daredevilkink | Prompt Post #5

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Prompt Post #5

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Hey, I combined this with another prompt here:

http://archiveofourown.org/works/5333483

I hope that's alright with you.

This is the filler anon.

I am actually still working on this, but it sorta...grew. And that combined with RL means that it probably won't be updated until I have the whole thing finished and de-anon by posting it on AO3.

I completely agree with you on the sad lack of gen Sentinel stories. I have one actually, if you are interested. It's a WIP but, well, better than nothing?
http://archiveofourown.org/works/2598494/chapters/5787266

Second...You wrote that? I love those stories! So, frickin' much! I will have to leave actual feedback to tell you just how much!

I was so IN LOVE with this prompt, so here. I couldn't help myself :p

http://archiveofourown.org/works/5408255/chapters/12494582

oh my gosh, that cliffhanger. (!!!)

I adore this fic, no lie, I hope you write more for it!

"You're fraternizing with the enemy, Murdock!" Foggy yelled when Maddie got home that night.

"What?" she questioned, barely paying her hissing cat of a roommate any attention as she hung up her jacket in the front closet. Hopefully Foggy hadn't moved anything in the apartment out of spite. "Since when is Francis the enemy but not Marci?"

"Since we're racing against the Big Guns next weekend!" Foggy retorted. "Maddie, we're fighting them in the semi-finals!! This is our shot and I will not have you ruin it over a crush!"

The words were out of her mouth before Maddie even knew what she was saying. "I don't have a crush, Fog, I'm in love."

The apartment went dead silent as Maddie felt the blood rush to her cheeks. She so hadn't meant to say that.

"Thank God," came Claire's voice, reminding Maddie that it was team night, so her mortification was now complete. "It's about damn time. Here I thought you and Foggy were actually going to get married in two years just because you couldn't find anyone else to do it."

"No one asked you Claire," Maddie retorted, trying to make it look like her going to the fridge to grab a beer was totally normal and not at all the embarrassed hiding attempt that it was.

"We are not happy about this!" Foggy added, still enraged. "Big Guns are our enemy! We have to beat them to take our shot at the Championship!"

"Sit by me and tell me all of the pertinent details," Karen demanded, ignoring their fuming teammate for the moment. "I want every last one."

"Is she as good a kisser as everyone says?" Natasha inquired, offering her hand for support on instinct so Maddie could successfully navigate the tangle of limbs and sit on the couch. While they knew of her abilities (not really a secret, thanks to physicals and new rules about Enhanced and Mutants in sports) they were still amazingly willing to treat her like the blind girl she still in fact was. It was the little things like that which made the neurotic nature of her team easy to ignore.

"Oh yeah," Maddie answered with what was probably a stupid grin on her face. "Such a good kisser. Way better than Elektra."

"That's right!" Foggy interjected. "You've dated two of them now! TWO! Maddie!"

"And we all agreed Elektra was insane," Karen halted Foggy's whining. "And Maddie listened and saw the light. You, on the other hand, continue this strange on-again-off-again when you're feeling queer sex bunnies relationship with Marci despite our numerous attempts to get you to quit it already."

"Diner on fourth?" Claire asked, already bored with the brewing fight.

"Italian place on sixth," Maddie corrected with a smile as she leaned against Karen's side, relaxing. "Small, great feeling of being welcomed into somebody's kitchen. Really good food."

"She treat you right?" Natasha asked, which was really all the girl who may or may not have at one time been an assassin cared about. They all loved her overprotective tendencies, which might have been a troubling sign, but since when had they been normal?

"Perfect lady the whole night," Maddie answered with a wistful smile. "Gave me her arm and everything. Didn't even kiss me till I was outside the elevator, since she believed me when I said I was alright getting home from there."

Natasha probably nodded at that judging by the small noise of confirmation she made (she'd gotten into cuing her actions with sounds, and Maddie reminded herself how lucky she was each time) while Claire laughed. "Oh man, Maddie, you got it BAD."

"That obvious?" Maddie asked. When her teammates responded in the affirmative, she cursed.

Foggy grudgingly gave up the argument, but was still sour about the whole thing until that next Saturday, when they were unleashed in the rink. Natasha was the jammer once again - her usual role, being the fastest of them - while Maddie let herself get lost in what had become called the beater position. No such position really existed, but since Maddie approached offensive defense like a hockey player, she'd been given the nickname of enforcer.

The fans were wild tonight, ready to see the age-old rivals battle it out for a shot of taking down SHIELD from their nine-year trophy hoarding run. The whole place was thrumming with energy that Maddie let sink into her bones as the chaos of her world narrowed into the tiny focus of her teammates, the rink, and her enemy.

When the bell rang, they were off.

It apparently took Foggy the entire game of watching Francis and Maddie aim for each other and block each other and ram each other out of the way in order to realize that there was going to be no issue here. If anything, Maddie was more ferocious like this, assigned to Francis (who was their largest and fiercest opponent, truth be told) and completely unrepentant of the violence needed to protect Natasha.

This was the only place she could truly let loose the devil inside. Francis felt the same way - it was why they'd clicked in the first place. So they unleashed hell upon each other, budding relationship or no.

Claire checked Marci, Karen tailed Elektra (full of unresolved fury at the disastrous affair Maddie's short relationship with the greek girl had been), and Foggy worked to handle any other tails, even though Natasha was certainly capable of handling herself. She'd been defense when on SHIELD, after all. She knew some tricks other jammers didn't. In the end, that was the only thing that gave them the two point lead that won them the match.

