daredevilkink | Daredevil Prompt Post #11

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Daredevil Prompt Post #11

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Have we had a Time Traveler's Wife AU yet? Matt as a time traveler anyone?

Yeah, so this prompt totally cured my writers block. I should have something in the next few days. A week, maybe.

!!!! :D

Always Crashing in the Same Car

Matt’s across the street from the spot where it happens, hanging back to keep out of the way before the chaos starts. He doesn’t want to be here. Honestly, he wouldn’t have ever chosen this—this moment especially, but he doesn’t get a say in any of that. He never has, but now he’s stuck here. To make the whole thing that much worse, he’s rooted to the sidewalk like a post, unable to move a single muscle, and he does not want to be here. Unceremoniously dumped in this little pocket of space-time yet again (and again and again) and he hates it. He never asked for this.

The tableau before him by now is a well-worn groove. The needle drops down. The record skips. The song begins again. “Truck,” he mutters under his breath, and truck tires screech in the ugly, awful way they always do. “Cue old man,” and then the deafening *boom crunch* of impact, followed by the clattering of steel drums as they cascade off the truck and spill down into the street. Matt wishes he were anywhere else. Anywhere in the world. Studying with Foggy, like he’s supposed to be, had the universe made any kind of sense. But it doesn’t, so he’s not.

“Oh my god,” a man just to his left says, almost hysterically. “What happened. Did you see what happened?”

Matt tugs at the ill-fitting clothes he’d pilfered from someone’s rooftop clothesline. (First order of business when unstuck in time: find something to wear.) “No,” he answers honestly.

“Oh,” the guy says, vaguely disappointed.

Matt breathes out hard through his nose, shrugs and says to the guy, “truck ran the light, nearly hit someone. That kid out there, the one the ground? Saved the man’s life.” He says it dispassionately, like it’s nothing more than someone else's story. Like it’s not some raw and festering mass of pain and anguish still burning somewhere deep down in his very guts.
“Holy shit,” the guy says. He sounds like maybe he was the one hit by a truck. Matt shrugs. So much for dispassionate.

“Yeah,” he says. “You’ll probably read about it in the paper.” He swallows. “Probably soon.”

After a while Matt loses track of the guy, but honestly, he doesn’t care. There’s a lot of chaos and commotion that goes along with an accident like this, and he doesn’t care enough to take all that in. The only thing he does care about is this: his dad is out there right now, less than fifty feet in front of him, and he could… he could run out there, he could tell him, he could tell his dad how… and right now he could go and touch him, throw his arms around him tight, too tight and never, ever let go of him, because… but no. He doesn’t do that. He’s been here dozens of times now, and he’s never done it, not even once.

“Hey,” a voice says. It’s his voice, his own voice coming from somewhere outside his head. “Hey, come here,” he says, and it’s as familiar and comforting as a warm blanket or his favorite sweater. He touches the back of Matt’s hand, at first just to let him know he’s there, but also to telegraph his intention. They buoy each other. They just... stand there holding onto each other for dear life, but it's okay, it's good. He doesn’t know which one initiated it, but it doesn’t matter, because it’s him, it’s just him.

“I hate that we keep coming here,” Matt says. His voice sticks in his throat a little, and he has to blink away hot tears. Otherwise they won’t stop falling.

“You’d think the first time was traumatizing enough.”

Matt huffs out a bitter laugh, because he wasn’t expecting that, like he can just joke about this stuff. Though maybe that bodes well for his mental health someday. He hopes, anyway.

“Come on. Let me buy me a beer,” other Matt say. “I know a place you like.”

*

Matt-from-ten-years-from-now takes him to a little hole-in-the-wall Italian place he says gets demolished in a the next few years, knocked down and replaced with some kind of cookie cutter chain drug store. “The neighborhood goes through some weird growing pains.” He says it in a way that makes Matt think that’s some kind of understatement, but he doesn’t elaborate any further, and Matt doesn’t push. He doesn’t have a hard and fast rule against talking about future goings-on per se, he’s just always tended to avoid it. He shrugs. If I say so.

“Hm. I can’t tell if you two are related or not,” says their server, who has materialized tableside. “Let me guess, brothers?” She sounds young, Matt’s age maybe.

“Good guess,” Matt and ten-years-from-now-Matt both say.

She laughs, and slaps down a couple of laminated menus. “I’m Katie,” she says, tapping at something plastic on her lapel. “I’ll let you guys have a couple minutes to decide.”

She turns to go, so Matt says, “Wait,” so she turns back expectantly. “Do you… would you happen to have… um.”

“--A Braille menu,” ten-years-from-now-Matt says. “My… brother and I, we both…”

“Oh, shit,” Katie mutters under her breath, and Matt tries to keep a neutral expression. She straightens up and pretends she didn’t just react the way she did. “I’ll be right back,” she says, with entirely too much cheer.

Matt raises his eyebrows.

“Crisis averted,” she calls from the server’s station. She rushes over, and carefully sets down the new menu in the wide, open neutral space of the table’s center.

“I don’t know about a crisis,” Matt says, “but thank you.”

“Sure,” she says, again, with entirely too much sunshine. “Sorry it’s just the one menu.”

“It’s fine,” ten-years-from-now-Matt says.

Matt pushes the menu across the table. “Age before beauty.”

“Asshole,” Other Matt says, warmly.

They end up picking out the same kind of beer and the same pasta dish. Katie seems to find this a lot more amusing than it probably is.

“If there wasn’t such an obvious difference in age, I’d say you guys were twins.”

“Stranger things have happened,” ten-years-from-now-Matt says.

Matt hums in agreement.

Katie evaporates from their table like early morning dew, and then it’s just the two of them. Just Matt. Matt squared. He thinks about the dozen or so versions of himself out there right now, milling about in the aftermath of the accident that set this whole thing off. How they usually don’t seek out and talk to one another whenever they’re sucked back here. How they probably should. Matt’s almost afraid to ask what made this time different.

“Hey,” ten-years-from-now-Matt says.

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Hm. Okay. How’s school.”

How’s school. Yeah, okay. Matt’s pretty sure he’s really asking about Foggy.

He can’t stop the smile that takes over his entire face when he thinks about Foggy. “It’s good. Different.” Because Foggy’s the best, and Matt didn’t know people could form such easy friendships the way they have. Foggy Nelson is and continues to be an education.

“Does…” He shouldn’t ask. “Does he ever find out?” Matt wants to unstick that question the second it’s out of his mouth, send it back to a time where it doesn’t get asked.

Matt-from-ten-years-from-now is quiet for a long time. His breathing and heart rate stay normal, so Matt’s not sure what to expect. He picks at his fingernails as the void between them grows and grows. “Yeah,” he says eventually, and Matt’s surprised how fond he sounds. His voice is thick with it. Matt sniffs, and he's wiping his sleeve across a wet nose before he realizes he’s doing it. “There’s been some… rough spots, but it’s good. We’re good.” Matt’s only known Foggy for a few months, but knowing that they stay such great friends warms Matt in ways he never knew he needed.

“I’m so glad to hear that,” Matt says, trying his best to keep his voice steady. Foggy doesn’t leave. Knows exactly what kind of perversion of nature he is, between the fucked up senses and the time traveling, and he doesn’t leave? Matt’s not sure he knows what to make of it.

Matt can’t help but smile as he digs into his pasta fra diavolo. This encounter with a future self so far is significantly less fraught than he had anticipated. It’s… nice. It’s a nice change of pace. “Maturity suits me, I think,” Matt says after mulling over it while he chews, because that’s what this has to be. The reflection of the person he’ll one day grow in to is comfortable enough in his own skin for this sort of relaxed candor. Maybe that’s what makes this time different. He breathes out, because it’s a comfort to know that, too.

Other Matt laughs a little through his nose. Half amused, half curious. “I don’t know if maturity is the right answer.”
He presses his mouth into a flat line. “Do I have the wrong impression?”

“No. Well, maybe. I don’t know. It’s hard to say. I mean, I remember what it was like,” to sit there, he doesn’t say. To think and worry and wonder about the future. If I do good. If I matter. If I make a difference. “But… you know. I’m still me.”

Yeah. He does, of course he does, because he is. “I want to believe I’m going about everything the right way,” through normal, legal means, he leaves unsaid. Sometimes, though he worries his past will catch up with him. Make decisions for him he doesn’t want to make. It was brief, they barely spoke two words, but last week he’d encountered a Matt in their dorm room about ten years older who…

“My face was pretty beat up. You were… a little freaked out.”

“Yeah,” Matt says closing his eyes. He rubs at them before opening them again. “I'm not buying the ‘Occupational hazards of the one-two punch of blind and naked time travel.’”

Ten-years-from-now-Matt has absolutely nothing to say to that.

‘Please tell me that I really am a lawyer, at least. That I’m--” On the right path, heading the right direction.

“…yes.” There’s a ‘but’ there. Dammit. He doesn’t want to know.

Matt pushes his plate away. He’s lost his appetite.

He rubs at his face and eyes some more. The first hints of a migraine start to web across his brain, and he knows it’s time.

“Pretty sure my ride’s almost here,” Matt says quietly.

Any ‘goodbyes’ or ‘see you laters’ would be pointless, so Matt just raises his hand to catch Katie’s attention.

“Can you show me to the men’s room?” he asks as soon as she arrives tableside. He finds the crook of her arm easily enough as she guides him toward the restrooms. “Thanks,” he says, more than a little shakily. The last few moments of unstuck time are always the worst. The world becomes too unstable, and his senses, already fucked up enough, don’t know what to do with the whole thing. The entire world sounds like a roaring ocean, and with it his headache deepens and spreads like thin and cracking ice. He’s sweating and he’s not sure he’s going to make it in time.

Katie must notice his distress, because she offers a gentle, “come on,” and picks up the pace, weaving around chairs and tables and other people as they hurry toward the bathrooms. He tries not to trip over his own feet as they go, but his legs aren’t cooperating as they start to feel less and less substantial.

He tries for a winning smile as an apology for all the trouble, but he’s sure he misses the mark.

“Hopefully it’s not something you ate,” Katie offers sympathetically.

The best he can manage is a shake of his head.

“I’ll bring some water to your seat. If you want,” she says. She squeezes his arm, then gives the bathroom door a quick slap-slap to indicate where it is. He pushes through it, and slams bodily into a wall. Legs skitter out from under him, and he flails for the sink before hitting the floor.

Breathe, breathe, breathe. Goddammit, breathe. This isn’t anything new, it happens this way every single time, but it’s always so much worse than he remembers. Nothing exists but the ocean in his brain, and he’s drowning in it. Pressure in and around his body builds and builds and builds, and the world pressing down on him is too heavy and he’s going to explode, he’s going to—

His ears pop, and for a long moment, it’s quiet, just quiet. Then sound slowly fades back in; the buzzing of crickets, the hum of sodium lights, what is probably a cat scurrying off.

He’s huffs out a laugh, because he’s behind the bushes just outside their building. And he needs to get inside, find his dorm room, and do so without anyone else noticing. While naked.

The Matt he had lunch with today suggested Foggy knows all about his problem with unstuck time, and maybe it would be better to bring him in on that sooner rather than later. It would make life a whole lot easier, that’s for sure. He feels his way along the edge of the building and does his best to avoid tripping on any roots or brush. Maybe a duffle for spare clothes back here would be a good idea, though his returns have historically tended to be too random for that to be very practical. He’s going to develop a reputation for streaking across campus if this keeps up. A recent near miss with Foggy was bad enough. Matt had found his clothes in time, but he knew he wasn’t fooling anybody. Least of all Foggy. Disheveled, he’d called him, when he found Matt in the library hastily buttoning his shirt. Like a drowned puppy, Murdock. Jesus.

Matt stops, and takes a second to breathe. There’s a kind of stillness in the air that’s unique to the small hours of the morning. Like the world’s holding its breath. Then the sun breaks the horizon, and everything starts again. He likes this time best. Plus, it’s quieter, easier to navigate. And there aren’t as many people around to accidentally flash, which is always a bonus.

Up ahead, there’s an unlocked window he can force open enough to shimmy into, and when he does, his fall to the floor isn’t anywhere near as graceful as he would have liked. Still. It’s better than risking exposure outside.

He slowly rises, and as he does, he opens up his focus just a little bit to get a sense of the room, and maybe find something to cover up with. It’s one of the offices, he thinks. He notices a paper bag sitting innocuously on the floor under the desk, and at first it utterly confuses him. It smells like… well, it smells like him. He deepens his focus, and yeah. Inside the bag are the clothes he’d left behind. He tries not to think too much about the implications of that. Instead, he quickly dresses, throws on his glasses, and unfolds his cane. Then he crumples up the paper bag, and tosses it into the wastepaper basket behind him as he slips out the door. Nothing but net.

ANON THIS IS SO GOOD. YOU ARE AMAZING.

That was the most perfect and most painful place for Matt to return to. That part when he was thinking about running up to his dad... ouch D': And I LOVE how future!Matt was there too. I love how they were sitting in the restaurant talking to each other, with Matt looking after of himself like that, and even kinda keeping secrets from himself, aaah. It was so bittersweet.

I just love your writing style too. It's so descriptive and the voices are so spot-on.

<33333

!!! NO YOU'RE AMAZING STOP IT <333

Gosh, I am such a sucker for time travel stories, it's redic. I've read The Time Traveler's Wife more times than I can remember, and I really love the "rules", I guess of how it works. There aren't any weird inventions, or universe breaking paradoxes should you run into other versions of yourself to worry about. but there is plenty of awkward nakedness. lol It's fun. And room for interesting stuff thematically, which I'm having fun playing with.

Though maybe the 'literally lying to yourself' is a little too obvious, but I'm having fun playing with that, too.

<3

This is so interesting! I mean, good interesting. Fun to read. Yeah, that's what I mean.

Well, I mean, interesting is better than boring, right?

Ha. Thanks for reading, I hope to have more soon.

I love how Matt there are all these Matt's watching this one moment in time... Poor guy. I love how he interacts with himself. Also love the mystery of the folded clothes. LOL The fact that his cane is there is worry-some. Probably aren't that many blind students on campus. (Wonder why this hadn't been done sooner - any excuse for random naked Matt Murdock... This is perfect - even has a plot reason for it. LOL) Anyway, can't wait for more!

I promise plenty more random awkward nekkidness!

Thanks for reading <3

This is so good!!!!! I love that you've made it easy for readers who've not yet read the book to catch on, thank you!

Re: [Fill] Always Crashing in the Same Car 1/?

(Anonymous) - 2016-06-26 03:21 (UTC) - Expand

“What the hell time is it,” Foggy mutters from under the covers when Matt eventually sneaks back into their room. He hadn't actually woken him up, judging from his heart rate and body temperate, but he wasn’t about to say so, either.

He makes some apologetic noises as he settles in, propping his cane by the door and setting his glasses on his desk.

“Look at you. Three in the damn a.m., Murdock, Jesus. Why are you such a stud. Enlighten a fella, wouldya?”

Matt laughs, because Foggy’s weirdly into Matt’s (mostly fictional) sexual conquests. It’s kind of endearing. Or creepy. It might be creepy. He’s not entirely he sure he knows the difference.

“Do I know her?” Foggy sits up and snaps his fingers at Matt as Matt sits on his bed and pulls off his sneakers. “Let me guess, Debbie?” From a party last week. Foggy said she was hot, but Matt assumed he wasn’t talking about her body temperature, which, admittedly, elevated a tiny bit whenever Matt spoke. They were flirting and she was into it. Maybe that’s what ‘hot’ looks like. “Dammit. Every. Single. Time with you, it’s uncanny. Also? Entirely unfair.”

“No, no,” Matt says, laughing. Sobering a little he adds, “nothing like that.”

Foggy makes a snorting noise that can only be described as incredulous.
“Okay, Katie. Her name was Katie.”

“I knew it! Actually, no I don’t. I don’t know a Katie. How do you know a Katie.”

Matt laughed. “Met her today, actually.”

Foggy’s moving his arms, gesturing at himself, Matt supposes. “This is me with my jaw on the floor.” It's not even a little bit slack jawed. Matt has to hide his smile under a yawn, but, it isn’t a lie. Not entirely. The yawn gets away from him a bit. “I think I hate you.”

“You love me.”

“Yeah, I don’t think I do,” but he says it with so much affection, Matt doesn’t believe him for a second.

He lets himself fall backward on his bed, head hitting the pillow even though he’s still fully dressed. He’s kind of floaty, and he thinks maybe taking a scalding hot shower to wash away The Car Crash, and Matts-plural might be a good idea, but he also thinks drifting off right here, disheveled clothes and all, might be an even better one. He loses the thread of whatever Foggy’s still rattling on about, and dreams of his father. He dreams of his father in the ring, face slack and fists curled tight, and then Matt turns around and now the boxing ring is a courtroom. The ring is a courtroom and Matt’s the boxer, standing in the exact same spot his father stood, the Battlin’ Jack Murdock robe draped over his shoulders like a cape. Like Superman’s cape. He holds his head down, and his fists hang from limp arms like they’re made of string. His face is hot and swollen, and warm blood sluices off him like he’s standing in the rain. He starts awake when a voice somewhere in the back of his mind whispers, “is this really how it’s supposed to be?”

*

“Hey, Earth to Matty,” Foggy sing-songs. They’d decided it was entirely too gorgeous a day to spend it cooped up indoors, so he and Foggy collected their books and trudged out to a spot somewhere on the sprawling lawn not far from their room. He wanted to smell the fresh cut grass on the light afternoon breeze, to feel the warm sun on his face, but he’s not because Matt’s lost somewhere, just completely spaced out. Sometimes it takes a couple days after traveling to find his sea legs again.

“Yeah, sorry,” he says. “Can you repeat that last part?”

