A/N: thank you for all the feedback and support so far as we edge ever closer to the action, I'm extremely grateful and you guys are awesome! :)
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Matt rolled onto his back with a soft huff of weariness, the leather couch creaking in sympathy with the movement, he blinked slowly, shaking off the remnants of the dream.
He'd been running hard, feet pounding, desperate to shove the man out of the way, acting on instinct to push him to safety. The old guy hadn't even seen the truck beginning to tilt, the barrels heaving loose, breaking free as their restraints snapped. Time slowed, there was a terrifying uncontrolled screech of tyres, a heavy smash of crumpled metal and bursting drums, a glutinous splash of pale oily liquid that sprayed out everywhere. Stinging, white hot agony... Everything this poison touched, it burned... God how it burned...
He lifted a hand to rub at his eyes, suppressing the desire to shudder at the distant memory.
A brilliant blue sky hung in the distance, a perfect deep shade, visible all around his Father like a halo. It loomed, as if it too were leaning in to study him in that moment. He was just a boy, flat on his back, pinned to the ground beneath it's vast azure gaze. His Father... His Father was there, kneeling at his side, fear and realisation now flashing across those broad tough features, the warm blue sky in the distance warping around his silhouette, fraying at the edges, bubbling and disintegrating into darkness... his Father's voice, fractured by panic, the only soundtrack now as every light blistered, dimmed and then flickered out...
Broad tyres rumbled over tarmac nearby, disrupting his thoughts. Heels clicked sharply along the pavement, conversations stirred and bled into each other over the constant thrum of heartbeats. Life carried on... people swarmed by, wrapped up in their own lives, aware of so little... the streets outside were busy. A constellation of distractions, but he turned aside from it all, focusing instead on his immediate surroundings.
Matt pushed aching fingers up through his dark messy hair, rolling his head distractedly to the side against the armrest, studying the detail of the world around him. It was early afternoon in Hell's Kitchen, he knew he couldn't have slept more than a few hours. His knuckles felt bruised, memento of a hard night on patrol. Looking for answers, for clues, for something to focus on. The armoured suit was scattered across the floor, peeled off in a fumbling blur of fatigue when he'd returned from his futile hunt in the early hours of the morning.
His stomach twisted when he remembered the alley, the dead vigilante dressed like a devil.
No-one knew... no-one seemed to have any clue yet who'd done it.
Forcing himself upright with a yawn, he pushed reluctantly up off the sofa, letting his blanket fall away to the side, a scrape of soft wool over sensitive skin. Dressed only in his boxers, bare feet padding across the breathtakingly cold floor, he shuffled towards the kitchen. He needed caffeine, food, fuel to keep going.
The fridge hummed with a rasping buzz as he pulled the door open, a waft of chill air spilling over his bare skin, nothing but cartons and bottles clinked together in the half empty compartment. With an uninspired grunt he let the heavy door swing shut again, turning instead to the sink.
His hand rested on the tap as cold water rushed to fill the kettle. Head dipped in silence as he remembered standing here before, all too recently. A stark memory of Stick rattling off part of his urgent ad-hoc list, the rescue remedy for the Hand's poison that had been racing with deadly efficiency through Elektra's veins.
"...I need pliers and hot tea."
Now there was a man who could probably survive purely on tea and dry insults.
He'd idolised the mysterious tutor as a boy, had his heart and hopes broken when their association had abruptly ended, come to scorn him as a teenager, and eventually as an adult he'd simply let him go, re-evaluated and moved on.
At the beginning he'd carried on training himself as best he could, wondering if maybe it was some twisted kind of test? Stick intending to return weeks or months after leaving, judging his resourcefulness, full of his usual snark and venom to see what the boy had learned. How he'd grown and adapted, if he could cope. And Matt had wanted to prove himself, so he'd really tried. Holding it together, withdrawing even further from others in the orphanage and learning to hide his powers of perception. But the weeks and months just rolled by with no sign and incrementally he'd felt the loss of a father figure all over again, a slow burn of realisation that he was alone. That it was better to just not open himself up to that kind of grief again.
He should have known the moment Stick's fist had closed, crunching with finality around the delicately plaited paper bracelet he'd made for him. But he was a child then, he'd trusted... he'd hoped...
So he'd forged on alone, always studying like he promised his Father, or training to spite Stick, eventually pushing past those regrets and emotions to work hard just for himself. To master his own abilities, to wrest some control from fate. There was simply no one else in his life, no-one who knew what he could really do, so he clung to the training, to the meditation, to the focus it gave him.
No-one had really gotten close to him again until Columbia, he hadn't allowed it, hadn't dared it, not until Foggy had blasted into his life. Even then he'd been unable to tell Foggy the whole truth for fear of losing him too.