Foggy grudgingly allowed Francis to join their victory party, stating that as long as their weird violence foreplay didn't mess up any matches they'd be fine. And considering Foggy was beside herself with joy at the chance to take SHIELD down a peg (though no one was more thrilled at that than Natasha) Francis barely got any amount of cold shoulder from Foggy.

And okay, Maddie had to admit she had a point. There was just something about flying about the rink with violence in her blood and Francis pressed against her like a second skin that got her going.

What could she say? She was addicted to danger.

I'm so Loving this so far. Can't wait to read more :)

awww <3

Matt isn’t sure how long he stands there frozen in the doorway. It can’t be more than a few moments, but it feels like an eternity before he manages to find the breath to say, “Karen.” And he doesn’t use people’s names, not if he doesn’t have to, but she called him ‘Matt’, she knows him, she knows-- “Karen. Are you alright?”

“No. I’m--I’m really not alright.” Another shaky breath, and she’s stumbling forward, into his arms. Matt gathers her up. Even in his armor he can feel her trembling, smell the residual adrenaline in the air. She’s breathing in huge, ragged gasps that are going to turn into hyperventilation at any minute, and Matt has--he knows this. He knows how to do this.

“Deep breaths,” he murmurs. His brain feels shocked and silent, but that doesn’t matter; he mastered his reflexes a long time ago, and his control over his body is nearly absolute. He takes a deep, slow breath, holds it to the count of three, then lets it out. “Breathe with me, okay? Deep breaths.”

A choked laugh. “You sound like a motivational speaker,” Karen says, but she’s breathing with him, matching the slow count of his inhales and exhales, and he can feel her shaking start to subside, her pounding heart slow.

She really isn’t alright, panic attack aside; at least two ribs are cracked and her right ankle is hot and swollen. There are abrasions on both her forearms, and two of her fingernails have been torn out, the beds raw and bloody.

But she’s alive, and the physical damage will all heal with no lasting effects. Matt wants to fall on his knees right there on the sticky concrete floor in gratitude, but instead he just keeps holding her, as gently as if she was made of spun glass, and lets her be the first one to pull away. She tucks her hair behind her shoulders automatically, then takes a sharp, disgusted breath; her hands are still bloody. She scrubs them on her shirt again, like that’s going to do any good.

“Matt,” she begins again, and he winces to hear his name. She shakes her head. “Can you--can you take the helmet off? Please?”

Her voice is still shaky, and she sounds afraid, and it’s that, maybe, that decides him. He undoes the catches and pulls the helmet off, feels the slap of damp air at his cheeks. It’s like peeling off a layer of skin, and he can feel the weight of Karen’s gaze on him. “You knew it was me.”

“I’ve known for a while,” Karen says in a low voice. “I thought you’d get around to telling me eventually.”

“How--”

“You’re not that sneaky, and I will be happy to explain how I figured it out later.” She sniffles. “For now, can we just go?”

“No, I meant--all this.” He gestures to the bodies sprawled out across the floor. “I smelled blood, I thought you were dead.

“They weren’t very careful with their guns,” Karen says. She’s not lying, but she’s still holding something back. “They didn’t tie my hands.”

“Do you know why they did this?”

“No.”

“Karen--” he sighs. Well, since they’re already being honest with each other. “I know you’re lying.”

“How the hell do you--” she stops. “Never mind. Yeah, I know why. Can we just--not talk about it right now? I’ve had a really, really shitty night.”

Her ribs, and her torn-out fingernails, and the fear that’s still thrumming through her system like a drug. She’s right. It can wait. “Okay. Let’s get you out of here, I’ll call it in. And call Foggy. He’s been panicking.”

***

Foggy meets them at the hospital. Despite his earlier phone call, it’s clear that he hasn’t slept either; he smells like coffee and fresh adrenaline, which is probably the only reason he isn’t stumbling. Matt lifts his head when the door to the ER swings open and Foggy pauses, scanning the waiting room.

“Over here,” Karen says quietly, and Foggy makes a beeline for them, dumps his backpack on the bench and actually drops to the floor in front of Karen like she’s a little kid with a skinned knee. “Karen, Jesus Christ, you scared the hell out of us. Are you okay?”

Karen laughs wetly, and Matt can smell fresh tears. Something about Foggy’s earnest concern has undone her in a way that that filthy warehouse didn’t manage. “For a certain value of okay.”

“Jesus Christ,” Foggy repeats. “Did the doctor see you? Shouldn’t you be in a bed by now?”

“Triage nurse,” Matt says, and it’s only then that Foggy appears to even register his presence. He’s in the undershirt and ratty sweats that he wears under the armor, which has been secreted behind a dumpster near the hospital, and he knows that between that and the stubble and the deep, dark circles under his eyes, he probably looks like a crazy homeless person, but he can’t bring himself to care. “Doctor should be here soon.”

“Matt? You’re--here. Of course you’re here, why wouldn’t you be, Karen must have called--”

“Yeah, or he kicked down a door dressed like a comic book character to rescue me from the bad guys,” Karen says, swiping at her face.

“You--what?” Foggy asks.

“Not that you needed rescuing,” Matt retorts. He can hear Foggy take a sharp breath, about to demand an explanation, but mercifully it’s at that exact moment that the doctor finally turns up.

OMG an update! Love this. I'm guessing Karen's going to be letting the Wesley thing out of the bad soon, huh?

i can't wait for all the explanations everybody needs to make to each other! (and also for people to get some comfort, because oh my god they could all use a hug and about a week of sleep.)

So I've posted the first part of this.

http://archiveofourown.org/works/5587903/chapters/12876904

AHHHHH UPDATE. I'M SO HAPPY RIGHT NOW
Ugh i just want to hug everyone, especially Karen T_T

Aaahhh! That was great! Thanks for sharing :)

i Dont think thats silly

I've actually been in a religious setting before and from what I saw, these people would be more likely to think he can't see because of a spirit of illness/ blindness something like that has possessed him.

