendship, she had earned the trust. The parting shot between them needed to be one of truth. Their legal practice had fractured and fallen apart, suffering too long from him being unreliable, always tearing himself in two, trying to balance the devil and the lawyer. But that had proved impossible. Something had to give, and so it had... He'd stretched their patience to snapping point and eventually, inevitably, Foggy and Karen had moved on.
If things turned as he feared they might, then this new distance would protect them and distract unwanted attention away.
It needed to be this way, no matter how much the guilt and regret would claw at him.
"When I finally get out of this cage I will dismantle the lives of the two amateurs that put me in here! You, Mr. Murdock, and Franklin Percy Nelson."
Matt shivered.
Fisk loomed inexorably like a sulphurous demon in his thoughts, a heavy foreboding figure that all his worst fears gravitated around. Matt huffed a breath, misting the glass, too late... Nelson and Murdock are already wrecked. He'd made sure of it. Let the attention all fall on him, he would take it. He'd paint a clear target on his own back before he'd let Fisk focus fire on anyone else that he cared about.
"The two of you took the laurels. You'll both take the blame."
He grimaced, brow still pressed against the chill glass. The fury of Fisk, the certainty of his hate whispered like a cold breath up his spine. An omen, a dark seed of worry. No, he'd do whatever he had to, to make sure that would never come to pass.
Could he kill a man like that though?
If it came to that...
If...
...would he damn his own soul to put Fisk down for good?
Resting his knuckles against the glass he pushed himself away from the window, turning aside to pace tormented across the room. The disdainful growl of Frank taunted him "You know what I think of you hero? I think you're a half measure..."
He'd come this close... this close... to crossing the line, but the warning had been clear. Do that, and you'll not come back from it, not the same person at least. The way Frank had said it, he was talking from hard experience. As if he wanted to protect something he saw within Matt.
Leaning against the bare brick wall he slid slowly downwards, his legs buckling beneath him until he sat cross legged. Head dipping to his chest, resting his palms upwards over his knees. Calming his breath in the dark apartment, he stilled, forcing the turmoil of his doubts to quiet... turning his attention inwards.
He needed to steady his heartbeat... to focus...
They were sitting side by side at the bar in Josie's, Foggy laughing loud, grinning as he pressed a hand drawn napkin excitedly into his hand.
His head twitched to one side, brow furrowing. He tried to concentrate on the inrush of cold air through his lungs. Listening to each breath... trying to focus...
Karen leaned close, her hair falling in a soft slide as she smiled, trailing her fingertips over his to set the pool cue straight. Setting up the next shot for him, her hand lingering a moment too long, a soft lyrical chuckle caressing his ear, the warmth of her skin radiating over his senses.
Matt grimaced, head tilting away. He listened to the cascade of warm air pushing outwards with his slow exhale... needing to focus...
He was trying to trip Foggy up with his cane as they walked home late at night to their dorm at Columbia. Linking arms, hanging off each other and giggling drunkenly. "Best damn avocados man..." The way Foggy said it, was so certain, so full of hope.
Matt tipped his head back, exasperated... face angled to the ceiling to release a low growl of frustration, knowing he was too distracted for this.
Rising slowly, he stalked purposefully across the apartment, over to the locked cabinet at the far end. Pulling the heavy high doors aside he stood motionless, regarding the battered old chest.
Kneeling reverently he flipped the lid open, brushing his fingertips over the few inherited possessions he had ever owned. The precious items he had clung to through his years at the orphanage, a single insert tray full of mementos of his father. Prized above everything was the boxing cloak.
"Battlin' Jack Murdock"
Rocking back on his heels he traced the outline of the stitched lettering, feeling the silk fabric slide smoothly under his touch. His father hadn't wanted him to fight. He'd done everything in his power to get his son an education, to spare him from the beatings he'd withstood to make a living.
Matt turned his face aside, wondering what his father would have said to him now...
With a roll of the shoulder and a clench of teeth he yanked the insert tray out, placing it on the floor, reaching down to the Daredevil armour hidden within.
Shrugging the suit on he leant across to where the mask had landed earlier. Brushing it over, his hand once more traced the outlines of the horns. A necessary evil, a symbol, a purpose...
A focus...
Launching himself up the stairs to the roof access he could already feel the doubt and guilt dropping away. Clearly he just needed to keep occupied, stay busy...
Flecks of snow drifted down lightly, spiralling through the air as he stood on the precipice of the ledge. Tilting his head around he allowed the sounds of the city in. His focus darting from one to the next, searching for a target.
Hearing a scream echo up from the streets below he turned sharply, taking a running approach to the edge of the roof...
A grin ghosted his features as he leapt...
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