Concentration’s shot all to hell, but he tries, he really does, because it’s important. “Don’t be like me,” his dad had said. “Use those brains ‘a yours, not your fists like your ol’ man.” And Matt knows, no matter how far away it seems, he knows he succeeds, because he’s seen the proof of it for himself. It’s the only reason he’s able to buckle down and keep working. (“Get back to work, Matty.”) Because it’s what his dad wanted him to do.

“All right,” Foggy says after a while, probably after deciding he’d finally had enough of Matt being a space cadet. He stands up and makes an exaggerated show of brushing himself off, for whose benefit, Matt can only guess. Still, he definitely appreciates Foggy’s tendency towards the dramatic, even if he isn’t exactly able to let Foggy know about it. “I,” he announces grandly, “know just the thing.”

Laughing, Matt asks, “What? What is it? And don’t say ‘you’ll see,’ ‘cause… you know.” He reaches out, and Foggy pulls him up to standing.

Foggy scoffs. “Come on. When do I-- Actually, no. Don’t answer that.”

“All the time, you say stuff like that all the time,” and Matt should probably feel bad about teasing Foggy like this, but, screw that. A little ribbing never hurt anybody.

“I can’t believe you’re busting my ass over a figure of speech.” Foggy mutters. When he stops short, Matt nearly misses bumping into him. “Wait. You are just busting my ass, right?”

“Yeah, Fog. It’s no big deal. Most people don’t even notice when they do it.” It always throws people off when Matt does it, too, which… well, what can ya do.

Later, after they’re back and settled in their room, Matt’s sprawled out on the floor with his head nestled comfortably on one of Foggy’s thighs.

“Dude--!” Foggy says, which is hilarious for some reason. Matt can’t stop laughing. “This? Is awesome. I can’t believe I got you to loosen up enough to agree to this.”

‘This’ being a little bit of… herbal medicine. Matt had balked at first, but Foggy had somehow successfully pleaded his case. Which, honestly shouldn’t have come as any great surprise.

It’s a testament to how loose and comfortable he’s feeling, because all he wants is to know his very best friend’s opinion on Something Really Important. “Hey, Fog. Hey. Do you believe in… Hm. Okay, so, let’s say some scientist somewhere invents a time machine.”

“Great Scott!” Foggy intones, tapping Matt’s wrist with the back of hand. They have a nice, easy rhythm going. Hit. Exhale. Pass.

“Right, like that.”

“So glad you know that one. Movie references are pretty hit-and-miss with you.”

“That one’s kind of a famous one, Fog.”

Matt repeats the hand tapping gesture for Foggy, which for some reason makes Foggy laugh from his nose.

“Okay. So. A Time machine? I say as the resourceful and adventurous young men that we are, hunt down said old, wild haired scientist dude, and convince him to take us on an epic journey so that we may stomp all over history as if it were our own personal playground! Imagine it, Matt,” and Foggy’s taken to gesturing grandly, “we could see anything we wanted. See an original Shakespeare play! Or, or witness the signing of the Declaration! I mean, we could meet King Arthur if we wanted, right? How awesome would that be! Oh, except no,” Foggy says, trailing off a little. With almost comical alarm, he adds, “Wait, he was real right?”

Matt laughs. “I think so, maybe, but that’s not really what I’m--”

“Nah, I feel ya. You’re saying we’d have to be super careful about it, right? Like, if we accidently ran into our future selves? Kabloom! Universe-ending paradox. So that would kinda suck. Not to mention the whole, you know, butterfly thing.”

“Butterfly thing?”

“Yeah. You know. A butterfly flaps its wings in China and causes a tornado on the other side of the world, or whatever.”

“Unintended consequences.”

“Right, I mean, take you, for example. What if you never--”

Matt wraps his hand around Foggy’s wrist and gives it a light squeeze as a warning. Please don’t finish that sentence.

“Shit. Matt. I swear I wasn’t trying to be an asshole.”

“No, I know. I’m pretty sure I walked right into that with this whole thing. Don’t worry about it. Just… what I’m wondering about, is… if,” he pauses here, because he’s not sure if he can articulate the entirety of what he’s really asking. “Hm. Okay. So, if you can get into a machine and go to whatever time you wanted, doesn’t that kind of imply that all of history is already written? That the past and the future already exist, and exists simultaneously? So what I worry about… I mean, what I wonder about is the concept of free will. I believe that it exists, I was raised to believe it does, that God gives us our own choices in life, but you know. Sometimes I wonder.”

“Dude,” and the way Foggy stretches out the word is the best thing Matt’s ever heard. Ever. Dude. Duuude. “You have put some thought into this.”

Matt breathes out a small laugh and rubs at the back of his head. “Probably I should be having this conversation with my priest instead of my stoner roommate.”

“Not saying you’re wrong about that, buddy.” Foggy pulls his arm away from where it’s been draped over Matt’s side and passes it over his head. “I mean, whoosh. Why worry about, though. That’s what I want to know. Maybe we do actually have free will, or maybe it’s all an illusion. Fuck if I know. Turns out, though? I don’t actually give a flying fig.”

“You don’t care? At all?” Matt’s kind of stunned. “You’re going to be a lawyer, Foggy, don’t you think knowing the truth could, I don’t know, maybe have significant legal implications?”

“Aw, dude, is that what this about? Jesus.” Foggy taps Matt on the head to indicate he’s getting up. Matt groans, but complies, bringing his legs up and moving them into a loose lotus pose. He’s killed the mood. Foggy’s packing up, pulling out a shoebox from under his bed and stashing away his stuff.

“Fog--” I’m sorry.

When Foggy comes back to sit next to him, he throws an arm around his shoulders in a loose hug. “Buddy. I cannot believe you’re having doubts about legal justice. You.”

“I’m not, though! At least, I don't think I am.”

“Good, I mean, C’mon. As a nine years old, your hero was a Supreme Court Justice. Which, by the way? Is super nerdy. Hm.” Foggy pauses, and exaggerates scratching at the hair covering his chin. “Who’d be a more normal Matt Murdock hero. Your dad was a boxer, right? So hows about Ali.”

Matt laughs a little. “Sure. He is The Greatest, after all. But I would just say my dad’s my hero.”

Next to him, Matt notices Foggy’s body temperature spike, like he’s embarrassed for him or something. He’s pulled his arm away, anyway, and now they’re just sitting quietly, pressed together shoulder to shoulder. It’s stupid, he thinks Foggy’s going to tell him. That it’s stupid to idolize his father just because the man is… Matt opens his mouth to at least try to minimize the damage, but shuts it when he notices that distinct tang of salt in the air. “Oh, man,” Foggy says, sounding as if Matt had just delivered him a knockout punch. “Way to bowl over a guy.”

“Sorry.”

“No, don’t be. It’s good. We’re good. Really running the gamut, though. Um. What were we talking about again?”

“I think it was Marshall.”

“Oh course, because that’s all you ever talk about.”

Matt laughs. “That’s not true.”

“Well, what would he say?”

“My dad, or Marshall.”

“Matt,” Foggy says, almost as a whine. “Both. Either one.”

“Do the right thing,” Matt says immediately. “The only thing that matters is doing the right thing, even if it’s difficult. Especially if it is,” and he’s pretty sure both men would agree with him on that.

*

When Matt was a kid, there was a brief period not too long after the accident where he sometimes would have a problem with blinking in and out time. It wouldn’t last very long, seconds at most usually, but it happened often enough that is was definitely a problem. The Sisters at St. Agnes of course didn’t understand what was really going on with him, they simply had the odd suspicion that the troubled young blind kid had, for some inexplicable reason, developed the truly bizarre habit of stripping off his clothes in odd and random places around the orphanage and at equally odd and random hours. They’d catch him sometimes scurrying back to his room in the middle of the night, or hunting around for his wayward clothing in some off-limits area of the grounds. No amount of discipline seemed to stem the behavior, and Matt was disciplined a lot.

They stopped somewhere around the onset of puberty, leaving him with the somewhat more stable shifts he knows and loves today. He’d somehow convinced himself he was done dealing with those quick-in-quick-outs until he found himself here, standing on the other side of the equation.

“Foggy! Fog-gy!” Matt yell, and Foggy bursts into the men’s room like he’s here to put out a fire. “Go get some of my clothes, go quick!”

“Holy shit! Should I go get some--”

“No! Just get some clothes, please, Foggy!”

“Okay, shit,” and Foggy explodes out the door the same way he came in, like a man on a mission.

“Shh. Shh. It’s okay. It’s okay, you’re safe now, you’re with me.”
“Dad?” little Matt sobs, and the sound of it is a sucker punch to the gut. On the cold linoleum floor, he tries to level out his breathing, but he can’t, he can’t because he doesn’t remember this, he doesn’t remember… he’s on the ground, or his dad is, he can’t tell the difference, and he can’t remember…

“Shit, shit,” he mutters because he is not crying, then, “I’m here, I’m here, Matty.” It’s a lie, but it’s only a lie by omission. It doesn’t matter though because the whole thing is over before it even began; one moment Matt’s running his fingers through his ten-year-old self’s hair, and then the next there’s a great big nothing left pooling in his lap. A loud pop, and then, nothing. Nothing at all. Like it never even happened.

Foggy’s bursting through the men’s room door again, winded from running, and it’s all Matt can do to keep from throwing himself up into his friend’s arms and sobbing.

“Where’s the kid?” he asks, utterly baffled. “…I got the clothes, like you asked…”

“Home,” Matt says, trying his best to keep his voice even, even though he knows full well that St. Agnes was never anyone’s idea of home. “He went home.”

“…You okay?” Poor Foggy.

“Yeah,” he lies, or maybe it’s not a lie, maybe instead it’s a promise. It’ll be true for him one day. One day he’ll be okay.

Re: [Fill] Always Crashing in the Same Car 2/?

(Anonymous) - 2016-06-27 06:03 (UTC) - Expand

Re: [Fill] Always Crashing in the Same Car 2/?

(Anonymous) - 2016-06-27 21:14 (UTC) - Expand

Re: [Fill] Always Crashing in the Same Car 2/?

(Anonymous) - 2016-06-29 00:27 (UTC) - Expand

Matt presses his hand into some kind of syrupy residue as he pushes himself up to standing, and the nearby smell of garbage is overwhelming. He tries not to gag on it, and has to actively block it out just to get any sort of bearing on his surroundings. He picks up some minor police activity nearby; a radio or two, a cop car. And above all the noise and the smell, is Matt.

“Go into the alleyway behind you. Hurry. Brett’s made you.”

“Brett?”

“Mahoney. A cop. I… we trust him.”

Matt does as he’s instructed, slinking into the alley only all too aware of his nakedness. He might not know where he is along the timeline, but he is pretty sure that whenever he’s landed this time, it’s well into the night. He knows this because even though it’s hot and muggy, there isn’t a sun blazing down on him overhead. Still, the sooner he finds cover, the better.

He easily pulls himself up a rusted and creaky fire escape, and scrambles up to the third story where there are three bathing suits and a towel draped over the metal railing, ostensibly drying in humid summer air. He leaves the two girls’ one-piece suits, and pulls down a pair of still damp swim trunks and towel. “Thanks for letting me borrow these,” he mutters toward the apartment window. He lets himself drop down into the alleyway below, and dresses in time for Mahoney’s arrival. He drapes the towel over his shoulders and wraps it tightly around himself.

“I see you back there. Come on out, hands where I can see 'em.” Mahoney moves like molasses toward him, arms up and gun drawn. Matt relaxes his stance so he appears as harmless as possible. “Murdock,” the cop says, relieved. “You know, I heard of dumpster diving, but this is taking it too far,” he says, gesturing at Matt’s choice of wardrobe.

“Hi, Brett,” Matt says, flashing his most winning smile. Present Matt used the cop’s first name without hesitation, so he’s hoping it doesn’t come across as presumptuous if he does it now, too.

“Are you drunk? Do you need someone to take you home?” Mahoney says, loosening his stance, holstering his weapon, and he speaks to Matt so carefully that Matt can’t help the scowl that crosses his face. He pulls the towel closer around his chest, and he knows how this looks, he does. He doesn’t know why this cop’s first instinct is to feel pity for Matt, but he can’t say he enjoys it very much.

“Tell him Foggy’s on his way to take you home.”

Matt pulls a hand out from under his towel. Loosely sets his fingertips over his mouth and pretends he’s rubbing his chin, scratching at stubble. “Is he?”

“Um. I’m working on it.”

“Great,” he mumbles. “Um. Foggy’s, he’s. You know Foggy, right? Nelson? He’s on his way. To um. To pick me up.” Matt cringes at how badly he stumbled through that sentence, which probably isn’t helping dissuade the cop’s less than stellar impression of him.

“You don’t sound too sure about that.”

“That’s ‘cause I’m not.”

“Yeah, I don’t really need to hear about your personal problems,” Mahoney says. “Are you--”

The thud of heavy boots setting down behind them interrupts whatever else Mahoney was going to say. “There a problem here, detective?” Matt balls his fists at the clear playfulness in his voice, and Mahoney jumps clear out of his skin.

“Jesus Christ, you cannot keep doing that. I’m gonna die of a heart attack ‘cause ‘a you, and then I really will bust your ass.”

Present Matt laughs, and Mahoney mutters under his breath, “damn. I was so sure, too,” which just seems like an odd non sequitur until he turns to Matt and adds, “you grew up at St. Agnes, right?”

“Um. Yes? Why do you ask, detective?”

“No reason. Just checking,” Mahoney says, whisper quiet.

Matt wonders if this cop knows about all his time travel bullshit, until Mahoney says, “So. Daredevil. What’s your business here, if you don’t mind me asking.”

Which… Matt angles his head to deepen his focus on Present Matt, and he’s pretty sure he’s wearing... body armor? And some kind of a helmet thing, too, which seems to be obscuring most or all of his face. Like a mask. Matt’s gut flips over.

“What…” Matt says, voice sticking in his throat a little, and he really, really wants to reach his hand out and touch… himself.

“I don’t mind at all. Just noticed Mr. Murdock here seemed a little lost. That’s all.” Matt bristles at the implication. Especially since it’s not wrong. “I’d like to see him home, if that’s okay.”

“You said Foggy’s coming to get you? Comfortable with staying with this lunatic until then?” Mahoney says to Matt. “‘Because I can take you home if you’re not.”

“Um. No, that’s fine… detective. Thank you.”

“All right,” Mahoney says to Other Matt. “But just as a warning, I will be following up with Nelson in the morning, so make sure this goes down the way it’s supposed to. Otherwise, next time we won’t be having such a friendly chat.”

“You have my word,” Other Matt says, and Mahoney mutters about the worth of that as he returns to his car, radios the all clear, and drives off.

Once he’s alone, Matt balls his hands and starts pacing. Self-hatred is an odd thing when you’re him.

“I can’t believe—You. I…” Matt cuts himself off and growls in frustration.

“You know, I kept my head in the sand for a long time. Tried to… tried to pretend.” Present Matt is speaking slowly, keeping his voice pitched low. “That I was normal, despite this…” He gestures at the space between them, to indicate time travel bullshit. “But I still went to the gym every day, didn’t I? And… and somehow when I found out, when I was standing right over there, on the… on the other side of this conversation, I was somehow shocked that this,” and Other Matt knocks on the hard armor covering his chest, “that this was the outcome.”

“How is that any kind of explanation,” Matt bites out, and rushes toward him. Present Matt lifts the helmet-thing from his head and throws it hard to the ground, shaking out his sweaty hair. Keeping his arms relaxed, he blocks Matt’s right hook, and mirrors Matt by offering one of his own. His easy movements are a counterpoint to Matt’s coiled rage, and he doesn’t dodge quick enough because the punch lands square on his jaw. Matt straightens up and breathes and breathes, running his hand over the spot where the pain begins to blossom. Other Matt doesn’t offer an apology, or otherwise speak, he just stands there, alert and waiting, with his feet apart and his fists loose at his side.

A car door slams, and Matt breathes out. Foggy’s here.

“Yo, Murdocks!” Foggy’s framed in the mouth of the alley, and all Matt’s fight drains out of him. Apparently aware he’d walked into something tense, Foggy adds, “um. What’s going on.”

“Nothing,” both Matts say, and Other Matt sweeps his helmet up from the ground and is turning it over and over in his hands, like a playground ball.

“That? Will never stop being freaky. Also? Not at all suspicious,” Foggy says. He turns to face Matt. “Young Master Murdock! Your chariot awaits. And by chariot, I mean Karen’s old-person car.”

“Foggy,” Other Matt says, voice heavy with something Matt can’t identify. “Thank you, I--”

“Yup,” Foggy says, clipping his words. “That’s what I’m here for. To help you out of a jam if you need me to.”

“Can you tell Karen--”

“You called me to come pick you up, correct?”

“Um, yes?”

“Then your phone’s not broken. Call her yourself.”

“Foggy.”

Other Matt opens his mouth to speak, but Matt interrupts with a “hi,” and a small wave, because it seems like he’s been forgotten about amongst whatever’s happening here.

“Yeah, Matt. Sorry,” Foggy says, voice suddenly soft and warm. “Car’s around the corner at your eleven o’clock. And Matt?” he adds, clearly aiming his voice to Present Matt still in the alley. Something unspoken passes between them, and Other Matt waves Foggy off before pressing the helmet back on his head and vaulting up to the rooftops above.

*

In the car, Foggy keeps staring at him. He guiltily brings his hand up to his bruised face, and presses in.

“I can’t get over how young you look,” Foggy says after a while.

“Probably ‘cause I’m nineteen?”

“Nineteen. Jesus. And where you’re from I’m probably nineteen, too.”

Matt nods. He worries at the towel for several long minutes until he has to say something. “I just found out I’ve been lying to myself. For years.”

“It’s not just a river in Egypt,” Foggy says with a humorless laugh. “You told me about this, you know.”

Matt doesn’t angle his head toward Foggy. He just keeps picking at the towel.