AHHH I was not aware there was a part 9 to this. GUH at least Karen isn't still in a warehouse somewhere
<3

I wrote it! But because this thread is so old and the fill got so long, I just posted it straight to A03: http://archiveofourown.org/works/6786130/chapters/15506368

“—because, obviously, I am a terrible person,” Karen is announcing decisively as Matt enters the building. Through the office door, through the layers of insulation and laminate flooring that separate the foyer from Nelson & Murdock’s second-floor offices, he can hear Foggy’s weary dissent.

“You are not a terrible person, Karen,” Foggy says dutifully, and it clearly isn’t the first time he’s tried to make that point during this particular conversation. Matt smiles to himself as the tip of his cane dances ahead of him up the stairs: good luck convincing Karen of anything when she’s made up her mind.

“I am. I am. An awful human being who puts my own comfort ahead of any morality. Gentrification is the bane of this neighborhood and Citiwide Development is no better than Union Allied—or, okay, maybe not quite so bad. But I should want nothing to do with them! I should deplore their discriminatory, carpetbagger ways and not be tempted by their lovely, cool rooftop oasis that probably gets a great breeze 24-7 and…”

Karen is simultaneously sighing with longing and laughing at herself as Matt opens the office door.

“And has a Caribbean-themed bar that serves piña coladas made with real piña, yes, I was listening the first time. And the second,” Foggy finishes her sentence without looking up from the morning paper. Matt can smell the ink on his fingers. “Hey, Matt, you took Spanish—is piña a real thing? Also, please tell Karen that wanting to go swimming in the middle of a heatwave is a perfectly human response and not a sign that she is, I quote, ‘a terrible person and a depraved waste of space’.”

“Morning, Foggy. Hi, Karen. You’re an excellent use of space—what’s this about swimming?”

“Oh, nothing,” Karen’s blushing. Matt can tell because the flush comes over her so quickly that it actually raises the already-elevated air temperature around her for a second. “The AC in my apartment is on the fritz again and coming up from the subway I walked by that new luxury condo building that Citiwide Development just finished,” Another sigh of longing. “They have a pool on the roof.”

“I told her she should just flirt with the doorman, but apparently Citiwide Development International has filled their pool with liquid discrimination or something…?”

“I did not say that, Foggy!” A brushing sound, and Matt can imagine Karen sweeping her hair back, the way she does when Foggy teases. “I just meant that, you know, I disagree with the way they do business, coming in here, driving up property values, trying to turn Hell’s Kitchen into an extension of Midtown. Not to mention using up resources—I mean, can you imagine their water bill? And Babatunde at the shoeshine stand says they leave the pool lights on all night! So,” Matt notices a swell of perfume when she crosses her arms, resolute. “So, I wouldn’t swim there, anyway. Even if my employers paid me enough to afford the no-doubt-obscene cost of a pool membership.”

“Matt,” Foggy hisses, “I think that last bit was directed at us.”

“Yes, thank you for clarifying, Foggy.” Matt props his cane up in the corner by the coat rack and hangs up his jacket. It’s too warm, but he’ll wear it file a child custody petition at the city clerk’s office in the afternoon.

“But, of course, Karen’s only saying that because she doesn’t know about the annual Murdock and Nelson Fourth of July Employee Family Picnic and Swimming Extravaganza.”

“What?!” Matt hears the word leave Karen’s mouth a moment after he says it himself.

“Karen, did you really think our reasonably adequate Obamacare benefits package, courtesy of Healthcare.gov, and our scandalously-low-considering-your-experience paycheck is all we have to offer here at this boutique legal practice?” Foggy continues, smooth as a gameshow host, though Matt can tell from his heartbeat that he’s just making things up as he goes.

“No?” Karen asks, sounding like she’s biting back a smile.

“Of course not! Here at Nelson and Murdock, we care deeply about our employees. And their families. And friends. Neighbors, pets, we pretty much care about everybody. Hence our family picnic policy.”

“You don’t have families. Or picnic policies.”

“Sure we do! Well, OK, Matt doesn’t, but I have enough for both of us—seriously, I have, like eight hundred cousins—but anyway, as part of our family-friendly family, uh, policy, we knock off work on July 4th and take all our employees—that’s you, Karen—to the beach at Coney Island.”

“Coney Island?” Matt echoes.

“Foggy,” Karen is outright laughing now, “you just came up with that idea right now, didn’t you?”

“Not my fault if you didn’t read the Family Picnic Policy section of the employee handbook,” Foggy sniffs.

When Karen tries to talk while she’s laughing, sometimes the air gets caught in her chest. To Matt, it sounds like soap bubbles popping. “What employee handbook?”

“Karen! Haven’t you written us an employee handbook yet? Jesus, Matt, what are we paying her for?”

“The beach at Coney Island?” Matt repeats. He’s glad he’s the only one who can hear his own rapid heartbeat.

“Yeah—you can get there on the F train on 6th Avenue. Or the D train, if it's running. We went all the time when we were kids, my brothers and me and all my cousins.”

“We’re going swimming at Coney Island?” Karen sounds delighted. “You and me and Matt?”

“Yup. Sand, semi-polluted surf, and all the screw-top, no-glass-on-the-beach libations you can conceal on the subway!” Foggy declares magnanimously. “Ain’t no party like a Nelson & Murdock party.”

***

Mid-morning, Karen leaves for the bank: they have two checks from their most recent clients, which will keep the wolf from the door for a little longer.

