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daredevilkink2016-04-21 06:34 pm
ddk_mod) wrote in daredevilkink2016-04-21 06:34 pm
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Daredevil Prompt Post #11
HEAD OVER TO PROMPT POST #12.
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[Fill] Fisk Pities Matt (4/?)
(Anonymous) 2016-05-12 04:49 am (UTC)(link)Despite what one would have thought, he didn’t prefer it to when it was too intense. He was distinctly aware of the last time it was: when he held Elektra’s body in his arms and heard her heartbeat putter out, and her body heat begin to fade, and for a while he felt everything because he didn’t have the strength to rein it in. If Stick hadn’t been there, he might have never gone home, and instead wandered the rooftops aimlessly in his suit until he passed out. Maybe that was why Stick stayed so long, all the way through the burial. It wasn’t like him, and Matt didn’t question it, but when Stick was in his apartment, and his heartbeat was steady (and it was always steady, even when he was fighting, or being tortured, or being stitched up after being tortured), Matt could pull it together, but that was a show, largely for Stick.
The rage didn’t last as long as he wanted it to, however painful it actually was and how much it itched under his skin. When it faded, nothing replaced it. He heard the world around him, but he didn’t process it, beyond the most rudimentary requirements for life. Having nothing else on his schedule, he forced himself out to beat up muggers and abusive spouses and drug dealers and even some low-level people who didn’t deserve it, but it didn’t bring him the uncomfortable level of satisfaction raw violence usually provided. He didn’t feel much guilt either. Rather, he felt less and less.
He talked to Karen after weeks of painful indecision because he remembered that he felt a lot around her; his face got hot and his heart raced sometimes and even if she was mad at him (which she was), that would be okay. Only it wasn’t okay – Karen was very mad, more than he knew quite how to deal with. She punched him in his good eye and he took it, and then she yelled at him for just standing there and taking it. She said things she would probably take back in time, if they saw each other every day because they were still working together, but they weren’t. He had passed some barrier into a weird, violent sub-dimension and she had moved on. He stood there and took it, which made her madder, and she asked for space, and he gave it to her.
Maybe he shouldn’t have. Maybe not that much. Maybe he should have tried harder to purse her, but he forgot. She faded away. She was his last link, too – Stick was gone, Foggy made his intentions clear, and Claire wanted out. Matt didn’t talk to Father Lantom much; talking exhausted him and cleared up precisely nothing. He went to Mass once a week, but otherwise, all he wanted to do was sleep. Not eat, not pay bills, not deal with his mail, not deal with his life, nothing. Couldn’t the universe just give him that?
No, the universe had never been kind to Matt Murdock, and it wasn’t about to change now. It turned its back on him and he turned its back on it. He wandered. He lost his lease. He ignored people who tried to help, though Lantom was the only one he could name. He stopped answering his phone. It stopped working entirely, probably because he wasn’t paying for it, but he could still use the accessibility features to listen to music or get on to WiFi in the rare moments when he needed some extra awareness. Most of the time he listened to the world outside of him, increasingly far away, and the sounds would just wash over him without any real penetration of his awareness. He didn’t know where he was. Sometimes he wasn’t sure if he was sleeping or awake, still alive or dead in an ally. His stomach would growl painfully but he wasn’t hungry. He didn’t want to feed it. He wanted to die, but he was too much of a coward to kill himself. Besides, it was a mortal sin.
He’d been sick for a long time probably when he was pulled out of the shelter and driven to Wilson Fisk’s. He didn’t remember when he didn’t have chills or trouble breathing. He could hear the phlegm resting in his chest, and tasted it when he coughed it up. He didn’t think too much about their confrontation, just wondered how it would end.
Two weeks later, he still wasn’t sure. Fisk didn’t want to let him go, didn’t want to hurt him, either. He expected ... something from Matt, but Matt was beginning to suspect that neither of them knew what it was. At first he didn’t care, just as he didn’t care about anything, but Fisk and the doctor and the guards insisted on things, like taking medicine and eating, and he woke up and his chest sounded dry instead of wet and he could breathe without coughing all the time and it was nice. He still wasn’t hungry, especially not for the Pedialite his doctor (Fisk’s doctor, he reminded himself) insisted he try to drink, but when food was put in front of him he ate it, and Fisk was, among other weird things, a hell of a chef. So he ended up in Fisk’s dining room/kitchenette at least every other day for one of the meals, even if he didn’t say anything. He didn’t know what to say. He didn’t know how to make small talk with Fisk.
Making small talk with Vanessa was so eerie because she was really good at it. He knew she was at least partially evil, a willing and enabling partner to Fisk’s criminal empire (which made her at least an accessory to various crimes), but she seemed genuine about everything she said. Even with his senses still not totally up to snuff, he still felt he would hear a lie, and she didn’t tell one.
On her third or fourth day back from Italy (he wasn’t sure) she knocked on his door and entered only after he admitted her, which was a first. Behind her came a guard carrying something very heavy and long.
“What are you reading?” she asked, and he wondered if Fisk had tried to identify the book while Matt was too sick to tell, because it would have taken some work.
“It’s, um, Ecclesiastes,” he said. “It’s short, so it’s not too heavy.”
“You grew up with it, I take it?”
“Actually, when I was a kid, I preferred the lives of saints,” he said. “I grew up in a Catholic orphanage and that’s what they give you first. After that, things seem wordy and boring. The bible’s stories are rarely in neat packages.”
