this was almost the last part. i was totally going to end this fic with matt and foggy getting together around christmas, except then i considered that i wouldn't get to write the daredevil reveal for foggy and peter and karen and also there was that one prompt about matt getting hypothermia and, well. shit. XD
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@jacksbreadline Jack’s Breadline, Hell’s Kitchen NY Happy Holidays! Deadline for Christmas orders is Dec. 14 for pickup/delivery by the 23rd. #wehavefruitcake #itsdelicious #noreally #noREALLY
November ticked into December and Matt turned out fruit and spice loaves, sticky toffee pudding, treacle tarts, caramel-pecan sticky buns, and rustic pear and cranberry galettes. He also unearthed the fruitcakes that had been ripening for the past year, heady with rum, cognac, and brandy. One customer broke down into tears after tasting a slice, telling him it was just how her now-deceased grandmother had made it.
While just as overworked as ever, Foggy seemed happier in recent weeks. He and Matt and sometimes Karen occasionally met for drinks after closing. He wouldn’t tell them what had him so upbeat, but it appeared to have lifted a weight off of his soul. Whatever it was, Matt approved.
Christmas came and went. Matt sank into the peace of Midnight Mass, breathed in candle flame and holy smoke, song and scripture and joy. Let the just rejoice, for their justifier is born.
@jacksbreadline Jack’s Breadline, Hell’s Kitchen NY Auld lang syne! Jack’s will be closed from 12/24 to 1/10 to celebrate the season. See you in the New Year for more tasty treats and coffee!
Daredevil celebrated New Year’s by taking a swim in the Hudson.
The cold was like a physical blow, made worse by the disorientation. Being underwater was the closest Matt could get to being deaf and truly without sight. No air currents or useful temperature gradients, no clear sound with water pressing against his eardrums. No idea, even, which way was up. He came up choking, panic shrill behind his teeth, flailed desperately as he tried to orient himself toward the pier.
Distant traffic that way, gunshots and shouting this way. Lapping waves against the wall -- a ladder? Matt struck out in that direction even as cold stole the breath from his lungs. It’d be worse once he left the water, he knew. The wind chill was -10 tonight.
Ladder. His quickly-numbing fingers slipped on the first rung. Were they even closing about it? He couldn’t tell, couldn’t feel the pressure of the metal against his palms. Every second in the water sapped his strength, his awareness of everything but the cold. He tried again, slipped again.
Fingers locked about his wrists, hauled him out of the water. Matt almost screamed as the frigid night air hit his body, cold a living thing chewing into his skin with serrated teeth. He was yanked onto his feet but couldn’t keep them, stumbling against a firm body. Unlikely to be one of the gang members -- he flared his nostrils, trying to push past the searing agony to determine who had a hold of him. Male. Leather. Kevlar. Gunpowder. Coffee.
--well fuck.
Daredevil and the Punisher didn’t cross each others’ paths much due to an unspoken agreement: the Punisher stayed out of Hell’s Kitchen unless he was willing to use non-lethal force or Daredevil booted his ass out with extreme prejudice and an escrima stick beating about the head and shoulders. Frank Castle and Matt Murdock, however, occasionally exchanged a few words as Matt refilled his coffee or got him a croissant from the display case. Fuck.
“Castle,” he grated out, then started to wheeze. Lapsed into painful coughing, feeling the bite of water in his lungs. Goddammit. If he was lucky the best he could expect from his dunk would be a full-blown case of bronchitis.
“Nice night for a swim, altar-boy.” Castle supported him as he doubled over, hacking his lungs out. “Though even for a Catholic, isn’t this a little much?”
Matt didn’t have enough air to give that the response it properly deserved, settled for flipping him off instead. Eventually his coughing tapered off, even though any too-deep breath threatened to spark it off again. His chest felt like each individual alveolus was detonating inside his ribcage.
“Can you walk?”
His nod was immediate even though his muscles were cramping with cold. Damned if he was going to be carried around by anybody, especially the Punisher. From Castle’s disbelieving snort, he knew exactly how shitty Matt was feeling and wasn’t impressed by his bravado. But he didn’t call him out on it, turning away. “Follow me, you need to get out of the cold.”
Stumbling, Matt trailed after him, down a tangle of alleyways that were at least somewhat sheltered from the wind. He could smell gunpowder and fresh blood, cordite and shell casings. Seemed like Castle had put his inimitable touch on the scene. So much for leaving the gang members to the police.