Matt paced back to the sofa as the kettle boiled, shrugging an old hoodie over his head, fiddling with the frayed sleeve distractedly.
Foggy and Claire had stumbled across the truth by accident, unplanned for but manageable. Surprisingly supportive in their own ways. He'd chosen to tell Karen, in the hope of making her realise what danger she might be in by association. But Elektra... Elektra had known, like the kindred spirit she was.
Cradling the mug of coffee close to his chest, he leant against the doorway leading to the bedroom, remembering her stretched out across his bed. Slender frame swamped by one of his shirts, lying still, each movement an agony as the long wound across her waist slowly healed.
Matt paused briefly to shake his head, no... no she'd been told, forewarned. Elektra was on a mission from the very first moment they'd met. He was a mark, a set-up, Stick directing her moves even back then. The sly old bastard looking for a path back into his life, to drag him as a recruit into his secret war...
He muttered a low thoughtful "hmph", taking a sip of the hot bitter brew.
Just how many times had he fought with Stick since he'd resurfaced? Wrecking the apartment in the process. A predictably tenacious man, fixed purely on his mission, never any hint of compassion or patience. Spouting his mystical bullshit with an attitude always so abrasive and cutting. But, the old warrior had redeemed himself, that was undeniable, saving Elektra from the poison rushing through her veins that night when it mattered most. Matt could have sworn he sensed more than a trace of worry, actual genuine fear in the timbre of his voice, a gallop within that withered heart when he had barked all those orders.
"I'm not gonna lie to you... This is bad."
They'd saved her that night, waiting anxiously together in the apartment as she pulled through. A common cause they both absolutely rooted for.
But since her funeral.. no, even before that... since Matt had intervened and saved Stick's life, there had been a tentative peace growing between them. A genuine shift in their friendship... though it could hardly really be called that. He knew the open unspoken invitation was there, to join the Chaste, to join the crusade against the Hand if he ever decided to leave Hell's Kitchen behind.
If he were ever to leave the Kitchen though, it would have been on that rooftop, with her, such was the power she had to still spin his world around... Stick and his crusade paled in comparison.
Matt sipped his coffee, still propped against the wall, regarding the empty bed. Sleep had proved elusive there, ever since the rooftop battle. He had found plenty of reasons to drop with exhaustion onto the sturdy old couch instead.
Elektra had decimated his final year at Columbia... Spinning him around so completely that he almost dropped out. She was a ruthless, fiery, strong willed menace. There was a visceral elation in orbiting her company. So damn maddeningly unpredictable and utterly confident. Addictive and mesmerising, it was incredible to him that all of that, that she, was gone.
He couldn't help it, he couldn't help but linger over their last conversation, because of everyone in his life, she had known him. All sides of him. "...this is a part of me that I need and you're the only one who gets it."
The only one, ever.
She had been shivering, a rare tremor of fear running through her, heart rate elevated with dread and anticipation. Crouched beside the doorway that would lead to the rooftop, to their only chance for escape.
"Without this, I'm not alive... Not really..." It was the truth, spoken as he'd knelt beside her, mask in hand, wanting to seize the moment. To speak openly, things he should have realised and said long before, and once he'd started, the earnest heartfelt words tumbled out so easily. If they were about to die then what did he possibly have to lose? "...I know that now, thanks to you." He'd wanted nothing more than to protect her, to escape with her and just keep on running if that's what she needed to do. Black Sky be damned. He had meant every single word.
Matt shook his head ruefully. Why hadn't he just kissed her in that moment?...
He drained the cup, knocking the dregs back. Turning his thoughts forcefully aside. Grimacing as he straightened away from the doorway, running a hand over the rough stubble on his chin as he wandered back to the kitchen. He needed to get out, to keep moving, to stay busy. Anything to keep his mind occupied and distracted away from drowning in such regrets.
He needed to find the killers of the vigilante for a start. Now that was something he could throw himself into, focusing on it completely.
Foggy... Foggy... Foggy...
Matt whirled around, staring blankly in the direction of the phone. The ringtone jarringly loud and unexpected. He strode over to where it had been tossed aside on the table hours earlier, hesitating to pick it up. His heart stuttering slightly in surprise.
Foggy... Foggy... Foggy...
He flexed his hand, hovering it over the phone with uncertainty.
Foggy... Foggy... Foggy...
But... he wouldn't be calling if it wasn't important? Would he? They hadn't spoken really for some time now, not since their practice had fallen apart so spectacularly.
He scooped up the phone, thumbing the answer key and lifting the device to his ear, suppressing the nervous edge to his voice as he forced a casual "Hey..."
"Matt? Jesus man... you've got to pick up the phone faster than that!"
Sinking down onto the armrest of the couch, Matt furrowed his brow at the sudden sharp scolding tone in Foggy's voice. But in a profoundly resonant way he was pleased to hear from him, whatever the reason for the call. He hesitated, letting it slide "Uh... you okay?"