Two minutes later, Matt senses Foggy standing in the doorway to his office. Behind him, he can hear the rickety old fan spinning on Karen’s desk.

“I noticed a distinct lack of enthusiasm for my beach trip, but I’m sure that’s just because my spidey-senses are not as finely tuned as, say, the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen.”

“Foggy.”

“Do not Foggy me on this, Matt. Do you know what Marci was paying her assistant at Landman and Zack? And that guy was nowhere near Karen’s league. This is why I am in charge of the HR Department.”

“We don’t have an HR Department.”

“Well, we only have one employee, but it’s not like you’re offering her any perqs! Look,” Foggy’s voice drops, confidential. “Don’t tell me you haven’t noticed. Things have not been…I don’t know what exactly has been going on with Karen lately, but I just think she could use something good in her life. The beach? Is good. We can do this. Why shouldn’t we?”

“I’m not saying no,” Matt protests. “You should go! You two have done more than your fair share around here the past few months. You both deserve a break.”

It’s only because Matt has known Foggy for so long that he can tell his friend is rolling his eyes. “Man, I think you are missing the family part of my brilliant family picnic scheme. I can’t go to the beach with Karen by myself. It would be awkward. Awkwardness would ensue, Matt. You know me. Plus, the last time just Karen and I were out together on anything that might be construed as recreational, buildings exploded. That night is literally the last thing I want her thinking about on a holiday weekend. Come on— July 4th! It’ll be balls-hot; the courts will all be closed; there will be, like, a million cops on duty everywhere. Don’t tell me you have anything else to do.”

“It’s not the date, Foggy…”

“Good! ‘Cause, you know, Fourth of July celebrates the Declaration of Independence. And while this law firm has weathered a lot over the past year, I’m really gonna pull the plug if it turns out you don’t like representative democracy.”

Matt can’t help but smile when Foggy sounds earnest like that. “I like the Declaration of Independence, Foggy.”

“That’s a relief! I don’t know what I’d do with all that extra letterhead if we really did dissolve the firm. So…Coney Island. Swimming. What’s the problem?”

Matt’s heart had twisted when his partner mentioned dissolving the firm, even though he knows Foggy isn’t serious. That’s probably why he tells the truth—Foggy’s put up with too many lies already.

“I can’t swim.”

“You mean it was only my mom who dragged all her offspring to the 63rd Street Y for swim lessons because she was convinced we’d drown in the bathtub? I’ve always suspected as much…”

Matt interrupts; Foggy’s stories about his mother’s legendary over-protectiveness can get epic. “I mean it, Foggy. I can’t swim. I never learned.”

“Oh, please, Matt,” Foggy protests. “I know you’re what might charitably be called a perfectionist, but we are not talking about preliminaries for the Olympic 100-meter freestyle here! All I’m asking is that you show up and just doggy paddle in the shallows. And I promise I will personally mess up anyone who makes fun of you in your Speedo—including Karen. I hope she realizes that Nelson & Murdock has a very strict anti-harassment policy.”

Matt can feel Foggy look up at him, expecting a laugh, can sense the way his friend focuses—the way his concentration suddenly settles.

“Matt?” Foggy has been known to deploy that gentle no, but seriously, buddy? tone to devastating effect during voir dire. “Look, you grew up in the city. I get it—it’s not like there are country clubs and swimming holes all over the place. And I know it was just you and your Dad, not a lot of disposable income, and he probably worked some crazy hours, even before…” Foggy drifts into silence before he actually has to mention the accident.

The fan on Karen’s desk turns eight revolutions. Foggy is still looking at him, Matt can feel the attention like a brand. Distantly, Matt hears a key turn in the front door, hears Karen’s heels on the worn flooring downstairs as she stops to check the mailbox. She still dresses like she’s working at a major Manhattan office, because she thinks their down-and-out clientele deserve professionalism. Foggy is right—both that she’s better than they deserve, and that things have been rough for her lately. Foggy usually is right, where other people are concerned.

Matt takes a deep breath: he can taste the Freon from next-door’s air conditioner, the melting tar from the street out front. Today really is a scorcher. And then, just as Karen starts up the steps, he spits it out: “No, Foggy. I mean I can’t. I can’t swim. I don’t—I’m afraid of the water.”

The fan’s blades turn two more times before Foggy wrenches open the office door. He’s startled to find Karen on the other side. “Oh. Hi. I mean, bye.” The coat tree rattles as he untangles his suit jacket. “I’m going to the city clerk’s office. Amicus brief.”

“Now? I thought Matt was goi—” Karen starts to say, but Foggy is already thumping down the stairs.

Karen sighs like a punctured balloon. Matt hears her cross over to open the filing cabinet and slide the deposit slip into the correct folder. Her footfalls are not as light as they were crossing the foyer, climbing the stairs. Four fan revolutions. “Are you and Foggy fighting?” She sounds tired, but not surprised. “Again?”

Matt shrugs, annoyed. “Must’ve been something I said.”

Karen leaves early that evening—which, because she’s a consummate professional, really means she leaves on time for once. Usually, she’ll stay late, especially if her AC is broken, and they’ll all end up at Josie’s, which is refrigerated to near Arctic temperatures from May to October. But tonight, she has clearly had enough of both Nelson and Murdock.

Foggy does stay late, organizing statements related to a rent strike and pointedly ignoring Matt, who stays because he’s waiting for Foggy to tell him what’s wrong. Finally, he hears Foggy’s spine crack as he stretches, the dry, light sound of pages being gathered into folders. Matt’s not quite sure how to start the conversation—Foggy usually does it for him—but he goes to stand in Foggy’s doorway anyway.