A block away, Castle stopped in front of another alley with something large at the end of it. Matt’s senses sketched out a blocky shape with an array of equipment on top, metal and glass and rubber, gasoline -- a van? Dragging him forward, Castle hauled the side door open and then hustled him inside. Matt landed awkwardly in the emptied-out interior amid a tangle of shapes and smells, ammunition and medical supplies, guns of all sorts, other more esoteric objects. The grooved floorboards pressed painfully into his hands and knees as he struggled to right himself, clumsy with cold and shock.
Castle climbed in after him, leaning over the driver’s seat, the only one remaining in the vehicle, to get the van started. Cold air blasted out of the vents and Matt couldn’t help the pained sound, feeling each gust like a razor across his skin even through his armor.
“It’ll warm up in a minute. Get over here, I need to get this clown suit off of you.” Fingers that smelled of gun oil tugged at his cowl. Matt batted weakly at the invading hands but too late, Castle had it up and over his face. He nearly dropped Matt in shock.
“You?” He sounded astonished, and then angry. “What the hell is a blind baker doing dressing like an idiot and busting up weapons deals?”
“S-says the man who c-c-calls himself th-the P-Punisher,” Matt forced out through chattering teeth. Even to his own ears he was barely comprehensible.
Castle elected to ignore him, muttering, “Daredevil. Ha. Bakery Boy, more like.” And then a little louder: “How do you get this rig off?” Matt snarled weakly at the feel of hands moving over his body. “Shove it, choirboy, you want to die of hypothermia that badly? I promise your virtue’s safe with me.”
Matt moved fingers that felt like lead to the catches and zippers of his armor, but didn’t have the dexterity required to actually undo them. Castle took over, unceremoniously pulling off each section as he got it free. Soon Matt was left in his boxers, the cold wet silk clinging unpleasantly to his skin -- and then he didn’t even have that, Castle yanking at the waistband. “Off. You’ve got nothing I haven’t seen before.”
“F-fuck you.” He could feel the chilled blood moving through his body, sharpest in his hands and feet but widespread enough to make easy movement a monumental undertaking. Castle manhandled him like an uncooperative mannequin as he wrestled his boxers off over his hips and down his legs, his touch a brand wherever it brushed against Matt’s icy body. Matt heard him toss the sodden cloth aside onto the pile that was the rest of his gear, hunkered down into the smallest ball possible as best as he could when Castle set him back down to move to the back of the van. He rummaged around in a wall-mounted compartment before returning and bodily hauling Matt upright. His hands were still too hot but Matt couldn’t help but press into them, trying to draw that human fire into his core.
FILL: Our Daily Bread (10a/?) (Matt the Baker/Superhero Magnet)
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@jacksbreadline Jack’s Breadline, Hell’s Kitchen NY
Happy Holidays! Deadline for Christmas orders is Dec. 14 for pickup/delivery by the 23rd. #wehavefruitcake #itsdelicious #noreally #noREALLY
November ticked into December and Matt turned out fruit and spice loaves, sticky toffee pudding, treacle tarts, caramel-pecan sticky buns, and rustic pear and cranberry galettes. He also unearthed the fruitcakes that had been ripening for the past year, heady with rum, cognac, and brandy. One customer broke down into tears after tasting a slice, telling him it was just how her now-deceased grandmother had made it.
While just as overworked as ever, Foggy seemed happier in recent weeks. He and Matt and sometimes Karen occasionally met for drinks after closing. He wouldn’t tell them what had him so upbeat, but it appeared to have lifted a weight off of his soul. Whatever it was, Matt approved.
Christmas came and went. Matt sank into the peace of Midnight Mass, breathed in candle flame and holy smoke, song and scripture and joy. Let the just rejoice, for their justifier is born.
@jacksbreadline Jack’s Breadline, Hell’s Kitchen NY
Auld lang syne! Jack’s will be closed from 12/24 to 1/10 to celebrate the season. See you in the New Year for more tasty treats and coffee!
Daredevil celebrated New Year’s by taking a swim in the Hudson.
The cold was like a physical blow, made worse by the disorientation. Being underwater was the closest Matt could get to being deaf and truly without sight. No air currents or useful temperature gradients, no clear sound with water pressing against his eardrums. No idea, even, which way was up. He came up choking, panic shrill behind his teeth, flailed desperately as he tried to orient himself toward the pier.
Distant traffic that way, gunshots and shouting this way. Lapping waves against the wall -- a ladder? Matt struck out in that direction even as cold stole the breath from his lungs. It’d be worse once he left the water, he knew. The wind chill was -10 tonight.
Ladder. His quickly-numbing fingers slipped on the first rung. Were they even closing about it? He couldn’t tell, couldn’t feel the pressure of the metal against his palms. Every second in the water sapped his strength, his awareness of everything but the cold. He tried again, slipped again.