“You told me… look, Matt, I don’t know how much I can tell you--”

Matt huffs a little. “It’s fine. ‘Universe ending paradoxes’ aren’t really a thing, as far as I know. I mean, causality gets all tangled up, but you know. It’s fine.”

“You’re such an asshole, by the way. I nearly shat myself the first time I saw your Orphan Black routine, my tighty-whities may never recover.”

“…I don’t actually know what that means,” he says, because he’s hoping Foggy isn’t just making some tasteless joke about Matt’s upbringing.

Foggy flaps a hand. “It’s a TV show. About clones.”

“You know I’m not a clone though, right? There’s actually only one of me.”

“So not the point.”

“Yeah, sorry.”

“We’re almost there, by the way.”

“Okay.”

“I’m just sayin’. I remember, you got pretty despondent there for a while, like I could tell something had happened, but. Then when you eventually told me about your… whole deal, I realized.” Foggy pauses for a long moment, formulating his words, Matt supposes. “Nelson and Murdock. That was our practice, you know? It was ours, and we did great work, we really helped people. Just. Don’t lose sight of that, man.”

“Foggy--”

“Yeah, poor choice of words, but you know what I mean.”

“No, that’s not--” The car slows and comes to a stop, and Matt lets the rest of that thought die.

“Casa de Murdock,” Foggy says grandly.

“Oh, good. Now I know where I live.” Matt follows Foggy up the stairs, and when they stop in front of what he assumes is his apartment, Foggy produces a set of keys with a jangly flourish. “Good thing you have a spare key.”

“Ha, yeah. I mean, we could go in through the roof access, but let’s not tempt fate.”

Matt’s not sure what to make of that, so he just offers Foggy a bland smile.

Once inside, he takes stock of the apartment. A short hallway empties out into wide, open layout, and he trails his knuckles along the wall to his left as he moves more into the space. “Bigger than I expected,” he mutters.

Foggy huffs, and Matt’s not sure how to read him. “I’m just gonna,” he hooks his thumb in the direction of the bedroom, and Foggy hums in acknowledgement.

Rooting through the dresser, he pulls out some comfortable bum-around-the-house clothes, then slips into the bathroom to hang the still damp swimwear.

When he comes into the living room, Foggy’s standing in front of refrigerator with the door open. Matt knows the instant Foggy’s spotted him because his breathing hitches and his body temperature spikes a tiny bit, even as the cold air from the fridge pours over him. Matt tosses him a quizzical look, but Foggy just coughs and says, “heads up,” as he reaches into the fridge and tosses a bottle at Matt.

“It’s weird I can do this kind of thing around you now,” Matt says as he easily catches the bottle. Foggy makes an unhappy noise as he follows Matt to the couch, but otherwise stays quiet. He sips at his beer; it’s decent enough, but he supposes he develops a better appreciation for it as he gets older. Seated on the couch next to him, Foggy’s huffing, and breathing in fitful starts and stops. The way he sips at his beer suggests to Matt he’s more stalling for time than actually enjoying it. “What,” he says eventually.

Foggy inhales deeply and lets it all out in one, long sigh. Sets his beer bottle down on the coffee table in front of him, and scrubs at his face and hair. “I miss you.” There’s a vague hint of salt on the air; Foggy’s trying not to cry. “We’re barely on speaking terms,” he says wetly, and Matt’s not sure when it happened, but they’re pressed firmly together now, and Matt can feel where gooseflesh breaks out on Foggy’s arm. “I hate it,” he continues, “I hate it so much, and seeing you like this, it takes me right back there. You’re the Matt I remember, my best friend, you know? And now it’s all so fucked up.” Foggy’s hand migrates toward Matt’s. First his pinky, then the whole rest of his hand, and their hands intertwine easily, like it’s the way things should always be, like they belong together.

“I’m sorry,” he says, because they might still be great friends now, but Matt fucks it up. Barely speaking. They’re barely speaking. He thinks back on sitting with an older self in that diner, the Matt who sat there and had the gall to say that things between he and Foggy were good. Some rough patches, but we’re good.

“You haven’t done anything wrong. Yet,” Foggy says. Then, “Well, no. That’s not true. There is the small matter of lying to me. About everything about you.” Matt surprised by Foggy’s tone. It’s… fond. He turns his head toward Foggy, opens his mouth to apologize, yet again, but Foggy cuts it off by pressing his lips against Matt’s open ones. Which… huh. He brings his free hand up to Foggy’s face, runs his thumb over his cheek, his closed eye, his eyebrow. Sweeps it back down to rest at the base of his throat. Things get a little… heated, and Foggy releases their still interlaced fingers, moves both hands behind Matt’s head, and buries his fingers in his hair. Matt tries to angle his hips away from Foggy, but he’s pretty sure his sweatpants hide nothing.

He breaks it off first. Licks his lips and says, “did I tell you about that, too?”

Foggy laughs. Full out guffaws. “No, Matt. You most certainly did not.” He goes quiet, and brings his hand up to Matt’s face. Touches his bottom lip with his index finger, then slides his hand to Matt’s bruised and aching jaw. “Jeez, Murdock,” he says playfully. “You’re the only person I know who takes ‘beating himself up’ to ridiculous extremes.”

“I do what I can,” he says. He hears someone on the roof, and he recognizes the sound of the boots from earlier in the alley. “Present-me’s home.”

“Shit,” Foggy says, and tugs at his clothing to hide his obvious arousal. “What am I doing. You already know about this.”

The door opens, and Present Matt thunders down the stairs. “Not interrupting anything, I hope,” he says, as he sheds himself of his vigilante-wear.

“You are the biggest asshole to ever live.”

“Hi, Foggy,” he says.

The ringing starts in his ears, and Matt feels himself beginning to fade away. He won’t be here much longer.

“I can’t believe you’ve holding on to this all these years. Since you were nineteen?! Un-fucking-believable.”

Present Matt and Foggy go to each other, but Matt won’t know what happens next for another ten years. His ears pop, and he’s back safely in his own bed. He laughes out loud, because that's never been his luck. Not until today.

Re: [Fill] Always Crashing in the Same Car 3/?

(Anonymous) - 2016-07-08 04:42 (UTC) - Expand

Re: [Fill] Always Crashing in the Same Car 3/?

(Anonymous) - 2016-07-08 13:54 (UTC) - Expand

*

“You,” Foggy says, poking Matt’s socked feet as he throws himself at the foot of Matt’s bed on a rainy Saturday morning, “have been avoiding me.”

“I haven’t,” he says, pulling the pillow he’s been hiding under off his head. He sits up to make room for Foggy, draws up his legs and clutches the pillow tight against his chest. He offers Foggy a wide smile, and hopes it’s a convincing one, because the truth is, he has been avoiding Foggy. Not shutting him out, just, making himself conveniently scarce.

“Hey now,” Foggy says, elbowing him in the ribs. “None of that.”

“Ow. None of what?”

“That. That patented Murdock ‘you can’t hate me, I’m way too cute’
smile. Ain’t buying it, buddy.”

Matt grins wider, says, “You really think I’m cute?”

“Yeah. Real friggen,” Foggy says, as he slugs him in arm.

“What’s with all the violence?” he says, but angles his head away the moment the words leave his mouth, because while he meant it as a joke, the memory of the man he eventually grows up to be comes flooding back, and it’s all he can do to keep his hands from forming into fists. He tries to cover his growing frustration with another smile. Fortunately, Foggy remains blissfully unaware. He breathes out, and this time his smile is more genuine.

*

It’s been at least nine months since that night in his future living room with a grown-up Foggy, and he can’t help it. He’s been thinking about it a real lot. Fantasizes about controlling it, going where and when he wants to, going back there, sitting there with him again, talking to him, asking him about everything he knows since he learned the truth about the person he’ll grow up to be. Just the thought, the idea of talking to someone who knows him, someone who truly understands him, is unbelievably… arousing.

He thumps his head against the wall on Foggy’s side of the room, and bites his lip as he and a self from two weeks from now trade frantic and clumsy hand-jobs. He hopes Foggy’ll walk in on him right now, catch him… catch him in the act, learn the truth about him this way, when he’s so, when he’s so… He wants, oh, God he wants—

“He won’t. He doesn’t,” two-weeks-from-now Matt says, voice strained and breathy, and Matt groans, because he’s equal parts relieved and frustrated to hear that; relieved because there’s something comforting in knowing he’s still thinking about it, still… obsessing over it days and days later, and frustrated that it’s still… a thing he’s thinking and obsessing about days and days later. Not to mention the fact that he’s going to break the fragile peace of a too rare quiet spell.

When it’s over, Other Matt grabs a t-shirt from the floor, cleans them both up, and then pats down his hair after he’s thrown the shirt into the hamper.

“Hey,” Matt says.

“I don’t know,” Other Matt says in a near whisper. About Foggy’s use of past tense back in the car. We did great work. It was our practice. It might not mean anything, and he is oh so very much aware of how fucked up tense usage can be where he’s concerned, but still. Matt can’t stop thinking about it. “It’s only been two weeks since,” he vaguely gestures at Matt, “you know.”

“Yeah,” Matt says.

Before slipping out the door, he says, “hey. Don’t forget to leave yourself some clean clothes. In the men’s room. Not this Monday night, the next one.”

“Yup,” he mutters as the door clicks shut. He flops down on his bed, boneless and worn, and presses his pillow over his head until he falls into a deep, dreamless sleep.

*

“You’ve been sleeping a real lot; you know that, right.”

Matt shrugs. He hasn’t been sleeping a lot. He’s been hiding under his pillow a lot.

“Well, I’m off.” To some party they’d been invited to. He doesn’t know.
“’kay.”

“Matt. You sure you don’t want to--”

“Have a good time, Foggy,” he says, pulling his covers further up over his shoulders and turning over.

*

He doesn’t realize he’d fallen asleep until Foggy’s banging around the room at some ungodly hour.

“Got you something,” Foggy says, even though Matt’s still pretending to be asleep.

He gives up the pretense and groans. “Yeah?”

“Sure.” He doesn’t sound very happy.

‘Something happen?”

“Nah,” he says, and comes over to sit on the bed next to him. Foggy takes the pillow from his lap and replaces it with something cool and heavy. He moves his hands along its sides, revealing a squat bottle with a long wax covered neck.

“Whisky!” Foggy announces.

Matt hums and peels up the wax coating. Foggy takes the bottle from him, and wordlessly pours them each a generous amount into wide plastic cups. When Foggy presses one of the cups back into Matt’s hand, he makes a show of testing its weight before saying, “I think this is more than a couple fingers.”

Foggy huffs a laugh. “A handful, I’d say,” and Matt’s not sure, but he strong suspects that was a dig, so he lifts his handful of whisky in Foggy’s general direction as a sarcastic toast, and Foggy meets his little too forcefully, sloshing liquid onto both of their hands.

“Shit,” Foggy mutters as he scrambles for something to wipe up the mess. “Hang on.” He produces a t-shirt from… somewhere and proceeds to mop them both up with it. The jostling makes Matt’s cup slosh even more, and he can’t help from laughing.

“Dammit!” Foggy says, and whisks the cup away before it can do anymore damage.

“Thanks,” Matt says. He doesn’t mean the spill.

“Anytime,” Foggy answers, and Matt’s pretty sure he doesn’t mean the spill, either.

*

God, traveling is awful. Why he forgets this basic fact every single time will forever remain one of life’s mysteries. He’s hunched over and dry heaving when someone materializes behind him and starts flogging his naked back with a cane. He tries to roll away and block the raining assault with his arms, but this only earns him more thrashes. Thrashes to his stomach, to his sides, to his ass.

“Get off the floor,” the man says. The man, of course being Stick.

“Don’t tell me you lost your hearing, too. Get off the goddamn floor.”
“No, no, please.” Make it stop.

“Beatings will continue until morale improves,” the asshole drawls. He thwacks the back of Matt’s head once for good measure before finally taking a large step backwards.

There’s blood, a lot of it, and he can smell it, he can feel it seeping from every pore and every angry welt on his body. He breathes; in, out, in, out, and slowly rises to his feet. He squares his shoulders and juts out his jaw. He isn’t bothered by his nudity this time; he doesn’t have anything to hide here. There’s a heartbeat pounding somewhere behind him, and it’s himself as a kid. With Stick. His stomach clenches, and he tries not to gag, because now he understands what and where he is. His stomach drops, because this was bad enough the first time.

“Matty, get your dumbass teenage-self here something to wear, wouldya?”
“But--” young Matt starts.

“Go, please. Thank you.” And he does.

“I’m not a kid, Stick.”

“How old are you, Matty.”

“…nineteen.”

“Nineteen years old, and here you are, the Prodigal Son returned.” He waits a beat and says, “no? Well, ain’t that a crying shame. And here I was thinking you’d have figured it out by now.”

“Figured what out.”

“How to control it, Matty. But you can’t, can you. You didn’t even want to come here, so tell me. Just who is Matt Murdock, all grown up at nineteen-years-old.”

“I’m a… I’m a student.”

“Sounds promising.”

“Yeah, um, I’m a college student?”

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah, yeah. I’m sure. I, uh, I’m a lawyer? When I’m older, I mean.”

“Hm. A lawyer, you say. That’s unfortunate,” Stick says.

Matt lowers his head and clenches his fists. Here it comes.

Young Matt returns with a stack of folded clothes, and Stick snatches them away and lobs them at Matt in one fluid motion. He makes a half-assed attempt at reaching out for them. He catches the shirt, but the heavy jeans evade his reach and slap onto the floor like a dropped body.

“And this is me throwing in the towel,” Stick says to Matt. He turns to young Matt, says, “it was nice knowing ya, kid.”

Matt tries to breathe as his younger self yells out, “for real? You’re really leaving? Just like that?”

“Just like that,” Stick says, pausing in the doorframe. “Come find me when you’ve decided you’re done flitting around the timeline like some damned temporal pest. ‘til then, ta-ta.”

In the wake of Stick’s departure, Matt twists the t-shirt in his hands. His younger self lunges at him with something like a roar, and starts raining down an unholy barrage of fists over his head. Left, right, left, right, and Matt just takes it, lets the t-shirt slip from his fingers to join its fallen friend on the floor, lets his arms hang loose at his sides and takes the beating as it comes, just takes it and takes it, until his legs fail him, until he’s crumpled on the floor with only the discarded pile of clothes to catch him.
*

“—Hey! Hey, what the hell happened to you?”

Matt groans. There isn’t a spot on him that doesn’t hurt. “Who--”

“Jesus, look at you.” He doesn’t recognize the woman’s voice. “Matt. The bleeding I get, but why in God’s name are you naked.” She sits on her haunches and wraps him up in a scratchy towel.

“Thanks,” he says, and, “I’m sorry.”

She blows out a long breath. “You’re always sorry. Come on, let’s get you patched up.”

She tries to pull him up to standing, but he’s made of rubber; someone’s taken out all his bones and deposited his empty shell out here in someone’s hallway like so much garbage.

“You gotta help me out here,” she says, long suffering. Eventually he gets upright, and she leads him into her place and deposits him on the couch.

“There’s something different about you, I can’t put my finger on it,” she says, after tossing a pair of shorts at him. He slips them on, though he leaves the towel draped over his shoulders. He should ask her about their dynamic, about how they know each other, who they are to one another, but he’s not sure he has the energy for that kind of conversation. Plus, he doesn’t want to come across as though he’s suffering from memory loss. People don’t usually respond well to that.

“Not up for talking, huh,” she says, as she roots around in a kitchen cabinet and pulls down a first aid kit. “Well, the joke is on you, pal. Turns out? I actually like peace and quiet. Which is a rare, rare thing when it comes to you.” She sets down the kit next to him on the couch, opens it and pulls on a pair of latex gloves.

“Sure I can’t persuade you on the pain meds?” she says, rattling a pill bottle at him.

“Yeah,” he says. “I think I can be persuaded.”

“Since when,” she says, voice absolutely dripping with incredulity. She runs her hands through his hair, makes a show of feeling for signs head trauma. “Pod-person, maybe,” she mutters before pressing two small pills into his palm.

“Thanks,” he says, and dutifully swallows them.

“Sure thing. One day I will figure you out, Matthew Murdock, but today is not that day.”

He huffs out a small laugh. There’s something appealing about that idea, he has to admit. “Okay.”

“Okay,” she agrees, and sets to work stitching him up and pressing down bandages of various sizes and shapes until she’s turned him into a human-shaped patchwork quilt. He hopes against hope that he doesn’t travel again before his injuries have a chance to heal, at least a little bit.

“Thanks,” he manages, as he moves his hands over his bare torso, cataloging the enormity of this impossibly kind stranger’s handiwork. “Thank you.”

“Sure,” she says. She gets up and fills a glass of water from the faucet. He downs most of it almost as soon as she presses it into his hand, then when the empty glass is empty, he sets it on the floor.

“Anything else you want or need? I have…” she sweeps the glass up, heads back into the kitchen to poke around in the refrigerator.

“There’s leftover pizza if you want some of that.”

“No, no, I can’t… you’ve done so much for me already. Thank you.”

“Hm.”

“What.”

“Matt,” she says. He’s not sure how to parse her tone. She draws in a deep breath, opens her mouth to speak, and then shuts it. “I… was just going to ask you if you want to borrow my phone. Call your friend?”
It’s… not entirely the truth but it’s not exactly a lie, either. He’s not sure what to make of it.

Matt opens his mouth to ask her to clarify that for him, whether she means Foggy, but her phone rings before he has the chance to.

“Speaking of,” she mutters, and answers with a, “hey we were just talking about you.”

“Yeah, hi, Claire. I was just calling to warn you that Matt’s gonna be swinging by your place. Cool?”

Claire. His breath catches, he’s not sure why.

“Hm. That’d be a little difficult to pull off seeing he’s here already and crapped out on my couch.” She lowers her voice, for all the good that would do, “just what the hell happened to him? Do you know how I found him? Outside my door wearing nothing but his birthday suit. Like being bruised and battered and bleeding in the hallway wasn’t bad enough.”