“So. I don’t…” Matt shrugs again. He’s been doing that a lot today. “I don’t like deep water. Never learned to swim, never wanted to learn. Lots of people don’t. It’s hardly a crime.”

“Matt,” Foggy takes a deep breath and blows it back out. “It is just. Too. Goddamn. Hot for me to sit here and discuss your potential crimes.” He punctuates by stuffing folders into his briefcase; when he’s finished, his voice goes cold. “Although I have no doubt they are many and varied.”

“Hey!” Matt tends to forget, because Foggy doesn’t get angry very often, that when he does, the gloves come off. “That has nothing to do with any of this! I thought we were talking about swimming.”

“Might’ve escaped your notice, Matt, but Manhattan is an island. Let me define that for you: a landmass surrounded entirely by water, in this case, the Hudson and the East Rivers.”

“Lived here all my life, Foggy, so…?”

“I have asked—I pleaded…I have begged you, as your best friend and as a pretty damn good lawyer, not to do what you do, Matt.”

“I don’t want to talk ab—”

Matt feels the current of air as Foggy holds up both hands. Surrender. “I know. I know you don’t, and I know when I’ve lost a case. Your Honor, let the record show: there is nothing I could do or say to persuade Matt Murdock to stop taking on dangerous criminals in hand to hand street brawls. But, seriously, how many of those criminals have centered their activities on the docks, Matt? Sixty percent? Seventy? There are reasons the gangs are in Hell’s Kitchen and not out in Armonk. For you to keep fighting criminals on an island when you don’t know how to swim, when you’re afraid of water…”

“Foggy, it’s not like I hang out on the docks for fun!” Matt doesn’t like having the word afraid thrown in his face. “You want to ask a human trafficking ring to change their transportation method? Be my guest. Ditto with the drug cartels. Double for the—”

“Matt, four days ago, the police pulled a body from the water at the Manhattan Cruise Terminal. That’s 52nd Street, Matt, practically right down the block.”

“I had nothing to do with that,” Matt says immediately and he hears Foggy’s shock. It sounds like a sudden stillness; Foggy literally doesn’t breathe for a moment. Denial had not been the response his friend was expecting.

The old office chair, bought as a job lot during a fire sale, squeaks as Foggy sags in to it.

“I didn’t mean,” Foggy starts. Then, “Jesus, Matt, I never thought you had killed the guy,” he says quietly. “But I did think, for a split second when they first announced it on 1010-WINS…I did think it might be you. Daredevil-you. And that was before I even knew about the water thing.”

“Foggy, I’m careful. You know I am. And you know what I can do.”

Matt had once observed that Foggy’s breathing changed when he was about to say something important. It changes now.

“Honestly, Matty, I’m a laissez-faire kind of guy. If you were just a regular citizen, I’d say you were welcome to any phobias you wanted to indulge in. Me? I’m not nuts about mice. But if you keep doing what you are doing—in this waterfront neighborhood on the island of Manhattan—some day, sooner or later, it will be you on a pier, or a dock, or a barge. On the water. And if you’re scared…that might not be an emotion you’ve got a lot of experience with, so believe me when I tell you: you won’t be able to concentrate and you will get hurt. And I will—I’ll hear on the radio that a body was found floating in the river, and…” Foggy’s voice sounds water-logged.

“I’ll learn,” Matt says, suddenly, without thinking. He’d say almost anything to soothe the anxiety vibrating in Foggy’s throat. “Okay? I’ll, I’ll learn. To swim.” And he means it, even though he regrets the words as soon as he says them. He hates deep water: it distorts temperatures, muffles sound, obscures distances. Immersed in water, you can’t taste or smell the right kinds of information. Every movement is warped by waves and ripples. Swimming will be like being newly-blind all over again. But for Foggy, he’ll try.

“You bet your crime-fighting ass you will,” Foggy confirms. Matt is so distracted by the enormity of what he has just agreed to do that he almost misses the plastic bag that comes flying at his chest. He grabs it just before it falls to the floor.

“I stopped at one of those tourist t-shirt places on the way back from the clerk’s office,” Foggy explains as Matt’s questing fingers encounter the synthetic, waterproof fabric of swim trunks. “There’s a heart and a big red apple printed on the butt.”

Matt sighs. “Classy.”

“Beggars and choosers,” Foggy replies, unsympathetically. “And I looked up swim classes at the Y. Forwarded the dates to you. If you open up the Outlook calendar, your computer should read them out.”

But Matt shakes his head at that. “No.”

“No?” Foggy’s voice rises, like he’s going to make something of it. And in the mood he’s in, Matt figures, he just might.

“I’m not going swimming for the first time at the Y.” Sometimes, after a long period of meditation, Matt likes to think he has almost, almost made peace with the many things he will never be able to do as well or as independently as others. But he is not going to face this particular fear in a public pool full of kids in water-wings and grannies enrolled in water aerobics. “I have a better idea.”
***
Wilson Fisk’s sudden incarceration has had a sobering effect on real estate in Hell’s Kitchen, and the Citiwide Development International hasn’t yet started accepting bids on its new condos. The place smells new, reeking of paint and plastic. It even sounds new: lots of hard, glossy surfaces to bounce the noise of traffic through empty, echo-chamber interiors. It nearly gives Matt a headache from a block away. He suspects CDI is going to lose money on this venture.

Foggy whistles. “Babatunde’s right: they do leave the pool lights on all night.”

Matt drops Foggy’s arm for a moment to run his fingers over the raised hands on his watch. Almost 7:00: the lights would just start to be visible in the summer evening. “Doorman?”

“Some sort of security…rent-a-cop, right inside the front door. Just for show, probably, especially if there’s no one in the building yet.”

