When Matt climbs down from the fire escape, he smooths his suit down, runs a hand through his hair. Just a few blocks away, he can hear his father’s heartbeat, strong and steady and familiar, and his own heart is beating fast against his chest, threatening to leap into his throat at any moment.
I’m proud of you.
He’s not sure if it’ll still be true, should his father find out about Daredevil. He’d never wanted Matt to step into the ring and fight, and--technically he hasn’t stepped into the ring. Not a boxing ring, anyway. But he’s fought, bloodied his knuckles and broken bones, and he knows what it feels like to let the devil out and off its leash.
He knows his father won’t want him to fight, if he finds out. If he finds out.
He’s lied to his father before. One more won’t matter, and besides--with over half of the police force gone or corrupt, with every two-bit thug with a gang trying to take advantage of Fisk’s incarceration to crawl out of the woodwork and try to take over, with the recent resurrections, he’s needed in that mask. Now more than ever, he’s sure.
I’m proud of you, his father had said, and some part of Matt wonders if that’ll still hold true once he finds out everything Matt’s been hiding.
He doubts it.
He lets out a breath, straightens out his tie, then gets down on his knees and feels around underneath the dumpster, taking his cane out from under it and strolling out of the alley, tapping his cane along the sidewalk.
It takes him five minutes, tops, to get to the front door, and he can still smell the dried blood on the signage, where someone ran bloodied fingers over the raised letters. He steps inside and lets his feet carry him forward, up the stairs and into the corridor, to where the office door is.
He can hear his father’s heartbeat from here, steady and strong like oak, along with Foggy’s quicker heartbeat and somebody else’s, someone who smells like grave dirt as well. His hand hovers over the doorknob, hesitating, and Foggy’s voice carries over: so Matt says to York, with this shit-eating grin, “but sir, we haven’t finished yet, and if it please the cactus--”
“Tell me you’re not telling my dad about that time with the cactus and Professor York, Foggy,” says Matt, opening the door and smiling.
“Nah, I’m telling your dad and Miss Stacy here about the time with the cactus and Professor York,” says Foggy. “It’s a Columbia legend, man! What kind of best friend would I be if I didn’t tell them all about it?”
“I’m starting to wish I was old enough to have gone,” Miss Stacy--and she sounds so young, smells like grave dirt and the soap she must’ve used to wash off the blood on her hands--says, amusement in her tone, as she steps to the side.
“That mock trial was probably the most interesting thing that happened the whole semester in that class,” says Matt, trying for casual and falling flat. His father’s quiet, but his heartbeat is steady as always, and damn Matt’s words for failing him now, damn his throat for seizing up so he can hardly breathe, much less speak, and damn the Avengers for triggering this situation in the first place.
It’s been eighteen years. Matt’s a lawyer, he should know how to speak, but he can’t seem to find the words.
It’s his dad who breaks the silence first, who croaks, “Hi, Matty,” and even here Matt can smell the salt of tears, the dirt of the graveyard.
He’s not sure who reaches for who first, but somehow they’re in the middle of the office, Matt’s hands gripping on tight to his father’s jacket, his father’s arms wrapped around him, and he’s crying, like he’s nine again and skinned his knee trying to navigate in the street. Foggy and Miss Stacy have retreated into Foggy’s office, and Matt doesn’t know what he did to somehow deserve Foggy for a best friend, doesn’t think he does deserve that. Or this.
He can hear his father’s heartbeat again, steady and strong, and this close, it’s like it’s pounding right inside of his.
“It’s okay, Matty,” his father says, “it’s okay, I’m here now, I’m not gonna die again, promise.”
Re: fill: still got a lot of fight left in me 5/5
When Matt climbs down from the fire escape, he smooths his suit down, runs a hand through his hair. Just a few blocks away, he can hear his father’s heartbeat, strong and steady and familiar, and his own heart is beating fast against his chest, threatening to leap into his throat at any moment.
I’m proud of you.
He’s not sure if it’ll still be true, should his father find out about Daredevil. He’d never wanted Matt to step into the ring and fight, and--technically he hasn’t stepped into the ring. Not a boxing ring, anyway. But he’s fought, bloodied his knuckles and broken bones, and he knows what it feels like to let the devil out and off its leash.
He knows his father won’t want him to fight, if he finds out. If he finds out.
He’s lied to his father before. One more won’t matter, and besides--with over half of the police force gone or corrupt, with every two-bit thug with a gang trying to take advantage of Fisk’s incarceration to crawl out of the woodwork and try to take over, with the recent resurrections, he’s needed in that mask. Now more than ever, he’s sure.
I’m proud of you, his father had said, and some part of Matt wonders if that’ll still hold true once he finds out everything Matt’s been hiding.
He doubts it.
He lets out a breath, straightens out his tie, then gets down on his knees and feels around underneath the dumpster, taking his cane out from under it and strolling out of the alley, tapping his cane along the sidewalk.
It takes him five minutes, tops, to get to the front door, and he can still smell the dried blood on the signage, where someone ran bloodied fingers over the raised letters. He steps inside and lets his feet carry him forward, up the stairs and into the corridor, to where the office door is.
He can hear his father’s heartbeat from here, steady and strong like oak, along with Foggy’s quicker heartbeat and somebody else’s, someone who smells like grave dirt as well. His hand hovers over the doorknob, hesitating, and Foggy’s voice carries over: so Matt says to York, with this shit-eating grin, “but sir, we haven’t finished yet, and if it please the cactus--”
“Tell me you’re not telling my dad about that time with the cactus and Professor York, Foggy,” says Matt, opening the door and smiling.
“Nah, I’m telling your dad and Miss Stacy here about the time with the cactus and Professor York,” says Foggy. “It’s a Columbia legend, man! What kind of best friend would I be if I didn’t tell them all about it?”
“I’m starting to wish I was old enough to have gone,” Miss Stacy--and she sounds so young, smells like grave dirt and the soap she must’ve used to wash off the blood on her hands--says, amusement in her tone, as she steps to the side.
“That mock trial was probably the most interesting thing that happened the whole semester in that class,” says Matt, trying for casual and falling flat. His father’s quiet, but his heartbeat is steady as always, and damn Matt’s words for failing him now, damn his throat for seizing up so he can hardly breathe, much less speak, and damn the Avengers for triggering this situation in the first place.
It’s been eighteen years. Matt’s a lawyer, he should know how to speak, but he can’t seem to find the words.
It’s his dad who breaks the silence first, who croaks, “Hi, Matty,” and even here Matt can smell the salt of tears, the dirt of the graveyard.
He’s not sure who reaches for who first, but somehow they’re in the middle of the office, Matt’s hands gripping on tight to his father’s jacket, his father’s arms wrapped around him, and he’s crying, like he’s nine again and skinned his knee trying to navigate in the street. Foggy and Miss Stacy have retreated into Foggy’s office, and Matt doesn’t know what he did to somehow deserve Foggy for a best friend, doesn’t think he does deserve that. Or this.
He can hear his father’s heartbeat again, steady and strong, and this close, it’s like it’s pounding right inside of his.
“It’s okay, Matty,” his father says, “it’s okay, I’m here now, I’m not gonna die again, promise.”
Matt holds on, and lets himself believe him.
--
end.