“Yeah, I know it sucks. But that’s kinda why I’m calling? Is it okay if I come by, too?” Foggy’s breathing changes. “She deserves to know, Matt.”

Matt frowns as she throws her arms in the air, exasperated. He offers her a weak smile. “There’s something else now? What, the blind vigilante thing wasn’t enough?”

“I know, right? It’s always something with that one. So… is it cool if--”

“I’ll be here,” she says, sounding utterly defeated.

“You are awesome. See ya in few.”

Claire, Claire, deposits the phone on the kitchen counter and makes her way over to sit on top of her coffee table, pulling up her legs until she’s in a loose lotus pose.

“You mind telling me what’s going on this time?” she says, voice impossibly soft.

For some reason he really, really wants to try saying her name. Feel the way his lips move around it, hear the sound of it. He breathes. In. Out. Then: “Claire,” and he’s amazed at how reverential it sounds, almost like her very name is a--

“Matt.” His name on the other hand, is the polar opposite of what a prayer should sound like.

“Yeah, um. Sounds like Foggy’s coming by?”

“Don’t be a smartass. If you weren’t already beat to shit, I’d slug you one, right now. Pow.” She mimes a punch to the arm, though it doesn’t actually connect.

“I don’t even know where to start.”

“I dunno about you, but I’ve heard that the beginning is usually a good place.”

Matt laughs. “The beginning. I don’t think my life actually works that way.”

“Of course not,” she mutters. Then: “Okay, how’s this. You tell me what happened to you tonight, and we’ll see where it goes from there.”

That’s fair, he supposes. “Well, turns out I have some unresolved issues.”

She breathes out. “No shit. I could have told you that.”

“What happened to me today was my fault. I’ve been blaming myself for it for years, but there wasn’t anything I could do to stop it. I mean, it happened when I was a kid, so.”

“Wait,” she says. “Hold up. What happened to you today happened when you were a kid? How does that make sense?”

“I’m not sure I can explain it. Maybe we should wait ‘til they… ‘til Foggy gets here.”

“He didn’t do this to you.” She sounds alarmed. She gets up, paces.
“No! No, I did it. It was all me.”

“You’re not making any sense.”

“I know. I’m sorry.”

“What the hell kind of lawyer are you anyway. You’re not exactly winning your case, here.”

“Probably because I’m not a lawyer. Usually you have to pass the bar first.”

“…are you shitting me?”

Outside, Foggy and Present Matt steel themselves, finalize their strategy, and part ways. Present Matt vaults up to the fire escape outside Claire’s window and lingers there until Foggy knocks on the front door. Matt holds his breath and waits.

Re: [Fill] Always Crashing in the Same Car 4/?

(Anonymous) - 2016-07-24 07:33 (UTC) - Expand

Re: [Fill] Always Crashing in the Same Car 4/?

(Anonymous) - 2016-07-24 14:31 (UTC) - Expand

Re: [Fill] Always Crashing in the Same Car 4/?

(Anonymous) - 2016-07-24 16:44 (UTC) - Expand

Re: [Fill] Always Crashing in the Same Car 4/?

(Anonymous) - 2016-07-26 08:57 (UTC) - Expand

*

Claire sighs and deflates a little when she opens her door to a sweating and nervous Foggy Nelson. Like he’s here to pick up his date for prom. Matt’s tempted to tease Foggy about it, but he bites it back because he’s the reason Foggy’s here at all, and nothing about this is funny.

She motions for him to come in, and they both engage in an awkward and halting dance as Foggy vacillates between offering a polite peck on the cheek, or a full out hug. “Here,” she says, and rescues him by tapping at her cheek. He snorts a little before he obliges. “You’re cute,” Claire says, “but not that cute.”

“Hear that, Matty, she said I’m cute.”

“I heard.”

“Oh! Before I forget.” Foggy thrusts a paper bag at Claire, and it crinkles loudly in her hands as she accepts it.

“Thanks,” she says, wryly. It’s a bottle. Wine probably, judging from the shape and size of it.

“Couldn’t just invite myself over and come empty handed,” Foggy says. He comes over to sit next to Matt on the couch, while Claire puts the wine bottle in the fridge. “Yup, you’ve looked better. I mean, you’ve looked worse, but you’ve definitely looked better.”

“Thanks, Foggy.”

“Any time, buddy,” and in a stage whisper he adds, “and I do mean any time.”

“Dammit,” Matt mutters. He tries to control his breathing. “This is a bad idea, Foggy.”

“You would know,” Foggy says, just as the Matt waiting on the fire escape taps at the window.

And Claire jumps, and her breathing becomes quick and shallow. “Matt,” she hisses out, and he and Foggy are right at her side as she fumbles through a cabinet for something to use as a weapon.

Present Matt knocks on the window again, this time almost timidly, and Foggy says, “Claire. Is it okay if I--”

“What? Are you crazy? What if—no. I want Matt. I have seen him kick ass in way worse condition,” she says emphatically, “than that, so I know--”

“Nobody’s in danger here,” Foggy says, gesturing at Claire and the deadly frying pan she’s wielding. Predictably, she jerks it back just out of his reach.

“You don’t know that.”

“No, it’s okay. I’ll do it,” Matt grumbles, and he shoots Foggy a face he hopes reads as ‘I told you this was a bad idea.’ “For what it’s worth, Claire, I’m really sorry.”

“What the fuck, Matt,” she says, clearly trying not to panic.

He moves toward the window, pulls up the blinds, and unlocks the latch on the middle of the window. Claire’s breath hitches. Then he throws up the sash, removes the screen, and steps aside to make way for his present self to climb through the window.

“’bout time,” Present Matt drawls once he’s safely inside. Then: “hi, Claire.”

“What in the holy hell am I looking at,” Claire says, doing her best to temper her panic, though clearly failing. She tightens her grip around the frying pan, holds it up like a baseball bat. Present Matt takes a small step forward. “Don’t you dare come any closer,” she says.

He puts his hands up. “I promise. Staying right here. Though I feel I should point out that if you ask a blind man to tell you what you’re looking at, maybe you shouldn’t expect a very good answer.”

Claire takes a shuttering, panicky breath, and Matt feels like the world’s biggest asshole.

“Ooh! I know the answer!” Foggy say. “Pick me!” He’s raising his hand like he’s a kid in school. Matt breathes out through his nose and presses his lips together. “The Dork of Hell’s Kitchen?”

“How long have you been sitting on that one, Fog,” Present Matt says.
“A while,” Foggy admits.

“Off,” Claire demands, indicating Present Matt’s helmet-thing. “I wanna see.”

He does, he pulls the helmet off his head, pats down his hair, and then hands the thing over to Matt. Claire gasps, but Matt’s distracted by the hard, cool shape in his hands. It feels heavy with significance; he’s not sure if he should even be holding it. He smooths his hands over it, feels the strange, nubby horns protruding from the top. Inexplicably, it makes him think of his dad. He wonders what it would feel like if he just--

“Matt,” Foggy says in an undertone as he elbows him. Feeling like he’s been caught with a hand in the jar, he snaps back to attention.

“I’d been dying to touch it,” Present Matt explains, gesturing to Matt holding the helmet.

“Makes sense,” Foggy mutters.

“Hello!” Claire says, sounding… well, Matt’s not sure there’s a word strong enough for how upset she sounds. “How does this make any kind of sense?”

“Well, there isn’t two of me,” Present Matt says. “In case you were wondering.” He pauses. “Well, I mean, there is… but.”

“Matt,” Foggy says, and Matt’s not sure which version of himself Foggy’s addressing.

Claire makes a show of checking all the hidden spaces in her apartment. Glancing behind doors and peeking into adjacent rooms. “I’m not gonna find Rod Serling casually chain-smoking somewhere, right? Because I gotta say. This is some freaky other-dimension shit.”

“No chain-smoking,” Foggy says. “I’m pretty sure Matt’s delicate nose couldn’t take it.” He snorts. “Both of them.”

“You really should have planned this better,” Matt mumbles, while Claire paces. She sets the frying pan down on the stovetop at any rate, so Matt takes that as his cue to deposit the helmet onto the nearby kitchen table.

“Too late for that,” Present Matt says to him as he returns to where he and Foggy are standing. Which is… fair, he supposes. Obviously Matt won’t arrive at a better solution. “Claire, I’m really—Is it okay if we--”

“Strip,” Claire says to Present Matt.

“Whoa!” Foggy says. “Should I give you kids--”

“Shut up,” she snaps.

“Shutting up.”

“I want to see your scars.”

“Scars?” Matt says, voice cracking. Which is just fantastic.

“Yeah,” Foggy says unhappily. “You got sliced and diced pretty good a couple months back.”

Once Present Matt’s stripped down to his waist, he says to Claire, “do I pass inspection?”

“I don’t--” Claire starts to say, sounding absolutely befuddled. She lets the rest of whatever she was going to say wither and die.

“Can I?” Matt says.

“Yeah,” and Present Matt takes his wrist and moves it up to his now bare torso. Matt reads his own body like it’s written in Braille; the scars on his chest and down his side all tell their own story, and Matt’s stomach twists in knots knowing he’ll have to face that one day.
Then Matt starts to poke at his own abdomen, feels the bandaging there. Present Matt has a worn, and very old scar in the same spot as one of Matt’s bandages, and he splays his hands over both of their bodies.

“Holy shit,” Foggy mutters, and he wonders how this must look from the outside.

“Matt,” Claire says.

And both Matts jerk away guiltily. “Can we,” Present Matt starts. He takes a fortifying breath before he continues, “I’d like to talk to you about all this, if that’s okay.”

She breathes out. “Yeah. Okay.” And Other Matt follows Claire to her bedroom. The door remains firmly open as Matt hears the bed sag with their combined weight.

Voice barely above a whisper, Other Matt begins, “so I have this rare disorder--” and Matt tunes them out as he sits at Claire’s kitchen table.

Next to him, a chair scrapes across the linoleum as Foggy joins him at the table. “How you holding up?”

“Tired,” he admits. “I’ve never traveled twice in a row like this. Usually I go straight back, so I’m not sure why it’s different this time.”

“You just needed to come have Claire patch you up,” Foggy says, clapping him on the back.

“I don’t think it works that way? But sure,” he says. Then after a beat: “I like her.”

“Pfft. Yeah, buddy. We all know. And I only met her the one time, but, you know. She’s good people. Too bad it didn’t—I mean—shit.”
“Ah. So we--?”

“I think for like, a minute? I don’t know. I’m not exactly privy to the details.”

Matt angles his head so it’s facing Foggy more directly. “Yeah, neither am I,” he deadpans. Then: “You know, I’m not entirely sure where I am.” Foggy opens his mouth so Matt adds, “and don’t say ‘Hell’s Kitchen’ or ‘Claire’s place’ or whatever. You know what I mean.”

“Yeah, I do. Um, okay. Let’s see. We recently put away a Big Bad, which was hard earned, believe you me, so we have gotten ourselves quiet the rep. And! We have actual paying clients now! Okay, so they tend to be the of the Little Guy variety who pay us in baked goods rather than, you know, dough/em>, but it’s good work. It’s awesome. We’re awesome.” So it’s sometime before that night in the alley, before his and Foggy’s estrangement. He rubs his face as Foggy continues, “and you’re still… you know.” He gestures at the helmet sitting innocuously next to Matt’s elbow. “I can’t seem to talk you out of it.”
“You don’t like it,” Matt realizes.

“I don’t like talking about it,” he corrects. “So let’s not and say we did,” Foggy says, then: “What about you?”

“I don’t like talking about it, either.”

“Ha ha.”

“No, I… I wasn’t very happy about it. When I found out, I mean. I thought… I don’t know what I thought.” And Matt explains about the night in the alley, and the fight he had with himself. He doesn’t want to spook Foggy or anything, so he strategically leaves out the part about what happened afterwards in Matt’s apartment.

“Gotta admit, I’m kinda surprised to hear that.”

Matt shrugs just as Present Matt and Claire emerge from the bedroom and join them at the table.

“You shouldn’t be,” Present Matt mutters. He claps Foggy on the shoulder before sitting down.

Foggy breathes out through his nose but doesn’t respond. Right. Doesn’t like talking about it. Present Matt huffs as Foggy says to Claire, “So. You're looking a little pole-axed.”

She sighs and throws her hands up. “Couple years ago the whole world learned aliens were real the day they literally poured down over Midtown. Now it’s genetic disorders that cause people to fucking time travel. Why the hell not. I cannot wait for whatever’s next on the batshit parade.”

Present Matt squirms in his seat and worries at his fingers as Foggy says, “I try not to think too much about the time travel. That way madness lies.”

Matt cocks his head toward his present self. A ‘what’s up with the squirming.’ Present Matt just vaguely shakes his head no. He nods a little. Okay. Tap dancing around life experiences and contexts gets exhausting, sometimes.

“Don’t tell me,” Claire says, “now it’s telepathy?”

“Nope, that’s just Matt,” Foggy says with a snort. “He talks to himself a little too much.”

Claire sighs. “Okay, so,” she says, gesturing between both Matts. “Speaking of which, how the hell do I address you.”

Matt thrusts out his hand. With a crooked smile, he says, “my name’s Matthew. But most people call me Matt.” Claire doesn’t shake his hand, instead she smacks his wrist like he’s a misbehaving child.

“Don’t be a smartass,” she says, so Present Matt offers his hand, too. “Don’t you dare,” she says, laughing a little. It’s a nice sound.

Foggy elbows him in the rib as Matt makes a show of rubbing his injured hand. Matt raises his eyebrows at him in question.

Foggy turns to Present Matt. “Your ideas don’t always objectively suck. There. I said it.”

“Thanks, Fog,” Present Matt says, sitting up a little straighter, and with an obvious smile in his voice.

“Uh huh,” Claire says, thoroughly unimpressed. “Would this plan happened to involve sneaking onto my fire escape in the middle of the night and scaring the ever loving shit out me? Because yeah, I’m gonna say that plan kinda sucked.” She says it almost playfully, like she expects all of Matt’s plans to suck.

“I’ll be sure to do it differently when I’m over there,” Matt deadpans, hooking a thumb at his present self. “Honestly, though, Claire. Thanks for not kicking me to the curb, you know. After you found out.”

“Jesus, is that what you expected to happen?” She reaches across the table, clasps her hand around his fingers and gives them a firm squeeze before pulling away.

“Well, usually I travel to when something bad happened, so yeah. I kinda expected something bad to happen.”

“Revisiting past traumas again and again. You do know what that sounds like, right?”

“It’s occurred to me,” Other Matt says. “Did I ever tell you about Stick?” and Matt cradles his head against the table.

“Evil Master Po,” Foggy explains.

“Evil’s maybe a little strong,” Matt mumbles, and Present Matt goes on to explain to Claire--and probably Foggy too; Matt’s not sure if he already knows the story—about Stick, about how he left, about how it was his fault.

“So, you see why I don’t really tell people,” Matt says, offering her a weak smile. “I am not interested in being anyone’s weapon.”

Foggy breathes out, as Claire says, “an ‘I’m sorry’ just doesn’t seem like it’s enough. Jesus, what an asshole. But you can’t blame yourself, Matt. You were just a kid.”

“I appreciate that, Claire, I really do, but,” and Matt pulls a hand out from under his resting head to roam over one of his larger bandages, “but he didn’t beat me today just because he’s an evil bastard.” Foggy huffs out an irritated noise, so he adds, “well, not only, but. It was… it was a test, and I failed.”

“A weapon,” Foggy mutters.

“Yeah, that’s a whole ‘nother thing,” Present Matt says.

Everyone’s quiet for a long moment, until Claire says, “Matt. You should go home. Get some rest.” He nods. He really wants to sleep. He’d especially love his own bed, but.

Present Matt says, “I’m pretty sure I ended up staying here—in this time, I mean, not you’re place specifically, Claire—for a few days when I was here, so.” He shrugs and Matt sighs. So much for his own bed.

Claire gets up, and Foggy and Present Matt do the same. Foggy taps Matt on the shoulder as Claire wonders back into the kitchen. He puts out his hand, and Foggy helps haul him up to standing. He's more worn out than he expected.

“Can I get you to take some pain meds before you go?” she asks.

“Nah, I’m okay.”

“How did I know you were going to say that,” she says.

“Thanks. For everything, Claire. I wish we'd met under better circumstances, but… I’m glad. To meet you.”

“Yeah, well. Some things never change. At least it wasn’t the garbage this time.”

“The garbage?” Matt says.

To Present Matt: “I just realized that you were pretending you didn’t know me that day. You bastard,” she mimes slugging him in the arm, and Matt can’t help the smile that spreads across his face.

“You’re getting loopy,” Foggy says. “Let’s blow this pop stand.” So they do.

*

Re: [Fill] Always Crashing in the Same Car 5/?

(Anonymous) - 2016-08-03 03:08 (UTC) - Expand

Re: [Fill] Always Crashing in the Same Car 5/?

(Anonymous) - 2016-08-04 01:44 (UTC) - Expand

*

He’s woken up by the sound of a talking alarm clock--Five-Fifty-Nine, a.m. it says, and someone comes over to shut it off. The bed is oddly familiar in its unfamiliarity, the way it feels, the way it smells. He knows it’s his bed even though he’s never been in it before. It takes him a moment to remember where and when he is.

“Morning,” Other Matt says, as he shuffles around the bedroom, and Matt groans in response. “Sorry, early start.” Once he’s finished dressing, he tosses something at Matt; it’s a phone. Other Matt clears his throat, like he’s slightly embarrassed. “It’s a… a spare. It has Claire’s number, and I had Foggy put mine in last night. In case you need anything.”

“Okay,” he mutters, because he’s honestly a little annoyed he’s still here.