Fingers locked about his wrists, hauled him out of the water. Matt almost screamed as the frigid night air hit his body, cold a living thing chewing into his skin with serrated teeth. He was yanked onto his feet but couldn’t keep them, stumbling against a firm body. Unlikely to be one of the gang members -- he flared his nostrils, trying to push past the searing agony to determine who had a hold of him. Male. Leather. Kevlar. Gunpowder. Coffee.
--well fuck.
Daredevil and the Punisher didn’t cross each others’ paths much due to an unspoken agreement: the Punisher stayed out of Hell’s Kitchen unless he was willing to use non-lethal force or Daredevil booted his ass out with extreme prejudice and an escrima stick beating about the head and shoulders. Frank Castle and Matt Murdock, however, occasionally exchanged a few words as Matt refilled his coffee or got him a croissant from the display case. Fuck.
“Castle,” he grated out, then started to wheeze. Lapsed into painful coughing, feeling the bite of water in his lungs. Goddammit. If he was lucky the best he could expect from his dunk would be a full-blown case of bronchitis.
“Nice night for a swim, altar-boy.” Castle supported him as he doubled over, hacking his lungs out. “Though even for a Catholic, isn’t this a little much?”
Matt didn’t have enough air to give that the response it properly deserved, settled for flipping him off instead. Eventually his coughing tapered off, even though any too-deep breath threatened to spark it off again. His chest felt like each individual alveolus was detonating inside his ribcage.
“Can you walk?”
His nod was immediate even though his muscles were cramping with cold. Damned if he was going to be carried around by anybody, especially the Punisher. From Castle’s disbelieving snort, he knew exactly how shitty Matt was feeling and wasn’t impressed by his bravado. But he didn’t call him out on it, turning away. “Follow me, you need to get out of the cold.”
Stumbling, Matt trailed after him, down a tangle of alleyways that were at least somewhat sheltered from the wind. He could smell gunpowder and fresh blood, cordite and shell casings. Seemed like Castle had put his inimitable touch on the scene. So much for leaving the gang members to the police.
A block away, Castle stopped in front of another alley with something large at the end of it. Matt’s senses sketched out a blocky shape with an array of equipment on top, metal and glass and rubber, gasoline -- a van? Dragging him forward, Castle hauled the side door open and then hustled him inside. Matt landed awkwardly in the emptied-out interior amid a tangle of shapes and smells, ammunition and medical supplies, guns of all sorts, other more esoteric objects. The grooved floorboards pressed painfully into his hands and knees as he struggled to right himself, clumsy with cold and shock.
Castle climbed in after him, leaning over the driver’s seat, the only one remaining in the vehicle, to get the van started. Cold air blasted out of the vents and Matt couldn’t help the pained sound, feeling each gust like a razor across his skin even through his armor.
“It’ll warm up in a minute. Get over here, I need to get this clown suit off of you.” Fingers that smelled of gun oil tugged at his cowl. Matt batted weakly at the invading hands but too late, Castle had it up and over his face. He nearly dropped Matt in shock.
“You?” He sounded astonished, and then angry. “What the hell is a blind baker doing dressing like an idiot and busting up weapons deals?”
“S-says the man who c-c-calls himself th-the P-Punisher,” Matt forced out through chattering teeth. Even to his own ears he was barely comprehensible.
Castle elected to ignore him, muttering, “Daredevil. Ha. Bakery Boy, more like.” And then a little louder: “How do you get this rig off?” Matt snarled weakly at the feel of hands moving over his body. “Shove it, choirboy, you want to die of hypothermia that badly? I promise your virtue’s safe with me.”
Matt moved fingers that felt like lead to the catches and zippers of his armor, but didn’t have the dexterity required to actually undo them. Castle took over, unceremoniously pulling off each section as he got it free. Soon Matt was left in his boxers, the cold wet silk clinging unpleasantly to his skin -- and then he didn’t even have that, Castle yanking at the waistband. “Off. You’ve got nothing I haven’t seen before.”
“F-fuck you.” He could feel the chilled blood moving through his body, sharpest in his hands and feet but widespread enough to make easy movement a monumental undertaking. Castle manhandled him like an uncooperative mannequin as he wrestled his boxers off over his hips and down his legs, his touch a brand wherever it brushed against Matt’s icy body. Matt heard him toss the sodden cloth aside onto the pile that was the rest of his gear, hunkered down into the smallest ball possible as best as he could when Castle set him back down to move to the back of the van. He rummaged around in a wall-mounted compartment before returning and bodily hauling Matt upright. His hands were still too hot but Matt couldn’t help but press into them, trying to draw that human fire into his core.