"Yeah.. I just... I saw the news and I wanted to check."
Matt rubbed a hand over his face, pinching the bridge of his nose in momentary confusion "the news?"
Foggy seemed to pause, collecting his thoughts together, drawing a breath to steady himself before reaching more carefully for his next words "yeah... there was a body... found last night... a guy dressed up like-"
"Ah" Matt cut across him, more sharply than he intended. "Yeah, I know about it... no... I'm fine... I'm fine... thanks..." Suddenly he didn't want to discuss it, wanting to steer the conversion away onto safer ground.
"...Right." There was a finality to the inflection of Foggy's voice. Frustration surging to the fore again. He had needed to hear Matt's voice to make sure he was okay, his first thought on seeing the news had been about him. A flash of panic, but now he wasn't sure what to say.
There was an awkwardness to the brief silence that followed.
Matt found himself floundering to fill the void "I'll be looking into it... was there... was there anything else?" he dipped his head, phone still pressed to his ear. Wanting to suddenly cut the call off, not sure how to behave or respond, which was ridiculous. His friendship with Foggy had always been so natural and easy. The hesitation now only showing up the depth of the rift between them and it was a heavy blow to realise how distant they had become.
There were a multitude of things being left unsaid, of course there were. But Matt could think of no way to breach the chasm.
Foggy sounded resigned, his voice falling flat as he muttered "What? Hm? Oh no.. I guess not... Look after yourself then huh?" before swiftly hanging up.
Matt remained motionless, sat awkwardly at the edge of the sofa for some time, regarding the silent phone cradled in his hand, fiddling with the edge of the hard plastic case as his jaw tightened.
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"Sir?" Yaroslav waited patiently at the doorway until beckoned to enter the office, the sleek black mobile in his broad hand a constant presence. His prime duty was to facilitate and smooth the path for his superior in any way required. Responsible for many subtle facets of this man's daily life, he was much more than a simple bodyguard and he took rightful pride in his work. Lev was a rising star and his ascension through the Bratva would lift him, and the choice few who invested in him now, along in his wake.
He had known the man's father, not as a friend, never anything so close as that. But had heard of course the stories about the elder Gribkov, respected him from afar, admired the efficient brutal ruthlessness of the man and saw hints of the same promise in his quietly analytical son.
The grey haired man cocked his head to one side, nodding briefly. The scattered pale colouring aged him, but Yaroslav guessed the slight man had to be actually no more than mid-thirties at most.
Lev leant back in his leather chair, grey eyes regarding his trusted stout Lieutenant expectantly, an easy smile on his lips "So... what news is there so far?"
Yaroslav straightened from his short respectful bow "the Rafellis are causing a few ripples, but no direct result as of yet" a trace of contempt clear in his tone. He didn't trust them, regarding the rival gang with all the wary distaste he thought they deserved.
Lev leant forward, curious, knowing his blond haired Lieutenant was a clever man gifted with a rather simple outlook on life "You do not approve?" He had found him to be a straightforward and very useful man to have around so far.
His bodyguard frowned "Honestly Sir? I do not see the need for their... involvement. They are sloppy... opportunist, I believe they have killed already, completely missing their promised target." He glanced to the phone in his hand for a fraction of a second and Lev followed his gaze. "They are requesting assistance already." His voice twisted with a hint of derision.
"And what are they asking for?"
"They propose a four point plan of attack Sir, for us to scout the area around 51st, they'll take 6th, 28th and 40th. Any sighting to be reported and converged upon."
There was a thoughtful pause followed by the briefest of nods, enough for Yaroslav to understand the intent to comply.
Lev stretched comfortably back in his chair "ensure the men are reminded to remain... discreet yes?" he loosed a reassuring smile before leaning forward again over his massed paperwork. Sheaves of notes scattered around him, piled in a complex pattern across the broad map of Hell's Kitchen that took up the greater part of the broad exquisite mahogany desk. Intent on familiarising himself fully with every nuance of this promising new territory.
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Matt pulled his coat close around his body with one gloved hand to ward off the bitter chill, tapping out each step with his cane in the other. He had felt drawn to visit this particular street all day. A cluster of people were already gathered ahead, at the mouth of the dark dilapidated alleyway.
Slowing to a stop he loitered a short distance away from them, already sensing the small mass of flickering heat sources nearby. The sun was just setting over Hell's Kitchen and the flames shone brilliantly in his perception against the cold squalid surroundings. A collection of candles and flowers, a modest offering near the spot the body was found.
His hands gripped painfully tight around the cane as he tilted his head in silence, guilt crashing over him in a wave as he heard the suppressed catch in someone's breath nearby, tears about to fall. Determination blistering through him in response.
He'd go out hunting again tonight, he had to...