After his present self’s left for the day, Matt uses the opportunity to grab a quick shower and a shave, and after he’s refreshed, he takes some time to feel out his living space a bit more. It’s odd being back here again, knowing it’s his place, knowing it won’t really be his for several more years. It’s spacious and open and he likes it a lot. Of course he does, he picks it out.

He follows the stairs up to the roof, and listens as the city wakes up and starts its day. (Honking car horns, and tires screeching, and “hey, watch where you’re going!” and burning fryer oil from various food carts, and church bells, and morning talk shows, and police radios, and, and, and…)

He plops himself down onto the hard surface of the rooftop, because existing in the wrong time always leaves him feeling unmoored. “Unstuck in time,” he calls it, even though he hasn’t actually read Vonnegut for himself. Sitting down in a loose lotus pose up on his future rooftop while he should be in class working toward that very same future leaves him feeling a bit like he’s a snake eating its own tail; like he’s trapped in a closed loop. But he doesn’t have to stay trapped. Not really. If he wanted to, he could break the loop right now; hop on the subway back the college campus-- it’s not actually all that far from where he’s currently sitting--and be back to where he’s supposed to be. But he’s separated by time, not distance, and while spatial subway lines are of course a real thing, temporal ones definitely are not. Maybe someone should invent that. (Or maybe not. Causality’s fucked up enough as it is.)

He breathes, lets his palms rest loose and open on his knees, and just breathes as he lets the warm morning sun wash over him. He stays there for some indeterminate amount of time, until the spare phone his present-self had loaned him starts ringing. He shakes himself a little until he’s more present in the moment. He’d said either he or Claire has this number, so he’s a little surprised when it’s Foggy voice that greets him on the other end.

“Hey. Just wanted to check in on ya. See how you’re holding up.” On the other end of the line, there are car horns, the hiss of air brakes from a nearby city bus, the crush of people on the crowded street, and Foggy just slightly out of breath from keeping up with it all.

“I’m fine,” Matt says, “if a little bored.” And frustrated. There isn’t anywhere to go, or anything to do, and he’s not sure how much more of this hanging in limbo he’s in store for. The present version of himself mentioned that he sometimes heads over to Fogwell’s after hours to work out his frustrations over a punching bag, and if Matt’s still dangling here, then he might do just that.

“Talk about time travel,” Matt says. “I haven’t been there since I was a kid.”

Foggy makes some kind of unhappy noise. Then he says, “I was kinda hoping I could convince you to come out for drinks tonight. Matt said—I mean, you… from now, in the present—said you would be, so. How ‘bout it. Just you and me.”

Matt presses his lips together in a hard line. He thinks back to a lonely and desperate Foggy, the one that missed Matt so much it made both their hearts ache. He bites back the impulse to apologize; instead, as warmly as possible, he says, “yeah. Sounds good.”

After he’s decided he’d had enough baking in the sun, he heads back downstairs, and ends up puttering around the apartment for a few hours. Makes himself something to eat, fishes out a beer from the fridge, and finds classical music streaming on his laptop. After lunch, he pokes around some more until he comes across… the devil suit, and Matt’s not sure how he feels about it. It’s an oddly disconcerting feeling, like flipping through the pages of his own dark subconscious. He stores the thing in the same trunk that houses all his dad’s old boxing paraphernalia for God’s sake, and that just draws all kinds of uncomfortable parallels between their lives, and Matt never wanted that for himself. And neither did his dad. In fact, carrying the weight of his father’s wish for a better life for his son is the whole reason Matt’s even in school. His gut twists a little, because honestly, he cannot fathom how he gets there from here.

When the phone in his pocket rings, it startles him badly enough that he slams the trunk closed and jerks away from it in guiltily. He shoves it back in the closet underneath all his neatly pressed suits, and he has to take a few deep breaths just to keep the note of anxiety from taking over his voice when he finally answers the phone.

“Hello?” he says, and he’s pretty sure his voice doesn’t give anything away, which is a plus as far as he’s concerned.

“Hey,” Claire says. She sounds casual and relaxed, which helps steady him. He breathes out. “How you holding up.” The question of the day, it seems. She sounds fond, and long-suffering, and he’s grateful there’s a Claire in his life.

“Yeah, well. Wish I could say the same,” she says, keeping that same fond tone to her voice. He thinks about asking her to come out with them tonight, with him and Foggy, but the words stay lodged in his throat. Instead he says, “I hope I get to talk to you again. Before I catch up to you in the present, I mean.”

She hums thoughtfully. “You’d know better than I would.”

“Not always,” he says, laughing a little, because he was born and raised in the state of Out of Context, and any advantages he might have from living a non-linear existence tend to get negated by the disadvantages that come along with it. “I appreciate you checking in on me,” he says after a beat, and there’s an acute sense of loss after she’s told him “anytime,” and, “bye, Matt,” and disconnects the line. And he sits, just holding the phone in his hands for a long moment before shoving back in his pocket.

*

Later that night Matt’s waiting for Foggy outside a dive bar, hiding behind his glasses and gripping his cane. The present version of himself isn’t in need of them; he has other things to worry about, apparently. Gangs, or drugs, or something. Matt wasn’t especially interested in hearing the details.

“Well, well,” Foggy says as he strolls up to where Matt’s standing. “If it isn’t the Kitchen’s own Clark Kent.” He moves like he’s going in for a hug, but he changes tack at the last possible second and claps Matt on the shoulder instead. Matt pointedly raises his eyebrows at Foggy, but doesn’t call him on it.

Instead he says, “I’m Superman now?”

“I’m just saying,” Foggy drawls from out of the side of his mouth. “Have you ever seen Clark Kent and Superman in the same room before? Because I sure haven’t.”

“Can’t say I have,” Matt deadpans, and he grabs Foggy’s elbow as they head inside.

“You’re hilarious.”
“I try.”

Once they’ve settled into the last two available seats at the far end of the bar, Foggy wastes no time in reaching behind the counter and helping himself to a pair of glasses and a bottle of liquor... of some kind.

“You boys just go ahead and make yourselves at home,” a woman from behind the bar grumbles sarcastically.

“Josie loves us.”

“Clearly,” Matt says. He hopes to endear her with his most charming smile, but the only reward he gets for his efforts is a huff of disapproval before she vanishes off somewhere. He smiles wider and relaxes more into his seat.

Then after that, it’s all easy banter between them. Even if they both know there’s a heavy cloud of The Unspoken hanging over them. Mostly, though, it’s a just a matter of mismatched life experiences. Matt desperately wants to talk about That Night and all its numerous implications, but he can’t even begin to broach that topic, because for Foggy, that night hasn’t happened yet. Won’t happen for another year, year and a half, maybe. And as for Foggy, there’s an entire lifetime’s worth of experiences and in-jokes Matt doesn’t yet have context for. So they drink, and laugh, and give each other plenty of shit. Easy. In fact, it’s almost impressive how deftly Foggy dances around any potential landmines, so Matt’s more than willing to play along and laugh at all his bad jokes.

And then Foggy’s phone rings.

“Nine-one-one, what’s your emergency.”

“Foggy?” The woman’s voice on the other end of the line cracks on Foggy’s name, and all his joviality drains away.

“Hey,” Foggy says, reassuringly. “It’s Karen,” Foggy whispers to Matt, then says to the woman, to Karen, “everything okay?”

“No, no, nothing’s wrong, just. Weird.” Matt raises his eyebrows at Foggy as she continues, “I mean, I know it’s late, but I wanted to come in and look over those papers again and--”

“Karen. It’ll all be there in the morning. You really should just--”

“Do not start with me, Franklin.”

“Franklin,” Matt mouths, and Foggy elbows him in the ribs for it. Matt offers him a wide shit-eating grin.

“Anyway. That’s not even why I’m calling. I mean, I thought you and Matt were out, so I didn’t expect anyone else in the office.” She takes a breath and says the rest all in a rush, “but when I came in, Matt slammed his door shut and now he won’t come out, so. And I don’t know what to do.”

Matt throws his head back and tries not to groan.

Foggy breathes out through his nose. “Well, shit,” he says. Matt taps Foggy on the arm to get his attention, and then tugs at his own shirtsleeve. “Yeah,” Foggy quietly agrees, and then says to Karen, “look. I know it might seem odd, but I’ve known Matt a long time, and he… he sometimes has these,” Foggy clears his throat, “episodes, and it can be a little weird if you don’t know about… I mean, it’s nothing bad, but I’ve been through this enough times with him, so I know how to handle it. So let me come in and handle it.” Foggy raises an index finger at him, a ‘wait a minute’ gesture, and Matt’s eyebrows are practically in his hairline.

“Episodes? You mean like depression?” She sounds skeptical but also concerned. Matt grimaces. There’s shuffling on the other end of the line—she’s moving around. A quick knock-knock on something solid and, “Matt? Come on out. Whatever’s going on with you, you know you can talk to me, or. Or you can wait for Foggy—that’s totally fine, but you don’t need to hide, not from me. Please.”

Other Matt’s voice drifts over the line. It’s too muffled for him to make out whatever's being said, and Matt’s face is very hot.

“Karen,” Foggy says. “I’m gonna hang up, okay? I’ll be there in few, but you don’t have to wait for me. I mean, you can if you want to, but you don’t have to. I got this.”

“I’m not going to just leave if he’s in there having some kind of depressive episode, Foggy.”

“I get that, that’s… Okay, hanging up now, okay? See ya in about ten,” and Foggy pockets his phone once the call is disconnected, and Matt rubs his face.

“Foggy to the rescue,” Matt mutters, as Foggy stands and shrugs into his coat.

“We really need to come up with a better plan than ‘deal with it as it happens,’” he says. Foggy fishes his wallet out from his pocket and flags down the bartender. She doesn’t say anything to them, just rings up their bill at the register and slaps the strip of paper down on the counter in front of them. Once they’re settled up, Foggy says, “maybe you’ll do your Houdini trick before we even get there.”

“You’re just assuming I’m going with you.”

“Yeah, I mean. Why not. Two birds and all that.”

“Two people in as many days? I don’t know, Foggy. And besides, I don’t even know her.”

“You haven’t met Karen yet,” Foggy says slowly. Matt can’t really blame him, though. It must take a lot of mental work to keep all the whens and wheres straight. “Before yesterday, you didn’t know Claire,” Foggy points out.

“That’s different. I didn’t have a choice.”

“You have a choice now,” Foggy says. “C’mon. No time like the present.”

“But it’s not the present,” Matt mutters, as he shrugs into his own jacket. He’s pretty sure that came out sounding whinier than he intended, so he says, “why you are so invested in this, anyway.”

“No reason,” Foggy says as he pulls open the door. Matt makes a face at him because Foggy wasn’t being honest just then.

“Fog.”

“No, just. I realized something. But you’re not there yet, so.”

It occurs to him that Foggy may have discovered how to exploit a temporal loophole when it comes to avoiding topics he doesn’t wish to discuss.

Outside, there’s a cool breeze and the air is saturated enough that it’ll probably rain. He holds onto Foggy’s elbow, and as they walk, Foggy fishes out his phone, and then Matt’s voice is instructing the caller to leave a message.

“Yeah, yeah. You’re not home. Ignore this.” Foggy disconnects the call with an annoyed huff. He tries another number, and as it rings he mutters to Matt, “I don’t actually expect him to pick up. Because why would he.”

Matt counts ten, eleven, twelve seconds before Foggy shoves the phone back in his pocket, and Matt has to pat down his hair after a fat raindrop falls on his head. And then another, and another. He tugs at Foggy’s arm and they pick up the pace.

The phone rings in Foggy’s pocket, and Foggy's heartbeat spikes.

The Matt on the other end wastes no time on pleasantries. “I’m only calling you back because you know better than to call this number. I don’t have a lot of time; make it quick.”

“Well, hello to you, too,” Foggy snaps.

“Foggy.”

“Matt.”

“Yeah. I’m hanging up now.”

“Matt. Matt, wait. Just. Do you remember traveling and locking yourself in your office?”

“Shit. That’s today isn’t it.”

“You don’t remember this stuff?”

“No, I do, but,” and Present Matt lowers his voice, “I don’t exactly have a way to keep track of where and when I am. I mean, it’s not like anyone’s keeping a journal or anything.”

“Well, maybe that’s not such a terrible idea. You can make out ink on paper, right?”

“Yeah, if I concentrate—Foggy, we can talk about this if you want, but now is really, really not a good time.”

“I suppose I can’t convince you to come to the office with me, then. Tell Karen while we’re at it?”

“Yeah, I remember. Two birds, one stone. Three birds at that rate, since I’m… you know. But Foggy. I can’t. Anyway. That’s not how it happened. You brought me clothes, and it was fine. It’ll be fine. You can handle it. But I have to go. I’ll see you in the morning, okay?”

“Yeah, fine,” Foggy says, but the line’s already disconnected. “I can’t actually afford to buy a new phone right now,” Foggy says to Matt, faux-casual. “Which is good because then I might be tempted into smashing up my phone until it’s fucking glitter. That’s how frustrated I am with you.”

Matt’s shirt is sticking to his skin now that it’s raining in earnest, his eyebrows are high up on his forehead as he imagines Foggy violently assaulting his cell phone with a baseball bat, and he knows that the cracks in their friendship started forming much sooner than he realized.

Re: [Fill] Always Crashing in the Same Car 6b/?

(Anonymous) - 2016-08-17 03:21 (UTC) - Expand

Re: [Fill] Always Crashing in the Same Car 6b/?

(Anonymous) - 2016-08-18 10:31 (UTC) - Expand

Re: [Fill] Always Crashing in the Same Car 6b/?

(Anonymous) - 2016-08-23 01:18 (UTC) - Expand

In his haste, Matt doesn’t notice Foggy in the doorway.

“Whoa, dude! Where’s the fire,” Foggy says as he heads off a near collision, and Matt… wrenches away from him.

“Jesus, what the hell’s wrong with you.”

“Sorry,” he says, grimacing, because he knows how unfair that is. This isn’t the Foggy he’s just left behind in that alley, rain-soaked and confessing how he prefers Matt as his is now, young and unsullied by life, rather than the Matt he’s contemporary with. With Matt after he fucks it all up. So he runs his fingers through his now dry and flattened hair, and adds, “running late,” because poor Foggy doesn’t have any of that context. Plus, it has the benefit of actually being true. He is running late, because his return’s dropped him back in the present well into mid-morning, and he’s missed two classes already. And if he doesn’t hustle, he’s going to be late for the next one. He claps Foggy on the shoulder as he slides past him, says, “I’ll see you later,” and hauls ass, ignoring the pull on his abdomen and on his back where all the bandaging and stitches had been. All his half-healed wounds ripped open, and all Claire’s careful patchwork attention puddled in a bloody heap in a dark, wet alley on a rainy night sometime in the near future.

He spills into the classroom, flows in through the doors along with everyone else. Melts into his seat, sits up straight, and pretends nothing’s amiss.

*

“I can’t keep doing this,” he mutters, face down on cold, urine-soaked tile, and he’s pretty sure he’s in the men’s room down the hall from his dorm room. And he finds that so hilarious he wants to cry. “Time not distance,” he spits out as he half-heartedly punches at the floor. There’s a part of him that wants to stay like this; cold and naked and reeking of pee. He doesn’t though. He slowly stands and opens up his focus to check the vents, the other stalls, under the bank of sinks, and curses himself for not planning ahead. How he’s avoided developing a reputation as campus streaker by now, he will never know.

But he manages, he always does. He waits until the hallway is empty; he’s not sure what time of day it is, or even when he is, but it’s quiet. There’s no one roaming the halls, anyway. A few people are milling around in their rooms, but it’s all subdued. Someone’s watching a movie with a lot of orchestration and no dialog; someone else is playing a live Phish record a little too loud (and he absolutely is judging them for it. There’s no excuse. Get better taste in music.) Other than that though, it’s quiet enough that Matt’s able to slip into his room unnoticed, dress, and check his device for the time and date. He throws his head back and groans, because it’s only later that night. And he doesn’t know where he and Foggy are. So he crawls into bed, and hopes maybe he’ll travel in his sleep.

Which, turns out, is a terrible thing to wish for. He finds himself violently woken up by the most painful charley horse known to mankind. Except it isn’t just his calf muscle that cramps and spasms, of course not, that would be too easy. Instead, it’s every single fucking muscle in his entire fucking body; and he ends up back face-first on the piss-soaked men’s room floor anyway. Because life is awesome like that.

*

Later that night, Foggy’s off on a date--he’d apparently scored tickets to some weird off-Broadway thing, and Matt ended up turning him down. It didn’t really sound like his thing. So instead, Matt heads to the library to catch up on his reading. And besides, he isn’t especially interested in fighting himself over the covers of his twin-sized bed.

*

And Matt travels. He travels entirely too much, and all in rapid succession. In the span of a few short months, he finds himself too often on Claire’s couch (and one memorable time materializing in her bedroom in the middle of the night… she hadn’t exactly appreciated that very much); or shivering on a hard, cold pew in the back of an empty church; or nearly colliding with a distracted Foggy on the street as he gabs on the phone (to his present self, Matt notices); at the car crash, at the car crash, at the car crash; or standing next to a hospital bed, holding his own thin and tiny hand as the younger version of himself writhes and screams in pain. And then there’s all these little bullshit trips: half an hour later here, or two hours ago there. And as all this goes on, he starts missing more and more classes.

And he can’t do this anymore. He just can’t. Why he ever thought he could navigate college life with his… with his condition he will never know. When he has a moment, when he’s standing alone in his own room, he flies over to his desk and plucks up all his books. He doesn’t hesitate; he screams something deep and guttural, and he hurls them, all hard and fast, each one, one at a time, and they make a satisfying thud, one by one, as they collide into the wall and flutter and flop onto the carpet. He breathes, and curses, because the satisfaction is too short lived, and the regret creeps in almost before they’re done piling up, books twisted and splayed open on the dorm room floor. Braille books are expensive, and not all of them are his, so despite the hour, he carefully picks them up, neatly sets them back on his desk, and makes a phone call before sneaking out and hopping on the subway.

