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Fill: Accusation (2/?)

[(Anonymous)]

author's note: hey, OP, my current plan for this fic is 100% dialogue between the devil and matt, but there's also going to be implied possible-future-karen/foggy/matt. Just want to check if that's something you're okay with?

::::

"Wrong," the devil said slowly, as if he were tasting a new wine. "Well, we can focus on that, if you like, but you have the option of believing - believing, of course, being a choice - that I'm here because I care."

Matt chuckled faintly. He would have spit if he could have, but the most he could have pulled off was defiant drooling. "Leave this place."

"You let me in," the devil said gently. Matt had listened to recordings of his own voice, back in law school, but he'd never realized that it could be pitched to that soft but merciless timbre. "And I insist on having my say. Why scoff? Don't I care more? In all the decades of your life has God spoken a single word to you, except through well-meaning but answerless priests, and the kind inadequacy of the nuns? But here I am, making a house visit. And even before that I spoke to you every day - through the meaningless yowl of traffic, the silent weight of pain that stifles every human being simply because they exist, the heat in your own blood. And you go looking for me every night. I reward that kind of loyalty, Matthew."

He felt sick. The fading grip of morphine made it worse, not better. Instead of being able to think through what had just been said to him, he found himself repeating it to himself in his head. "It's not true."

"I tell the truth and nothing but the truth," said Satan. "It looks a whole lot like that to me."

Matt closed his eyes and started praying. But there was nothing. It was like whatever he said was bouncing back and dying out. Like the words were going flat in his own head.

"Trial's not over, Matthew," the devil said softly, and the sympathy in his own mild voice made Matt want to vomit.

"Okay," he said, ragged. "Okay. What do you have to say to me?"

"Let's start with Nobu," said the devil. "As I was saying. He's quite pagan, you know - I wasn't on his side at all, although I am often on Fisk's. You can change that - but we'll talk about that later. I was on yours. Wasn't that lamp very conveniently placed? Eh? And the sparks - it's not often that a falling light reacts like that, mm?"

"I never, ever, ever asked you for that," Matt said, voice contorted and ugly.

"Yes you did." The other voice was imperturbable. "You certainly weren't praying to God when you were yearning with every cell for that man to die."

"So what do you want me to do?" Matt said. "What's going to make you go away? Admit that I sinned? Yeah, I did. Maybe it wasn't accident. Maybe I wanted him to die, just for a second. Maybe you helped. But I'm sorry. I'm repent. I do."

A sweet-smelling silence. "But the truth is: you didn't care, because he wasn't Fisk. You've got tunnel vision, Matty. If I hadn't come here tonight you might not even have gone to confession about it. I don't think so. I'm sorry, I just don't see it in your heart."

"Is that what I've done wrong?"

"Listen to me," the devil said, and there was a snap to his voice that Matt had never heard in his own. "Stop talking about right or wrong. Morality has nothing to do with accountability. I want to make it very clear what I'm here for. I'm not here to preach. I'm here to prosecute you. I mean, Matt, aren't you a lawyer by trade? Shouldn't you be an old hat at this by now? Give me, one, one solid defense! Give it your best shot! At convincing Him that you haven't done anything wrong. I'm not here to judge, Matt. That's his job. Mine is quite different."

Tasting bile, Matt said: "I'm not saying that what I - I'm not - I'm not saying it wasn't wrong. But I'm sorry. I'm really sorry. I'm sorry that I killed him and that you're here. That what I was doing made you be here."

"So," said Satan thoughtfully, "are you going to stop running around the city in that mask?"

And then the devil changed. He was now wearing expensive cloth (most probably a suit, from the layers of fabric that rubbed against each other when he shifted), good leather shoes. His mass made the couch he was sitting on creak softly. He was Fisk. And now he spoke with Fisk's voice, but with a magnified richness to it that vaguely reminded Matt of almost-spoiled meat. It was Fisk's larynx fitted to the tongue of an educated orator. "We both know you're not. We both know you've gone too far to stop. You're too desperate. What are you going to do if you stop, anyway - try to go to sleep, hearing the screams for blocks around your vicinity? Walk to work catching fragments of promising conversation, forcing yourself to ignore it? Does one disquieting hallucination make justice less important, Matt?"

"Fuck you," Matt said.

A breathy laugh. "So - you stop?"

Mat opened his mouth to say maybe, but it stuck in his throat. He realized that just as he could tell when someone else was lying, so could the devil. This was, very oddly, actually a court of truth. So he was bound. That of course didn't mean Satan was bound the same way. He reminded himself of that, and let the truth unstick from his tongue, like a reluctantly relinquished sweet. "No."

"Then are you against Him?" Fisk's voice pressed.

"N - not necessarily," Matt said, in a soft panic.

"Then stopping Fisk is - more important than what you know He wants, or what your priest wants, or what your friend wants. You admit your moral compass points to a north that does not quite match that of anyone you love or look up to. You are convinced that what you are doing is necessary, and your conviction makes you take step after agonizing step."

A pause. "Matt, you realize? What I've just described is faith."

Re: Fill: Accusation (2/?)

[(Anonymous)]

Oh, man, this is so good.