The security guy smells like cigarettes and Gatorade—the blue kind. “C’n I help youse?”

“Good evening,” Matt gives his most innocuous smile. He is wearing his jacket and his glasses, standing a half-step behind Foggy. “We’re the disability consultants. Here to meet Ms. Lopez?” The last time Manhattan published a phone book, there were fourteen alphabetical pages of Lopezes. No way an organization as big as Citiwide doesn’t have someone by that name on the payroll.

The guard’s chair squeaks as he swivels from Foggy to Matt. “Huh?”

“The disability consultants?” Foggy repeats. And then, channeling the many bureaucratic drones he’d met at the city clerk’s office. “Oh, God. Don’t tell me. She cancelled.” He huffs. “Did she cancel? This is the third time. Do you know how much Citiwide is going to lose if we don’t sign off on this building?”

Matt can see hot, red shadows swaying faintly when the guard shakes his head.

“Well, there’s a little piece of paper called the Americans with Disabilities Act, my friend,” Foggy begins, expansively. “And Citiwide has hired us to make sure this building is in compliance with that piece of legislation, before they open it to the public. Because afterwards? Man, have you ever tried to put toothpaste back into a tube?”

The guard chuckles and this is a real superpower—one that Matt can only covet. Foggy has been talking to this guy for, what, sixty seconds, and already they’re on the same side: low-level worker bees dicked around by a corporate overlord that has more money than sense. So what if the guard has never heard of a ‘disability consultant?’ Citiwide has probably had consultants for every other aspect of construction, and Foggy did show up with an honest-to-God disabled person.

“I’d letcha in, I would,” the guard says sympathetically, “but they only got the safety lights turned on in the building. Just the pool and the elevators; none of the other electrics is up.”

No security cameras, Matt calculates. It’s almost too easy.

“No prob. My guy here, he can see in the dark.”

Matt wiggles his eyebrows above his glasses and they all have a good laugh at that. The security guard’s heartbeat is regular and unsuspecting.

Foggy’s weary sigh. “Look, buddy, this is our last stop. We should’ve been finished two hours ago, but have you ever tried to take the subway during rush hour from Red Hook?!”

The guard chuckles again. “Yeah, my sister-in-law, she lives out there and she always says…”

“Uh-huh,” Foggy manages to convey agreement and brotherhood without ever actually hearing what the security guard’s sister-in-law likes to say. “Give us…whaddaya say, fifteen minutes?” Matt nods. “Fifteen minutes, we’ll be out of your hair. File the papers tomorrow, first thing, and if Ms. Lopez ever does bother to show up, you can just send her right in to find us.”

The smell of primer and vinyl increases when the security guard holds open the door.

By Matt’s watch, it only takes twelve minutes and fourteen seconds for them to find a convenient fire security door at the back of the building and…unsecure it. They leave the building with an impressive stack of ‘disability paperwork’ borrowed from the Murdock and Nelson recycling bin, wave goodbye to the friendly security guard, walk around the block, and enter the building through the firedoor. Matt almost wishes things hadn’t been so simple.

Access to the pool is a little trickier: Matt sheds his jacket, climbs up to the roof from a penthouse balcony, scales the retaining wall, jumps the safety fence, and drops to the pool deck. He stretches out his arms, but the space is so flat and open that he doesn’t touch anything. No shelter, nothing to conceal him from anyone who might be watching. The earth is void and darkness moves upon the face of the waters. The smell of chlorine is overwhelming and there’s a humming from a filter or a pump or something. He can’t hear, he can’t…if there’s anything waiting for him in the fiery shadows, he won’t know it until it’s too late.

And then, over the sound of the pool—“Matt? Hey, Matt? Yell if you fell to your death ‘cause I’m not looking.”

“I’m fine, Foggy,” Matt calls down toward the balcony, because of course, there’s no one but Foggy to hear him. He runs his fingers along the fenceline until he finds the door that leads down to the top floor. That’s easy to open; all the security is designed to protect against undesirable people coming up from the streets of the Kitchen. The enclosed stairwell feels safer and, at the bottom of the stairs, Foggy is waiting, smelling stressed and familiar, holding Matt’s shoes and his cane, jacket folded over his arm.

“Breaking and entering,” Foggy mutters, “We could get into so much trouble. Have I said that already?”

“You’ve mentioned it, yes. But I think we could plead out with illegal trespass. I know some good lawyers.”

“Such a comfort, Murdock!”

“…and that’s only if we get caught.”

“Let’s not do that, okay? Can we agree on that? Let’s not get caught…Oh! Oh, wow,” Foggy says when he reaches the pool.

“What does it look like?” Matt asks.

Foggy describes the dimensions of the pool, the placement of the lights—“they’re not all on, but I think Karen’s not wrong about the electricity bill”—the garish Caribbean bar complete with fake palm trees. And then he adds, “Plus, Matty, the stars are coming out. We’re about as close to them as you can get in Hell’s Kitchen.”

Matt tips his head back automatically, tries to remember what stars look like on a summer evening. A breeze, oddly sweet this high above the streets, wafts over the rooftop. The traffic, the Kitchen—it all sounds very far away.

“Did your mom really worry you’d drown in the bathtub?” Matt asks, mostly to delay the inevitable. He can’t imagine his father ever being preoccupied about something like that.

“Well…she may have been more concerned that my brothers would accidentally dunk me while playing Aquaman or something. And we did go to the beach a lot, Coney when we were little; Cape May later on, if it was a good year for hardware sales. Plus the Central Park fountains and the open fire hydrants. Ma couldn’t keep five kids in an apartment all summer. So it was a reasonable precaution, I guess.” Foggy’s voice has a special timbre when he talks about his family; it’s one of Matt’s favorites. “Anyway, I liked swimming lessons.”