*

The train’s crowded, more crowded than he’d expected for the time of night, hot and sweaty, and bursting with people, but it’s good, he doesn’t mind it one bit. Swallowed up in the crush of moving people with all their sounds and smells, and it’s good. It’s a lot, but it’s good. And it’s how he ends up back at Fogwell’s, shaking hands with a man who now owns the place, says he remembers his dad, (“everyone does. We all do. Anything for ol’ Jack’s kid.) and Matt jokes that maybe one day, maybe when he’s rich and famous, he’ll buy the place himself. He’s rewarded with a deep laugh, a hard clap on the back, and an open-door policy for to him to come by and use the place whenever he wants.

*

And for the first time in months, Matt stays firmly in the present.
It becomes a routine; he goes to the gym most weekday nights, after hours so no one bothers him, (and so he himself doesn’t disturb anyone else… he doesn’t necessarily want it to get out that the blind guy knows his way around a boxing ring. Answering well-meaning but intrusive questions about what he can and can’t do gets exhausting, and he’d really rather just avoid all that than spend the rest of his life justifying himself to perfect strangers every. Single. Time.)
Coming to the gym and working out grounds him like nothing else, and he doesn’t think it’s from the physical exertion alone. He used to… train as a kid, and it didn’t help any then; he was as out of control then as he’d ever been. Maybe the key is in the ritual of the whole thing: sneaking out and taking the subway; the smell of the gym, the sound of his fists as they pound against the heavy bag, the honesty of it, the stripping away of all his pretenses.

But it’s not a cure, and he doesn’t expect it to be one. He still travels, here and there, but the intensity of it, the manic pace he’s had to endure these many months slows down enough that he’s able to breath and focus on his work, and frankly, it’s a relief. And for the first time in a long time, he starts to really thrive. It’s a marathon, not a sprint, he reminds himself. The finish line might still feel far out from where he’s standing, but maybe, just maybe he really will make it.

And Matt makes it a point to be more present whenever Foggy’s around. Especially when his mind wonders back to Foggy-in-the-future. These obsessive thoughts just aren’t helpful, in fact, they’re actively getting in the way, if he’s completely honest with himself. And he wants to get out in front of that. If he can.

For his part, Foggy seems largely unfazed by Matt’s slinking into their room in the wee hours of the morning. And the jokes about his alleged “man-whore” status (Foggy’s term, not his) have all but dried up. Matt’s not sure if Foggy suspects what he’s really up to, and honestly, he doesn’t actually care. If Foggy asks, Matt’ll fess up, but he never does.

*

For Foggy’s twenty-first birthday, he spends the night with Marci. For Matt’s, Foggy takes him to Josie’s.

They settle into the seats at the far side of the bar, the same one’s as last time, and Matt’s half expecting Foggy to reach behind the counter himself, grab a pair of glasses and a bottle of Josie’s finest hell-broth. But of course he doesn’t. Foggy’s taken Matt here because he’s just discovered it, or heard of it, or something, and has high hopes of it becoming “our place.” Matt swallows his smile and buttons his lip, because he doesn’t want to steal any of Foggy’s thunder.

Several drinks in, and Matt’s feeling warm and loose-limbed. Jiggly, like Jell-o. Boozy Jell-o. Ha. Foggy throws an arm around Matt’s shoulders, and Matt holds his breath as Foggy loudly proclaims his love for his bestest best friend to all and sundry. He slowly, so slowly brings Matt’s head in close to his own, and… fakes out the kiss. Makes a wet smacking sound next to his ear, instead. Matt throws his head back, laughs like he knows it’s just a joke, and pretends he doesn’t want otherwise.

*

The next time he travels, it’s largely boring and uneventful. He’s in a large field littered with metal folding chairs. Most of them are still standing in rows, but some are tipped over or lying flat on the freshly mown lawn. He’s sitting in the last row, wearing a discarded robe and cap he’d found near his chair. There’s a surprising number of them strewn about. Litter, too. Wrappers and plastic cups and such. The field itself is largely empty; there’s a small cluster of people milling about near the stage, but other than it’s very quiet.
Which is how he’s able to pick out Foggy approaching him. Matt lifts up his head and smiles in his direction, as Foggy picks up a fallen chair and props it up next to Matt.

“Congrats, buddy! We made it!”

“Well, you did, anyway,” Matt says.

“Technically we both did.”

“Technically.”

“Yeah,” Foggy says. He breathes out hard through his nose before continuing, “I couldn’t convince you to come over and say ‘hi’ with me.”

“I wouldn’t read too much into that,” Matt says. “It isn’t anything bad, I’m just trying to better stay in the present.”

“Ha,” Foggy says. “There’s a few ways to read that.”

“Which is why I’m making the effort. It’s helping, but obviously it’s not fool-proof.” He gestures toward himself to indicate, I’m here, anyway, aren’t I?

“Yeah, well. The sky is blue, water’s wet, and Matt Murdock time travels.”

Matt shrugs.

“Interested in coming out with us? We plan on drinking the town dry.”

“What, you and me… and me?”

“You could say you’re your brother or something.”

“I’m an orphan, Foggy, remember?”

“Okay, long-lost brother.”

“Hey. Has that show you watch started yet? What was is called?”

“No clue.”

“I don’t know what it is. About a guy who’s an orphan and also a clone? Or something. You compared me to it.”

“I guess not,” Foggy says blandly.

“Never mind. Forget it.” Matt sighs and slumps in his chair.

“Hey. You okay? You seem kinda… I dunno. Off.”

“Yeah. I’m okay. I think so, anyway. Oh, hey, Foggy. I didn’t say congrats. I really am proud of you.”

“Thanks, buddy. Me too. I know you’re not there yet, but it still counts." Foggy claps Matt on the shoulder before wandering off. Matt ends up staying in the metal chair and his borrowed robe well into the night.

*

Re: [Fill] Always Crashing in the Same Car 7/?

(Anonymous) - 2016-09-08 18:07 (UTC) - Expand

Re: [Fill] Always Crashing in the Same Car 7/?

(Anonymous) - 2016-09-10 07:56 (UTC) - Expand

Re: [Fill] Always Crashing in the Same Car 7/?

(Anonymous) - 2016-12-16 21:13 (UTC) - Expand

Re: [Fill] Always Crashing in the Same Car 1/?

(Anonymous) - 2016-09-09 02:20 (UTC) - Expand

Re: [Fill] Always Crashing in the Same Car 1/?

(Anonymous) - 2016-09-09 16:14 (UTC) - Expand

*

“Weirdest thing happened to me today,” Foggy says. Matt’s got his back propped up against his bed with Foggy’s head resting comfortably against his stomach. Outside, the steady rain provides a nice, soothing blanket of white noise, and that they’re both a little inebriated just adds to the coziness.

And because Foggy’s head is right there in his lap, in such a trusting and vulnerable position, Matt can’t help but to pretend to fumble his empty beer can over Foggy’s head. Just because he can.

“Such an asshole,” Foggy says, though entirely without heat. Matt grins at him.

“Whoops, sorry,” Matt says, as he pretends to fumble it again. He laughs as he sets the offending can firmly on the floor somewhere near his leg.

Foggy lifts his up head and pats down his hair, and huffs like he’s worried some of it actually spilled on him. Matt grumbles about losing that beautiful body heat, but Foggy just snorts at him, clearly not feeling an ounce of sympathy for his plight. Matt imagines there’s probably a good deal of eye-rolling to go along with it, too.

After a minute or two, after he’s situated himself upright, with his back propped up against the side of the bed, same as Matt, he can’t help but notice the gap between them. Matt is tempted, oh so tempted to move closer to him, just to regain what he’d lost. He doesn’t though. He just leans his head back as Foggy continues: “so. I’m coming out of that bakery, you know, the one across the street from St. Agnes’ daycare? Oh my god, Matt, they make these amazing--”

Sitting up straight, he says, “Wait. You were in the Kitchen?”

Foggy’s quiet for what feels like a long time. Glaring at him, probably. Then: “If you’d let me finish my story…”

Matt grimaces. “Sorry,” he says, “just you don’t usually…” Matt trails off, because has no room whatsoever to question Foggy about his comings and goings. “Forget it.”

“Anyway,” he says, “as I was saying, before Mister Buttinski over here oh so rudely interrupted: I thought I’d get one of those strawberry shortcake cupcakes they have there. I’d been craving one for like a solid week, and I kept putting it off, because it’s such a ridiculous indulgence. But after the week I’ve had, I figured what the hell. I deserve a nice treat every once in a while.”

“Sure,” Matt agrees.

“Oh! That reminds me!” Now Foggy’s gesturing emphatically at him, and Matt tries not to laugh. Foggy’s enthusiasm is pretty infectious. “I totally got one for you, too, but,” he pauses to scratch behind his ear, “yours didn’t exactly make it back. Sorry, dude.”

“Eh,” he says, smiling. “I wouldn’t worry about it.”

“Anyway. So, now I’m not two feet outside the bakery, right, when this kid—who, by the way, comes out of friggen nowhere—runs right into me. Boom.” And Foggy soundlessly claps his hands together to indicate a collision. “Now, I’m not the type of person who yells at dumbass kids for not watching where they’re going, but I was seriously tempted; I mean, yeah, I would have been pissed if my freshly procured slice of strawberry heaven got ruined because of some dumb kid, but it wouldn’t have been the end of the world or anything.”

“Very magnanimous of you.”

“See? You know what’s up. And it turned out it wasn’t all that bad. I mean, they got squished together in a big ol’ ooey-gooey mess, but we managed just fine.”

“Oh?”

“Right! Getting ahead of myself here. So it’s just me and this kid on the sidewalk outside the bakery—and you should’ve seen him, Matt. I mean, the kid was just a mess. Clothes that looked like he fished them out of the garbage, and everything.” Foggy’s quiet for long moment, then: “he didn’t even have any shoes on, you know? And. That’s not even the weird part. Not that I’m trying to imply this is weird! In any way. Promise me you won’t take it that way.”

“Me? Why would I--”

“No, just… okay, so, there I am, right, sticking my paw out at him,” and Foggy illustrates this by thrusting his hand out toward Matt’s chest. He resolutely does not react to it. “But he just makes this scrunched up face at me, like he’s confused or something. I mean, what confusing about a handshake, let me ask you.”

Matt shakes his head. He doesn’t know. (Except for when he does.)

“And… that’s when I notice that he’s not actually looking at me. And he has that same exact--” Foggy coughs. “Because he’s, you know. Blind.”

And Matt’s stomach flops over. “Being blind’s not weird, Foggy,” he says, trying not to choke on his own words.

“And I’m not saying it is!” Foggy says, seemly oblivious to the minefield he’s stepped into. “I mean, give me some credit here.”

“I’m just giving you a hard time,” Matt tries. “Um, so… anyway.”

“Yeah, so. Homeless blind kid. I thought about calling you, too, but, I um. Thought that it might be... weird. Or a little insensitive or something.”

Foggy pushes himself up to grab the rest of the six-pack still sitting on his nightstand, then wordlessly passes a can to Matt.

“How would it be insensitive,” he says as he picks at the pull tab with his thumb and index finger.

Foggy breathes out, says, “I don’t know.” He pauses for a long time. “I didn’t want you to think—or I didn’t want him to think—but it doesn’t matter because I didn’t.”

Matt presses his lips together. Set down his can and lets his shoulders sag and his hands pool in his lap.

His memories are about this whole thing are incredibly gauzy, the way long forgotten memories often are, but he does remember it. When he was a kid, he once (literally) ran into a man who told him that he wanted to help. He knew how adults would sometimes materialize into his life with offers of help, so he knew to be wary, but the man was funny, and kind, and honest, and he knew that was a rare thing. So Matt went with him even though he knew, somewhere in the back of his mind that this could be a trick, or a test somehow, but he could take the man if it came to that. He knew he could.

And this kind of indulgence... it could get him into a lot of trouble. So he wrapped the moment up tight, squirreled it away deep in his ribcage, somewhere near his heart where no one could ever steal it from him. It was stupid, he knew it was, but he had so little that was his and his alone. Time was precious; he knew better than anyone.

So they sat outside the bakery at a tiny round table (because he had no shoes on) and they ate gourmet cupcakes, with strawberries so fat they had to eat them with forks. Actual silverware, even, not plastic ones.

And now it turns out that his kind benefactor is none other than Franklin Nelson: broke college kid.

“Small world,” Matt mutters, and then shakes his head to indicate never mind when Foggy makes an inquisitive noise at him.

“So what’s the weird part,” he says, trying not to sound resigned to fate.

Foggy tells him all about the thrilling adventure of taking the kid across the street to speak to the kind folks in the administration office at St. Agnes’ daycare--Matt has no memory of this part of the story—even though he knew the kid had to have been too old to attend daycare. “It was just so strange. He kept insisting that I just leave him there. I mean, then the lady at the desk basically kicked us out when it was clear we didn’t belong there, and I felt just awful, Matt, you have no idea.”

Matt just shrugs. He really doesn’t remember this little side trip, and even if he did, what could he possibly say about it? ‘I was that kid, and at the time I didn’t know the orphanage had closed and become a daycare?’ Obviously not.

“And that’s why you gave him my cupcake,” he says, all faux-incredulity.

“Yes! I… Wait. How did you--”

“Lucky guess.”

Quietly Foggy says, “I owe you a cupcake.”

“Don’t worry about it,” he starts to say, but cuts himself off mid-sentence when he picks up a familiar heartbeat somewhere just outside their door. He moves his hand across to his other wrist to check his pulse, and sure enough, the two beat in time.

“Shit,” he mutters, and he’s on his feet before he even realizes it. He casts around for any wayward clothing still left of the floor, and when he comes up empty, rushes across the room to his dresser to paw through his clothes.

“Matt! What the hell’s--” Foggy starts to say just as he plucks out the first t-shirt his probing hands land on. In the hallway just outside their room there’s a loud thud and a second later the doorknob turns and the hinges groan as the door swings open. “Hey, pal, you’ve got the wrong,” and the door shuts behind a wet and naked Matt as he presses his full body weight against it. “Room,” Foggy finishes weakly.

Other Matt rushes over and grabs the shirt still dangling from Matt’s hand, starts pulling it over his head as he says all in a rush, “God, I’m sorry but I’m cold and wet and--”

“Behind the bushes?” Matt asks.

“Yeah. Every damn time.”

Foggy’s vital signs are a riot of confusion and panic, and once his breathing levels out, he mutters, “What the hell was in that beer?”

“You aren’t hallucinating,” Other Matt says as he shimmies into a pair of jeans. He seems to be struggling with them for some reason, and confirms it when he mutters, “why are these so tight.”

“Jesus! You even sound--”

“So,” Matt interrupts, “how should we--”

Other Matt stands up straight and tugs at his shirt. Smacks Matt’s upper arm and says, “you can do it next time,” which is just about the worst joke ever.

Foggy’s bed groans under his weight as he drops himself down onto it. "You never said you had a brother,” he says carefully, as if the very ground might drop out from under him if he so much as breathed wrong.

“I don’t have any family, Foggy,” Other Matt mutters. “You know that.”

“Okay,” Matt starts to say, but has to cut himself off as he doubles over. A monster headache blooms and spreads, and through it he manages to say, “Jesus, now?” His stomach clenches hard and he’s going to end up vomiting everywhere, he just knows it.

“Yeah, sorry,” Other Matt says.

“What the fuck is happening!”

“Fog, I’m so sorry,” Matt grits out. He’s on the floor, curled in on himself, and is just bracing for it. Here it comes, any second. “But Foggy, I’m not going anywhere, you have to believe me. Just… let me explain everything,” he says as he tries to move his arm in his other self’s general direction. “Will you let me do that? Please?” He tries not to groan from the pain as the pressure in and around his body builds and builds, but it doesn’t work, and he knows he’s scaring Foggy, but he can’t help it. He can’t. Tears prick at the corners of his eyes, and the last thing he hears is Foggy screaming out his name.

*

“Ow,” Matt says after he bangs his head up against something solid. He curses under his breath for trying to get himself upright before getting a better feel for his surroundings, which is like, Time Travel 101. He knows better than that.

“Matt?” It’s Foggy. Of course, who else would it be. It’s not as though their lives are irrevocably intertwined, or anything. “You okay?”

“Yeah, I just—am I under a table?”

Foggy laughs from the next room, makes a lot of shuffling noises, and then he’s standing in front of him, framed in the doorway of whatever room Matt’s currently in. “Do you know where you are?”

“I, uh. No. Well, under a table, apparently.” He crawls out, the floor hard on his knees, and it’s a little awkward when he emerges and stands, but Foggy’s on top of the situation because he’s as much a pro at this as Matt is; he’s handing Matt a long piece of clothing, a coat, he thinks, before he even needs to ask. “Thanks,” he mutters as he shrugs into it. It’s just barely long enough to cover him, but he knows how to make do.

“You know, maybe we should think about keeping a set of spare clothes around here, seeing how we’re going to be spending a real lot of time here from now on.” Foggy sounds proud. And hopeful.

“Is this… is this Nelson and Murdock?” He can’t help the wonder from his voice.

Foggy is practically bouncing. “This is your first time here, huh. Oh, man, you gotta let me give you the grand tour.”

Matt beams at him.

“So this is the conference room,” which explains the large table, “and out here we’re gonna eventually get a real office desk,” the main room (lobby, maybe?) has a very nice card table and a couple folding chairs. They cross to an office with a desk, “this is me,” cross again, back the way they came, “and this is you.”

When he finds his Braille terminal, he feels like someone’s squeezed all the air from of his lungs. “This is real. Oh my god, Foggy, this is--”

“I know! It’s great, right? We literally just opened shop. Got a sweet deal on the place, too.”