She was nodding. “I certainly am familiar with the saints, but I admit, mostly from an artistic standpoint.” She said to the two men, who were mounting something on the (presumably) blank wall, “No, a bit higher, if you would. Yes, that’s right.” She turned back to Matt. “Some of the saints led lives that one might call, without meaning to be offensive, grotesque.”
“Saint Sebastian, pierced with arrows.” He managed a little smile. “I saw a picture of him in a book before I was blind. It was like reading a violent comic book, so of course I liked it.”
“It does lend itself to art. Some painters prefer to work in extremes, to draw the most emotion they can from their audiences. The images force emotion.” She broke off to supervise whatever was being put up. “I hope you don’t mind. I found this piece and it doesn’t fit with my gallery’s spring theme, so I thought it would work here.”
Art. They were putting up art. He wasn’t sure why she was asking him for permission. “Okay.”
When it was properly secured, the guards left, and she said, “You can touch it.”
“The oils on my hands – “
“They won’t do any damage,” Vanessa assured him. “Just try not to scratch it.”
Matt was very gentle, touching it only with a lot of hesitation, as if it would explode. He knew it wouldn’t – it was a panel of solid wood, only about two inches deep. “It’s pine,” he said. “Polished.”
“It’s a Bhutanese wood carving. The technique is called par zo.”
“They smoke a lot of weed in Bhutan.”
“Bhutan by way of the East Village,” she said with amused annoyance. “They said I would barely smell it. I suppose you’re different.”
“I live in Hell’s Kitchen. I’m used to the smell,” Matt said, running his fingers in the groves. He really couldn’t make heads or tails of it, and Vanessa must have seen it on his face, because she took his hand to more carefully guide it along the surface. He flinched at first, but her touch was politely insistent, so he relented.
“It’s the eight auspicious symbols of Mahayana Buddhism, done vertically.” She went down each symbol with him. All of them were unfamiliar – the Wheel of Buddhist law, the parasol of kingship, the two fishes representing the sacred rivers, the right-turning conch shell representing the sound of the Buddha’s teachings – and were hard to puzzle out just from feel. He would have never managed on his own, but he did okay with her help. There was paint on them, and she told him about the bright colors, and what they meant. “This one is my favorite,” she said, making sure his fingers gently looped around and around some kind of Celtic-like knot. “It’s called the Endless Knot. There’s no beginning and no end. It’s a symbol geometric design, but it displays a profound concept of the interconnectedness of all beings.”
She withdrew her hand, but Matt continued to trace each line, finding layers but never an ending. “Do you believe in it?”
“Buddhism? I’m not so sure. That we as people cannot be totally separate from the lives of other people? I find that an easier concept to accept. It goes against our nature as individuals, particularly in Western culture, but that doesn’t make it less true. Even though we act in a solitary manner and feel distinct, all of our actions have results that affect the people around us, whether we can see it or not. Our destinies are always entwined.”
Matt wished he could get a better read on her. While he was so congested, his head felt like it was oversized and floaty, and he was still week even though his caloric intake was improving. That and a constant dehydration headache dulled everything except he basics he couldn’t escape. “I like it. The art, I mean.”
“I thought you might. Wilson also prefers more of the post-modern paintings than traditional Eastern handicrafts.”
That made sense. “I bought some art. For my apartment. I wasn’t intending to, but I thought about it, after our meeting.”
“What did you buy?”
He shrugged. “I went to the flea market on 39th with my co-workers and they picked out something that was in my price range. It was a big canvas. Something with oils – big and colorful and lots of squares. They said it would cheer up the place.”
“Do you remember the colors?”
He shook his head. “I don’t think in colors that much anymore. I know I should, but it’s hard to maintain. If the color doesn’t have a particular meaning, I don’t really care.” He turned away from the carving and faced her. “Also, the man in the booth didn’t have quite your talent for description.”
Why was he talking to her like this? Strategically, revealing unnecessary details to one of his jailors was a bad idea, unless it would make her more sympathetic to him. And she already was pretty damn sympathetic, because it was clear she bought this for him, not the room, even if she wouldn’t admit it. She’d gone out of her way to acquire art for a blind person her fiancé was blackmailing. He didn’t know what to make of that. What could he do, other than be honest? “Thank you. For showing it to me. The imagery was a little unfamiliar, but I like it.”
“The paints are acrylic, so you can touch it all you want,” she said. “I know you don’t go out much. Do you need anything? Music? More books?”
He should have asked for a laptop – he didn’t remember anything about where his old one ended up – but that would have been expensive, though he doubted that much less expensive than the art on the wall. And he didn’t want to be indebted to Fisk. Braille books were heavy and expensive and they had to be acquired through specialty stores or the internet. “Fisk and I – we have different tastes in music.”
“I’ll see what I can do,” she said. “Will you join us for dinner tonight?”
Matt knew he couldn’t say no. It would be rude, and Vanessa was being so nice to him. But it would also be uncomfortable. He hadn’t had a formal dinner with both Fisk and Vanessa; he wouldn’t know what to say. But she would probably fill that gap. “Yes.”
“Fantastic.” She kissed him on the cheek. In a friendly, European way. Sort of. “See you at seven.”
And then she left, because what the fuck.
Re: [Fill] Fisk Pities Matt (4/?)
(Anonymous) 2016-05-12 09:16 pm (UTC)(link)Re: [Fill] Fisk Pities Matt (4/?)
(Anonymous) 2016-05-12 11:43 pm (UTC)(link)Re: [Fill] Fisk Pities Matt (4/?)
(Anonymous) 2016-05-13 01:34 pm (UTC)(link)Re: [Fill] Fisk Pities Matt (4/?)
(Anonymous) 2016-05-13 12:12 am (UTC)(link)