“Really?” Matt knows he sounds dubious. It’s just…the idea of willfully giving up all control to step into a foreign element—for fun?

“Matty, no doubt this will shock you,” Foggy begins wryly, “but I wasn’t the most…shall we say physically graceful?” Foggy pauses; Matt can hear the snick of laces and he unties his shoes. “Yeah, not the most physically gifted of children. Just between us, I was a klutz. Now, if you needed to know the Giants draft picks, or the Mets starting lineup, or anybody’s box scores, I was golden. But—throw a ball, catch a ball, tackle anything, ever? Not a hope in hell. As my brothers and my cousins would be happy to tell you.”

“But…swimming?”

“Swimming. OK, I’m not sure I should say this, considering the present company, but swimming made me feel like a superhero. Like I could fly. Or bend gravity.” Foggy’s voice is muffled as he pulls off his undershirt, but Matt is careful to keep his face straight. Who is he to tell Foggy that superpowers aren’t all they’ve cracked up to be?

“I went to the beach once,” Matt forces himself to say as he undoes the buttons on his shirt. “Not with my dad, this was after…the nuns had a field trip or an outing or something. Jersey Shore, maybe?” He concentrates on slipping the plastic circles through the little buttonholes. He will not let his breathing increase. It was a long time ago, and the mind always controls the body.

“Sounds nice,” says Foggy, deliberately neutral. Matt can’t tell anything from his heartbeat.

“It was a nice idea,” Matt allows. “But I didn’t—the sand bothered me, the way it moved under my feet and sometimes there were sharp things, shells and stuff, that I couldn’t see.” To this day, he doesn’t like to be barefoot unless he’s meditating, or practicing fight sequences on a mat. “And when I actually stepped into the water, there was this wave and all the sand got sucked out from under me and when I slipped, there was nothing to hold onto.” Matt tucks his socks into one shoe, rolls his belt in the other, methodically folds his trousers on top. His bare toes curl against the rubber matting of the pool deck; vulnerable. His new swimsuit is in one pocket of his jacket. He leaves his glasses on ‘til the very end. “I kept coming up with handfuls of rocks and I couldn’t see—I mean, I really couldn’t…There was grit in my eyes. Everything sounded strange underwater and it all tasted like salt and dirt and I was so confused I tried to smell where I was…”

“Not the best idea, if you’re underwater.”

Matt laughs weakly. “No. Not a good idea at all!”

“Well, there are stairs here,” Foggy says, cutting suddenly to the issue at hand. “So you’ll know how deep you are, and there won’t be any waves ‘cause there are only two of us and I’ll be right in front of you. So…let’s do this. Last one in, and all that. ”

Until his foot actually leaves the warm rubber of the pool deck, Matt half-expects Foggy to give him an out. Anyone else would, right? Hey, if you’re not up to it… Or, you know, it’s okay to be scared of…. Well, anybody but Stick. Stick and Foggy, different in so many ways, but alike in this.

Foggy describes the five steps down into the shallow end of the pool, and the water is sun-warm until about the third. Then Matt feels the currents of cold drifting in and his hands automatically clench tighter on Foggy’s forearms. Foggy, tactful for once, doesn’t say anything.

There are no landmarks in the water, nothing to touch, nothing to help Matt orient himself. Just the smooth tiled floor and the eerie lapping sounds, hard to localize because of the unpredictable way sound travels over water. When Matt has managed to shuffle waist-deep, Foggy says, “I’m going to let go for a few seconds.” And he does…but literally only a few seconds; almost as soon as Matt begins to wonder where he’s gone, he feels Foggy’s wet fingertips on his wrist.

“Did you feel me go in?”

And Matt does remember a little splash, the water level changing slightly. So that’s what it meant.

“Water’s great…not too much chlorine. Only the finest pool chemicals for Manhattan’s yuppies. Go ahead, duck.”

And, with Foggy’s hand firmly anchoring one wrist, Matt does. It is—not terrible. The cool water is refreshing after the sticky, humid day. Matt likes the way it creeps against his scalp, lifting his thick hair. If he concentrates, he can resist the urge to involuntarily try to suck in air the moment his nostrils dip below the waterline.

Somehow, once he’s all wet, it gets easier to pick out scents and currents in the water and that makes it okay to let go of Foggy’s hand and navigate toward the side of the pool. Because there is no roof, and because they are so high up, the water ripples against the edges of the deck with very little distortion. Matt puts out his hand and, sure enough, there’s the smooth lip of the pool, right where he expected it to be.

“Marco,” Foggy calls suddenly.

“Say what?”

And Foggy’s laugh travels over the water until it sounds like he’s standing right next to Matt. “Hopeless, Murdock! You are hopeless.”

When Foggy swims over, Matt can feel the easy movement of his strokes, the rhythmic pull of displaced water. Smooth, he thinks: fluid. He wonders what it looks like.

“Try to float,” Foggy suggests.

“Hmm?” Matt suspects that is an aquatic maneuver that might require his feet to leave the floor of the pool. He is correct.

“You don’t even have to let go of the edge. Just let your feet come up. Your body is naturally buoyant. You want to float; just let it happen.”
Matt tries. Twice. But as soon as his feet leave the bottom, his whole body tenses up and his heartrate skyrockets so quickly it sets off echoes in his head.

“Okay, here,” Foggy puts one palm on Matt’s back. “Lean back against me. I won’t let you go under. Give me your other hand and when you’re ready, squeeze mine and I’ll ease up.”

“But not until I say so,” Matt clarifies.