“How do we afford this kind of office space?” Matt says as they move over to the card table. Matt has to readjust the coat a bit when he sits, but he doesn’t think Foggy’ll be able to see anything. And besides, it’s not like he’s never seen Matt before… “Hell’s Kitchen is gentrifying,” he continues, “I would have assumed we’d be priced out.”

“Yeah, back when we were in coll— oh shit, is that when you’re coming from?”

“Yeah. I am, but--”

Foggy shakes his head. “Trust me on this one. Your usual brand of out-of-contextness is not your friend here,” which is Foggy-speak for ‘I’m not really up for talking about it.’ Which is fair, he supposes.

After some time, Foggy proposes ordering take-out, so Matt says, “you don’t have stay and babysit, if you have somewhere else you need to be.”

“Who’s babysitting?” he says. “Actually, do you know who is babysitting right now? You are,” Foggy says, gesturing toward Matt.

“Somehow I find that unlikely.”

“Okay, ‘babysitting’ is probably inappropriate, considering, but our client is staying at your place until this whole thing blows over. I’m sure you’re being a perfect gentleman.”

Matt raises his eyebrows at that. It’s probably best he doesn’t know. “So that explains why you haven’t offered to drop me off. I mean, besides the fact that I’m not exactly dressed for the occasion.”

Foggy’s quiet for a long moment. “Did you want me to? Honestly, it didn’t even occur to me you’d want that. I mean, you don’t live there yet.”

“I’ve been there a few times now.”

“Huh. I’ll keep that in mind. So. Tell me about when you’re coming from.”

*

Re: [Fill] Always Crashing in the Same Car 8/?

(Anonymous) - 2016-10-11 03:22 (UTC) - Expand

Re: [Fill] Always Crashing in the Same Car 8/?

(Anonymous) - 2016-10-12 19:39 (UTC) - Expand

Re: [Fill] Always Crashing in the Same Car 8/?

(Anonymous) - 2016-10-12 14:15 (UTC) - Expand

Re: [Fill] Always Crashing in the Same Car 8/?

(Anonymous) - 2016-10-12 19:37 (UTC) - Expand

*

Foggy’s usually sound asleep when Matt sneaks back in from his clandestine trips to Fogwell’s. Except for tonight, which, honestly he should have expected. Well, he can’t avoid Foggy forever. If he were avoiding Foggy, that is. Which he’s not. He’s just been keeping to his workout routine, whether he’s had to travel that day or not.

He takes a fortifying breath and squares back his shoulders, because judging from what he can read off of Foggy, Matt’s presence just outside their door has him in a near panic.

“It’s just me,” he says, sticking just his head in, before entering the room more fully. He offers a reassuring smile, but it doesn’t help, not one bit.

“Matt?” Foggy’s voice shakes on his name, small and unsteady, and he knows Foggy’s terrified. He’s terrified of Matt.

“Yeah, it’s just me,” he says again, and just readies himself for bed like nothing’s out of the ordinary, because he cannot deal with this right now, he just can’t. “G’night, Fog.”

“Yeah. Yeah, Matt. Goodnight.”

*

The following Saturday: “I am not even exaggerating, dude. This week’s been so rough, my anxiety has anxiety. You can’t see it, but my hands are actually shaking right now, that’s how bad it is.”

Foggy holds out one of his hands as if to demonstrate said shakiness, then immediately brings them both up to his face to blow on them before shoving them deep into his coat pockets.

“You should have worn your gloves,” Matt mutters as he briefly frees his own hand from Foggy’s elbow to readjust his scarf, tighten his coat, but Foggy just shrugs. Too late to worry about that now.

It’s mid-September, and they’re taking a stroll through Central Park—Matt’s idea—to clear the air. Matt had suggested that they probably should talk about what happened some place other than in their shared room. Some kind of neutral ground where the reminder of Matt’s fucked up biology wasn’t some kind of palpable weight hanging over their heads. Foggy tried not to sound relieved when Matt floated the idea, and Matt tried not to take that kind of reaction personally.

“I don’t understand how you’re not freaking out about this, too,” Foggy continues. “Like, okay, I get it. You’re all Mister Calm-Cool-and-Collected or whatever, but come on. Be real with me for a minute. You’re shitting just as many bricks as I am, you’re just better at hiding it.”

“I’m really not,” Matt says with a small shrug. “You’ve taken the practice, right?”

Foggy groans. “It’s bad, Matt. I’m gonna fail so hard. Do you know what doesn’t require an admission test? A butcher shop, that’s what. The LSAT’s gonna kick my ass and steal my lunch money, too, but hey. Who needs to get into law school when you have the promise of quality meats to fall back on.”

Matt laughs. “I’m sure they don’t just hand you a butcher’s knife without some kind of training first. But I wouldn’t worry about it. It’s going to be fine, you’ll see.”

Foggy stops short, and Matt nearly collides into him. “That’s not just some empty platitude, is it,” he says slowly. “You actually know.”

Matt opens and closes his mouth several times before he finds the words he wants. “I mean, I don’t know the details of the test itself, no.”

“But you do know.”

“I uh. I know you graduate law school. I know you become a brilliant attorney. I know we go on to do some ‘great work’.”

“We.”

“Yeah, um we have our own--”

“--Murdock and Nelson?”

“The other way around, actually.”

“There’s a bench up ahead,” Foggy mutters. “Let’s go sit.”

From his pocket, Foggy pulls out a cloth or a napkin of some kind, and wipes down the bench before sitting. “Still a little wet,” he mutters.
Cold too, he finds. Matt leaves enough space between their bodies so he doesn’t spook Foggy, and picks at the buttons on his coat as he waits for Foggy to pick up the reins of their conversation and steer it in whichever direction he’s most comfortable with.

Except neither one speaks for what feels like a long time.

Matt spreads out his hands. Well, I’m waiting, it means, and Foggy makes some kind of unhappy noise at him.

“I haven’t been able to sleep--”

Matt keeps his head aimed at the ground.

“— since that night, when you… Jesus, Matt.”

“I didn’t want—this isn’t how I wanted--”

“No, I know. Just. Jesus. I’m having fucking nightmares. You were screaming, Matt, then you vanished right in front of me. And there was that other… That was you? For real. Really, really you.”

Matt just nods, still keeping his down.

“He touched you on the arm and the next thing I know, you’re on the floor writhing in agony. Then poof! Bye-bye Matt.”

“But I explained it all to you, right? It doesn’t have anything to do with… touching. I can exist in the same space--”

“Yeah, he… or you? Or. Fuck. How do personal pronouns even work,” and Matt can’t help a startled laugh at that, and Foggy shrugs. “Yeah, he explained it. Which did not help at first, let me tell you. When he started in with the ‘so I’m a time traveler’ spiel—and you better not laugh at me--I nearly shat my pants, because I thought I just watched my best friend get annihilated due to a time paradox, or some stupid sci-fi bullshit like that.”

Matt keeps his head down.

“I know it’s stupid.”

“It’s not stupid,” Matt says. “Just… spectacularly bad timing.”

“Yeah, that’s how he put it, too.”

Matt gives a half-hearted smile. “That’s ‘cause we’re the same person.”

“Yeah,” Foggy says. “I just can’t wrap my head around it. I mean, how do you even do it?”

Matt breathes out. “It’s… it’s like epilepsy? Something inside my brain goes haywire, and then I can’t control it, it just… it just happens, and I don’t always know what sets it off, but God, Foggy, it’s awful, you have no idea. I uh. I haven’t read up on it or anything, but I know it’s incredibly rare. No more than five hundred documented cases, I think.”

“Five hundred cases of people who can time travel? Oh, is that all? Because that’s five hundred cases too many, if you ask me. But that’s not what I’m asking.”

“So what are you asking.”

“Matt, you’re… I keep thinking about you out there alone some place, and, I mean, how do you get around, how do you survive like that when you can’t even… I mean, you’re… When I’m not having nightmares about you literally vanishing into thin air, I’m full out panicking at the thought of you out there in another time, cold and alone. It’s terrifying. I’m scared for you. All the time now.”

“Foggy,” Matt says, his voice breaking on his friend’s name. He wants to cover Foggy’s hand with his own, offer him some kind of physical comfort. Instead, he says, “I’ve been dealing with this my whole life, you don’t… you don’t have to worry about me.”

“How can I not, though? And… you said there are documented cases? That must mean there’s research out there, medication, maybe. Why aren’t you looking into that? There are people—doctors, scientists--who know about this stuff, people who could help--”

“No, absolutely not. I am not subjecting myself to… to tests, and drugs, and. No. I refuse.”

“But, Matt--”

“You have to promise me something, Foggy. You can’t tell anyone else about this. You can’t tell anyone, and you can’t ask… I won’t—don’t ask me to do things--I won’t give you winning lottery numbers, or that kind of thing, so. And don’t ask me to change things, either. I don’t actually know if it’s even possible to change things, I haven’t tried, but please. Don’t ask it of me.”

“Jesus, I hadn’t even thought of that.”

“Yeah,” Matt says, forcing out a hard breath. “It’s happened.” What was it Foggy called him? Evil David Carradine? It’s not often Matt’s grateful he can’t actually control it, but when he thinks back to when he was a kid, to what he was actually being trained for, he knows he seriously dodged a bullet.

Foggy elbows him in the rib. “So no tips on the stock market?”

Matt tilts his head up. “No, sorry.”

“Damn, what’s the point of having a cool ability if you’re not even gonna cash in on it.”

“'Cool ability.' Sure.”

“It is pretty cool, you gotta admit. Yeah, I mean, it sounds like it might actually kind of suck at times, but,” Foggy shrugs. “Gotta take the good with the bad, right?”

“I don’t think so. It’s more like yet another thing I have to deal with.”

“Like being blind.”

“That, too.”

They’re both quiet for a long time. Then Foggy says, “my butt’s cold. Your butt cold?”

Matt laughs. “It is pretty chilly.”

“We should head back.”

Matt stills. “You really want to go back?”

“Yeah,” Foggy says. “I think I do.”

*

When he shuts the door behind him, Foggy says, “What do you call it when you, you know, go poof!”

“Um. Poof?” Matt sets his cane in its spot near the door, and readies for bed.

Foggy kicks off his covers and swings his legs around so they’re hanging off the side of the bed. “Come on, don’t pretend you don’t know what I’m talking about.”

Matt sighs as he crawls into his own bed. “I don’t call it anything special. Why do you ask.”

“No reason.”

“Foggy.”

“Okay, just. You don’t… time travel every day, do you? I mean, ‘cause that seems like a lot.”

“No, no. That would be a lot. I’d never get anything done in the present.”

“Well, good, then. I’m glad. It’s just… you disappear for hours on end, and sneak in late at night. I thought that maybe time travel was a daily thing.”

“No,” Matt says quietly. “You’re right. I do. I sneak out. I’m sorry for--”

“It’s to work out, isn’t it.”

“What?” Matt says, startled.

“You sneak off somewhere to work out.”

“What? Um, no! Why would you--”

“Matt, it’s okay. I’m not mad or anything.”

“…you aren’t?”

“God no. I saw how that’ll pay off for you. A-plus abs, by the way.”

“Um, okay? I’m glad you approve?”

“Not yet I don’t. Few years from now, though? Yeah, I can see it.” Matt’s momentarily mortified, then he’s holding in a sharp laugh, because Foggy has no idea how true that it. Or maybe he does. God, that old fantasy about going back and revisiting that future version of Foggy hits him full force now, and he half hopes he’d travel right now, just to hide his embarrassment.

“I get it, I think. If you were too self-conscious to tell me about it before, it’s cool. Maybe you can even show me some time.”

“Yeah,” he says, “okay, sure.”

“Cool,” Foggy says. Then: “Goodnight, Matt.”

“’night, Foggy.”
*

Re: [Fill] Always Crashing in the Same Car 9/?

(Anonymous) - 2016-10-21 15:01 (UTC) - Expand

*

When it finally comes time for them to move out of their cramped, though cozy dorm, and into a much more spacious two-bedroom unit of their very own, Foggy says he feels like a real-live grown up, and Matt just feels vaguely disappointed. He’s not sure when he started thinking of his future apartment as his, and knows that everything happens when it’s supposed to, but he was hoping he’d get there sooner, rather than later. (Though if he’s honest with himself, it isn’t just the apartment that Matt’s impatiently waiting to catch up with with.) But they settle in just fine, with Foggy calling in a pair of cousins that he says owe him a couple of favors to help them with the move, leaving Matt feeling like an enormous asshole because he’s not helping out to the full extent of his abilities. But. Matt’s not actually ready to explain to Foggy everything he can do, let alone to cousins of his that Matt’s never even met before. That'll just have to be a bridge to burn when he gets to it.

After all their stuff’s been brought in, and to Matt’s great relief, the guys end up declining Foggy’s generous offer of pizza for helping them out, (though they do take him up on his offer of beer) leaving Matt and Foggy all alone in their new place except for half empty moving boxes, and a half put away apartment.

Foggy had ordered the pizza anyway, and as they eat, Matt’s surprised by how subdued Foggy seems.

Matt connects his foot to Foggy’s shin before his brooding silence has the chance to become too weighted and heavy.

“Huh, what?” Foggy says, startled out of whatever thoughts Matt had interrupted. He seems to remember all at once that they’re sitting down to pizza at their new fancy card table, in their new fancy apartment, because he wipes his mouth with a napkin before moving to clean up the scattered remains of their meal.

“Let me help,” Matt mutters.

“You can put the pizza box in the fridge,” Foggy says, still sounding oddly downbeat. Matt furrows his eyebrows at him, because this is Foggy Nelson they’re talking about, the perpetual optimist, Mister Glass-Half-Full himself.

Hands full, Matt gestures at Foggy with his chin before tossing the leftover pizza in the refrigerator as instructed.

When Foggy sits back down at the table, he’s quiet for a long time. Matt reclaims his own seat, folds his hands in front of himself, and waits him out.

“What if,” Foggy starts, and then waits a beat before continuing, “what if I wanted to get my law degree from Harvard?”

Confused, Matt asks, “did you apply to Harvard?”

“Of course I did. Didn’t you?”

“No,” Matt says, because it honestly hadn’t even occurred to him. He graduates from Columbia, summa cum laude, even, why would he try for anywhere else?

“See? And that’s what I’m talking about!” Foggy says, exploding from his chair, and nearly knocking it over before sharply pacing in the confined space of their living room.

“I don’t know what we’re talking about here, Foggy. You’re gonna have to tell me.” Is Foggy regretting his life here? Is he regretting his life with Matt? He’s pretty sure he’s making a horrified face at this train of thought, and tries his best to stifle it. He’s not sure how well he manages it.

Foggy moves back to the table, but doesn’t retake his seat. He just stands behind his chair, clutching onto the back of it like it’s the only thing keeping him grounded.

He breathes out hard, hot garlicky breath hitting Matt square in the face. “Do I even get a say in my own life?” he says. His voice breaks, and Matt’s heart breaks with it.

What’s this about, what is it Foggy really asking here.

Then he realizes.

Free will. That’s what this is about, he’s sure of it.

He has an idea. Maybe not a very good idea, but he hopes it’ll do the trick.

Matt gets up from the table and moves into the kitchen. Makes a show of feeling for the cabinets over the sink, before pulling down two drinking glasses and two coffee mugs. He fills one of the glasses and one of the mugs with tap water from the kitchen sink before filling the other glass and mug with milk from the fridge.

“Do me a favor and take these to the table, would you?”

Foggy does, probably giving Matt a confused look the entire time, but he does it and he doesn’t say a single word. He just walks over to the counter, taking the glasses first, then making a second trip for the mugs. He sets them all down right in the center of the table’s surface, all bunched together like a some kind of decorative display.

“Pretty thirsty, huh?” Foggy says. Matt grins at him, because he’ll take mild befuddlement over a looming existential crisis any day of the week.

Matt comes over to sit at the table, and when he does, he gestures toward Foggy to do the same.

“Yeah, this isn’t weird at all,” he says as he finds his seat.

“Go on,” Matt says. “Take one.”

“Which one?”

“Doesn’t matter. Whichever one you want.”

“Well, how do I know which is the right one?”

“This isn’t a test, Foggy. Just pick the one you want. Water. Or milk. Glass or a mug. Your choice.”

Foggy’s hand’s hovers over the cluster of beverages for a long moment. He’s probably trying to figure out Matt’s angle with this whole thing. He gestures at Foggy again. Go on, make your choice already.

Foggy sighs. Then settles on the coffee mug with the milk. He takes a small sip, then sets it down in front of him.

“Yup, that sure was milk.”

Matt reaches out for the glass of tap water and ends up just downing the whole thing. Foggy was right, turns out he was pretty thirsty. He grins at Foggy once he’s set his now empty glass back on the table.

“Now imagine I came here, sat down with us at this very table, from say, I don’t know. Yesterday. So, now, because this present moment is also the past for me, I know which drink you ended up going with, because I have memory of it.”

“Matt--”

“Does that change anything?”

“Yes! Because, then how do I know my choices are actually mine? How do I know that everything isn’t already predetermined? My choices aren’t actually mine, are they. I just think they are.”

“But it is your choice. That’s my whole point. in that moment, you chose the milk. In the mug. Of all the options presented to you, the one you went with was the one you wanted. Whether I had foreknowledge of that choice doesn’t even come into it, because you’re the only one who could have made the decision in the first place.”

“But your knowledge would lock me into it. I’d have no choice but to make that choice.”

“That still doesn't stop you from having wants, and making choices based on those wants.”

“This hurts my head. Life was so much easier before I knew… about all this stuff.”

“Ignorance isn’t always bliss,” he says, trying not to laugh. He’s not laughing at Foggy, here, and he doesn’t want to come across as though he were, so he says, “I don’t know if you remember it, but we talked about this once. You didn’t seem to think it mattered if we have free will or not. We just had to live our lives as if we did.”