Foggy’s familiar eyeroll. Matt can hear it when he knows to listen for it. “Trust me on this one, Matty.”

When he finally manages it, Matt decides that floating is like meditation. The same kind of weightlessness, so simple that you can’t imagine how it took so long to learn. He is still aware of everything, but it’s all at such a distance. Far enough that nothing seems like an imminent danger. He remembers to squeeze Foggy’s hand. The fingers drift off his back. Matt loses his equilibrium once and starts to sink, but Foggy’s is there, hand splayed right below his shoulder blades, gently nudging him back into alignment until his body finds its natural level.

Eventually, Foggy tries to teach the basics of the front crawl by verbal description. The whole process is weird and spastic and requires Matt to do a lot of different things with different parts of his body all at the same time. And remember when to breathe. He suspects Foggy enjoys the hell out of watching him flail across the short end of the pool.

“It’s not awful,” Foggy concludes diplomatically. “But I wouldn’t give up your day job. Or, you know, your night job. And you know how I hate your night job, so that’s saying something.”

Matt tries to calculate the effect his arm will have on a large, liquid body, and then he chops the surface quickly enough to send a sheet of water splashing over Foggy. He knows his aim is close because of the way Foggy spits and sputters. He’s not quite so accurate in judging Foggy’s revenge, and he ends up taking a gout of water to the face.

They splash and wrestle until Foggy finally hauls himself out of the pool. “I’m wringing out my boxers now, Matt. That’s my way of declaring a truce in this naval battle. We’ve been up here almost an hour; stay much longer and someone is going to find us.”

Matt kicks back, letting himself float just a moment longer. You want to float, he repeats Foggy’s words, savoring this rare, private victory over fear. “Are the stars out?” he asks, and he can’t quite make out Foggy’s answer because his ears are under water, but he thinks it’s affirmative.

One of the fake palm trees houses a storage locker that probably has towels, but Foggy decrees that really would be breaking and entering and Matt agrees to drip dry, just his feet dangling into the water. He’s not ready to go home just yet anyway.

“So, Coney Island,” he says at last. Now that he’s out of the water, his eyes sting a little; it’s just the chlorine, he knows, but it’s strange to be so aware of them.

“Yup. Oh, and now that you can swim,” says Foggy, “we can go out on a boat!”

“A…boat?”

“Karen likes boats. She was on the women’s crew team in college.”

“No kidding? How did you know that?”

“Dunno—came up in conversation once. Don’t sound so impressed. I could’ve done it. If I’d been ten feet tall. And, you know, a woman at a small liberal arts college in New England.”

“Foggy, do you know how early people get up for crew practice?” Matt has heard the steady thump of turning oarlocks from various college crew teams as he’d crossed riverfront rooftops in the early dawn. He’d never wanted to get too close, of course, because of the water. Maybe he’ll investigate, now.

“Anyway, company picnic at the beach. No way you’re getting out of it now. I’m thinking we should get matching corporate t-shirts and everything.”

“Probably a good idea,” Matt lets his fingers drift along the twin scars below his collarbones. Nobu. He’d forgotten them, in the water, but Claire has reliably informed him that they look like the start of an autopsy incision. (Which they are; he just happened to be alive when they were inflicted).

Foggy’s breath catches as he notices. “Oh!—I wasn’t even thi…well. You know, there are lots of reasons to wear a t-shirt at the beach. The SPF question, for one. Maybe you tan like a Baywatch babe, but we Nelsons do not: we fry. Also, if Karen wears a bikini, I may have to sue myself for sexual harassment. So, t-shirts will be the order of the day!”

Matt smiles. “Thanks, Foggy.”

“Don’t thank me yet—wait’ll you see the shirts!”

“I wasn’t talking about t-shirts.”

“Oh. Okay, then. Well, you’re welcome. Any time.”

When the breeze picks up— the brackish Hudson, a little jet fuel, ozone from a distant storm—Matt can hear the water in the pool lapping gently against the sides. Then it slows to stillness.

Wait, would Steve be an adult with ir with out the serum?

So adorable. XD Your Punisher is awesome.

Perfect. XD

So hot! XD

Aw, it's sweet. ^_^

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Page 185 of 186

Prompt Post #5

FILL Re: Matt gets turned on by knowing Foggy is listening to him have sex (law school era)

Re: Fill: Nothing Special (Gen)

Re: Matt's never had a best friend

Re: FILL: leave the world outside 8/?

Fill: Devil's Advocates Don't Date Big Guns!

Re: Matt's never had a best friend

Re: Fill: Devil's Advocates Don't Date Big Guns!

FILL: leave the world outside 9/?

Re: FILL: leave the world outside 9/?

Re: FILL: leave the world outside 9/?

FILL: BB!Matt/BB!Foggy " all the glory when you ran outside"

Re: FILL: leave the world outside 9/?

Re: Fill: A Different Kind of Superhero

Re: Daredevi chastises the Avengers for using the Lords name in vain

Re: Daredevil vs Christian Extremist Group

Re: FILL: leave the world outside 9/?

Fill: Matt/Foggy or Matt&Foggy, Foggy teaching Matt how to swim

Fill: Matt & Foggy; Foggy teaching Matt how to swim-Part 1

Re: Fill: Matt & Foggy; Foggy teaching Matt how to swim-Part 2

Re: Fill: Matt & Foggy; Foggy teaching Matt how to swim-Part 3

Re: Matt gets deaged back to when he first gained his powers

Re: FILL: Papa Frank

Re: Fill: Through the Looking Glass 2/2

Re: [FILL] (Cause I'm a screamer baby) Make Me a Mute

Re: [fill] Matt/Foggy, homeless!Matt