Foggy’s quiet for a long time. Then he says, “but you believe we do. Even after everything you’ve been through.”

“I do,” Matt says whole-heartedly. “I really do.”

“Guess that just means one thing, Murdock.”

“What’s that.”

“You get to help me clean up all this stupidness.”

“I suppose that’s only fair. And… Stupidness?”

“Yes, stupidness. This little demo? Was pretty stupid.”

“Well, it worked, didn’t it?”

“You know, I'm not actually sure? I think I’m still deciding,” Foggy says, and Matt can’t help but to grin at him for that.

*

Time travel, for Matt, has never represented any kind of larger calling or destiny. It isn't a thing bestowed upon him by divine Providence, nor is it a thing guided by it; it’s simply an error of nature, a genetic anomaly that had somehow managed to trick his brain into unsticking itself in time. Another thing in life he simply has to endure.

But sometimes he wonders.

At the best of times, Matt chooses to think about that asshole Stick as little as possible, but even Matt had to begrudgingly admit that the man had been right about one thing: the mind does in fact control the body. The problem, of course, being that Matt controls neither.

He’s also pretty sure this was the real reason Stick had abandoned him all those years ago; if Matt could control his traveling, then Stick could control him. He used to talk about training him for some kind of war, the details of which he kept intentionally vague. But even then, Matt knew that having a time traveler in your arsenal made for a powerful advantage. The truth is, that could have very easily been his fate, and the reason he doesn’t like to expend much energy thinking about it is because the very thought of it makes his stomach turn.

And in a sick twist of fate, those very same skills and that very same training has helped him immensely in managing his condition for himself.

That he’s able to navigate the rigors of law school by maintaining his regimen is proof of it, and any bullshit traveling he has to contend with mostly has minimal impact upon his day-to-day life. This has been the status quo for the past few years now, and it turns out to have been an incredibly easy thing to take for granted.

It only takes one time, one single moment to upend that precious and precarious balance, and when it does, Matt can’t help but to think of God, and fate, and time, and what it means to be pointed in a direction and fired like a gun.

*

Tonight, Matt almost died. His friendship with Foggy most certainly did.

He had no real way of knowing it, but it’s pretty clear that everything up to now was leading to this moment.

It starts out like any other slip to another moment in his life: fatigue from classes, and studying, and visiting Fogwell’s, and dealing with the cold, and crowded subway on an icy January night (actually it’s early morning, but who’s counting) and all of this catches up with him before he can get to his usual cool-down routine of showering and meditating before heading to bed. Usually he can head off all of that before hand, but tonight it just splinters into that familiar full-body horror show of a muscle cramp and a headache so intense he swears he hallucinates fucking colors in the split-second before he’s hurled into another time.

When he gets there though, it’s quiet. He’s in his future apartment, and he breathes out a sigh of relief, because he’s come to think of this place as home. And besides, any time he’s not out in the open, having to scramble for something to cover up with, is always welcome.

Still, he's tired, and he wants to grab a quick shower before crawling into bed, whether it’s night time here or not.

Turns out it is fairly late at night, and he hopes his present self doesn’t come home soon; he doesn’t want to fight himself for covers, though knowing him, he’d just end up taking the couch instead battling needlessly for space in his own bed.

He's woken up from a dead sleep from a crash in the living room, and it’s Matt, though maybe it’s him traveling, because he lands bodily on the floor with a loud thud and a deep groan like he’s in immense pain. It’s a groan he’s intimately acquainted with.

Matt’s pretty sure his other self is unconscious, because he isn’t responding to pokes and prods, and then there’s all the blood. There’s so much of it, Matt doesn’t know—

And while this is going on, someone’s pounding on the door.

“Shit,” he mutters, because it’s Foggy.

“Matt! Ma-att! Come on, we have to--” and God, he sounds completely wrecked.

“Just… Give me a second!” He tries not to sound panicked, but he doesn’t think he manages it. This is too much, this is…

Other Matt groans again, and Matt tries to get him to wake up while Foggy continues pounding on the door.

When he finally gets his other self up and onto the couch, Other Matt grabs his arm, and pulls him down, hard. “Don’t—he can’t know. Don’t let him--”

“Shit,” he mutters, and when he goes to open the door, he leaves only enough space to stick his head through.

“Hey. Fog,” he says, trying for casual. “Sorry. Just was sleeping.” He pats down his hair hoping it’ll strengthen his case, and tosses Foggy a smile he hopes is reassuring.

Foggy’s vitals do something weird, so Matt makes a face at him.

“You aren’t native,” he says slowly, like he’s just figured something out.

“What?” Matt tries, but the way his gut drops out from under him tells him just how busted he is.

“No. You aren’t from here--”

“—Foggy, come on. You’re being ridiculous. You know that I’m from Hell’s--”

“No, Matt! You aren’t from here,” and he’s gesturing emphatically to the floor. “Not unless your hair’s grown out two inches since the last time I saw you, which was just this morning, Matthew! Also, is that blood?”

Matt pats down the front of his t-shirt and brings his fingers up to his nose. Yeah, that’s blood all right.

He opens his mouth to try to salvage this shit-show as best he can, and as he does, Other Matt lets out more pained and distressed noises.

“Um! Yeah. You’re right. I am traveling. But I was sleeping, and if it’s okay with you, I’d kind of like to get back to bed now because--”

“Was that just you in there? Move it, Matt. Move out of the way.”

“No!” Matt says, as Other Matt practically whines out Foggy’s name.

When Foggy finally pushes his way in, he lets out a long string of “holy shit! Holy shit! Holy shit!” when he comes across Matt’s bleeding and semi-conscious form lying prone on the couch.

“What the fuck happened?”

“I don’t know,” Matt helpfully supplies.

“Wrong one,” Foggy bites out. “What happened to you, Matt, what--” he pauses, and reaches down to the floor for something, and then start gesturing emphatically with it. Foggy’s a riot of confusion and anger and horror and… and betrayal.

Tears are streaming down his face, because this is it, isn’t it? This is the moment. Everything happens in its due time, and he knows that, he knows he couldn’t avoid this forever, but he hoped, he hoped…

Now Other Matt is crying, too. “It’s not… it’s not what you think, Foggy,” he says, voice weak and fading fast. It’s clear he’s not going stay conscious for very much longer.

“I’m calling nine-one-one,” Foggy says, as he pulls his phone from his pocket.

Then a tussle ensues, Other Matt somehow convinces him to call Claire instead, and just as she arrives, Matt heads up to the roof to stay of her hair. Plus, there’s the fact that she doesn’t know about this part of him yet. Not for a few more months.

Re: [Fill] Always Crashing in the Same Car 10b/?

(Anonymous) - 2016-11-24 06:16 (UTC) - Expand

Re: [Fill] Always Crashing in the Same Car 10b/?

(Anonymous) - 2016-11-25 00:28 (UTC) - Expand

Re: [Fill] Always Crashing in the Same Car 10b/?

(Anonymous) - 2016-11-25 05:58 (UTC) - Expand

Re: [Fill] Always Crashing in the Same Car 10b/?

(Anonymous) - 2016-12-16 21:11 (UTC) - Expand

Re: [Fill] Always Crashing in the Same Car 10b/?

(Anonymous) - 2016-12-01 12:39 (UTC) - Expand

Re: [Fill] Always Crashing in the Same Car 10b/?

(Anonymous) - 2016-12-16 21:08 (UTC) - Expand

This chapter contains homophobia and a homophopic slur :/

*

It’s not as though violence is a foreign concept for him, he thinks as he pummels the heavy bag he tends to favor whenever he’s here in the sweat-stale air of Fogwell’s gym. His own history is drenched in blood, a birthright passed down to him from father to son. That he’s comfortable here, that he was raised here in this very boxing gym speaks to that fact. Careful of the Murdock boys…

No, violence is something Matt understands all too well.

The sweat and the pain and the blood of physical exertion demand nothing less than naked honesty, and Matt knows he’s here tonight not for his usual workout, but for a kind of reckoning, a stripping away of everything that’s blocking him, everything that’s stopping him from... from seeing things for how they truly are.

He huffs out a small, bitter laugh, and a thin stream of sweat falls into his eyes.

He doesn’t stop to wipe it away, though. He just keeps pounding on the bag like it has personally offended him. Keeps pounding and pounding and pounding, and if he punches the thing long enough, and hard enough, the truth will eventually spill out like the blood from his split and angry knuckles.

But no revelation offers itself, no grand truth opens before him.
Frustrated, he throws one last jab before moving over to the spot in front of the ring where he’d deposited his gym bag. Carefully unwraps his hands, mops up his face and the back of neck with his towel, and has to make a conscious effort not to down all his water at once, lest he make himself sick.

Though his hands are still raw and swollen, he makes it a point to clean up after himself; makes sure any blood and sweat left on the heavy bag and anything else he might have come into contact with is meticulously wiped away so that nothing of his time here remains once he’s left here.

If the gym is a space existing outside of time itself, the place where past and present (and very likely future) intertwine, then crossing over the threshold represents his return to normal, everyday life.
Locking the door behind him seals off that magic, and slipping on his glasses and unfolding his cane is the final act that brings him back fully into the real world.

But violence doesn’t just stay in the past. Of course it doesn’t. It’s everywhere, all the time, all at once.

Matt’s standing on the platform, waiting for the next train to arrive, the same as everyone else down here, and he wonders if he’s standing under one of the off hour waiting area signs. He remembers them from when he was a kid, though he’d read recently that the city’s started taking them down now that the crime rate was on the downtrend.

Which is good, except for the fact that just because subway crime is falling, doesn’t mean it’s stopped altogether.

And tonight, he gets a first-hand demonstration of that fact.

When it’s as crowded as it is down here, and it usually is, Matt needs to actively tune out most of the commotion just to retain at least some of his sanity. But one single crystal clear sound rises above it all, and it slices straight through him, right to the heart of him, and it propels him into action without any real conscious thought.

It happens all at once:

A shouted slur of, “hey, faggot!” and the stink of anger from a man with a knife, and the tang of fear from two young men as he threatens them, and Matt runs, propriety be damned, and he pushes and shoulders his way through the crowd, hoping, praying he gets to them in time.

The smell of blood in the air tells him he doesn’t, but he’s able to connect his elbow to the asshole’s face, and smashes in his nose in the seconds after he’s stabbed both of those kids.

Behind him, the young couple are both bleeding and crying from the shock and the pain, and Matt’s momentarily frozen with indecision. Go after the asshole as he runs off like the coward he is, leaving behind a trail of blood so vivid to Matt’s senses it’s almost like he’s asking for Matt to go and hunt him down, or stay here and tend to these two hurt and upset kids.

He pulls off his coat and kneels beside them on the ground, and as he does, he can hear the cops and paramedics as they make their way towards them.

“I’m sorry,” I can’t stay with you, he means, “but help’s coming.” And in a teary mix of English and Spanish, the kids… the kids thank him.

Which… Why in the hell are they thanking him? He had failed these kids. He wasn’t able to stop what happened to them because he wasn’t able to get to them in time…

He drapes his coat over them both as they huddle together, says, “take care of each other,” and then disappears into the crowd.

*

When he gets in, Matt pauses in the doorway and breathes out through his nose because he’s sleeping on the couch and Foggy’s puttering around in the kitchen.

“You didn’t have to wait up,” Matt half-whispers, because it’s incredibly late, bordering on incredibly early, and he knows how hard sleep can come by when he’s traveling.

“Nah, dude,” Foggy says in that same half-whisper, tilting his head toward the couch. “No need to wait up for you when you’re already here.”

“Can’t argue with that,” he says, as he fishes out a beer from the fridge. Raises his eyebrows at Foggy as he pops the cap and guzzles down the whole thing.

Foggy huffs out in a way that Matt can’t decipher before he carefully says, “rough night?”

Matt shrugs.

“Jesus,” Foggy mutters. He’s quiet for a long moment, breathing in that way he does when he’s trying to decide just what to say next.

Matt sets his empty on the counter and moves to the sink, ostensibly to wash his hands. He’s waiting Foggy out, but doesn’t want it to look like he’s waiting him out.

He isn’t prepared for the shock of pain as the cold water burns over his still raw knuckles, and he must make some kind of face because Foggy uses that moment to say, “let me guess, I should see the other guy?”

Well, he’s not wrong. But Matt just shakes his head. “No, nothing like that.” He shuts off the water, and carefully dries his hands. “Just got a little carried away,” he says, and half-heartedly moves into a basic boxing stance to illustrate his point.

On the couch, Other Matt shifts and pulls at his blanket.

“Out like a light,” Foggy says. “You’re not coming from very far down the road, by the way. I could tell because your hands are still kinda fucked up.”

“They’ll heal,” Matt says, wincing a little as he works and stretches his sore knuckles. “Speaking of sleep…” he says, but first he wants a shower.

“Yeah, I probably should hit up on some of that shut-eye, too,” Foggy says, and just as Matt moves to open the bathroom door, Foggy says with an obvious smile in his voice, “hey. Just how many times in one night am I supposed to say goodnight to you, anyway.”

Grinning, Matt says, “as many times as you want to.”

“Well, in that case, goodnight, Matt.”

*

“Not very far down the road” turns out to be almost a week later, and at first, Matt doesn’t realize he’d even traveled.

Generally, if you go to bed wearing pajamas, you tend to expect to still be wearing them when you wake up. Unless of course you’re Matt Murdock. Then sometimes you’ll just wake up naked.

Plus, time travel is a pain, and not just in the figurative sense, so it’s pretty unusual for him to travel and not know it. Though if this is going to be the new trend, he’s not going to start complaining about it.

At this point, falling back to sleep pretty much is a losing battle, so he finally admits defeat, dresses and gathers a spare blanket from the closet, and moves out into the living room to deposit both the blanket and himself onto the couch.

“Hey,” Foggy says from the kitchen, “I thought you were out for the night.”

Matt sighs. “I am.”

“Oh,” he says, not comprehending at first, then: “Oh! So, what’s up with the blanket? I mean, just ‘cause you’re traveling doesn’t mean you’re a guest in your own home.”

“No, I know. It’s not that.”

“Beer?”

“Maybe later,” he deadpans.

“Suit yourself,” Foggy says, as he plops himself down on the couch beside Matt. He has to fight the impulse to hide the scabs on his hands, but he knows that’ll just bring attention to them, so he does his best to ignore it. Foggy just sips his beer. “So, what is it.”

“Hm?”

“Camping out on the couch when you have a perfectly good bed just a few feet that-a-way,” Foggy says, hooking his thumb toward Matt’s bedroom.

He shifts in his seat and gathers up the blanket in his lap. “I… It’s probably stupid, but I don’t like fighting myself over my own stuff, so I tend to avoid it whenever I can.” He shrugs.

“Oh,” Foggy says. “Is it weird?”

Matt makes a confused face at him, until he remembers that yeah, of course his condition seems weird from the outside.

“I had sisters growing up,” Foggy says, “so, no awkward bed-sharing horror stories for me.”

“Not that I would know; I don’t have any siblings, but I don’t think it’s the same thing. I mean, it’s not another person we’re talking about here. It’s just me.”

“But sometimes there could be a bunch of you running around the house. I’m sure your dad must have loved that.”

Matt forces out a long breath. “Hoooooo,” it sounds like he says, but, “no. He… he never knew. I.” He pauses for a long time. “I can’t control when and where I go. Honestly, I’ve never wanted to—and that’s a whole other thing, but—and it’s gotten better… easier, I mean, as I’ve gotten older, but if I could? Yeah, the first thing I’d do is visit my dad.”

“Wow,” Foggy says, sounding a little stunned. “You travel to the past all the time and you’ve never once seen your dad? Dude, that just seems needlessly cruel.”

“The worst part is, the place I’ve been back to the most is the car accident. When I…” He gestures vaguely toward his face. “And he was right there. But I… no. I haven’t… Not even to the day he…” Matt didn’t know he’d end up crying tonight, but, well, there it is. He tries to smile at Foggy and shrugs.

He runs his hands over his face, and then at the scabbing over his knuckles. Wraps the blanket around himself, and leans his head back.

After a long while something shifts and his body abruptly jerks, and he wonders if he’s about to travel back. He waits for the pain to start, but then he remembers his arriving here was surprisingly pain-free.

Foggy laughs a little, and says, “you should probably just admit defeat and hit the hay.”

“Yeah, you’re probably right.”

“Wait. Can you repeat that last part?”

“What’s that.”

“Did you just admit that I was right?”

Matt laughs and smacks Foggy on the arm. “Yes, Fog. You are, on occasion, right about some things.”

“I’ll remember you said that, in case you ever want to argue otherwise.”

“Never,” Matt says through a hard yawn.

“All right, Well. I’ll just go and clean up. G’night, Matt. Don’t let the time traveling bugs bite.”

*

Re: [Fill] Always Crashing in the Same Car 11/?

(Anonymous) - 2016-12-17 06:45 (UTC) - Expand

Re: [Fill] Always Crashing in the Same Car 11/?

(Anonymous) - 2016-12-17 16:33 (UTC) - Expand

Re: [Fill] Always Crashing in the Same Car 11/?

(Anonymous) - 2016-12-19 14:53 (UTC) - Expand

*
When Matt finally slides into their usual booth near the back of the diner, he tilts his head up deprecatingly at Foggy, and offers him the world’s most pathetic smile.

“Foggy,” he mutters by way of apology. And he should be apologizing, because Matt was supposed to have been here nearly an hour ago, though given the circumstances, it’s a minor miracle he managed to get here at all.

It’s not like Matt has any kind of say in these things… you get dropped off in the present when you get dropped off in the present, his own plans and intentions be damned.

He's probably entirely too blasé about his breaking and entering, (though technically, breaking into your own place isn't actually a crime. So he's okay there. Indecent exposure however... well, that would be a little more difficult to defend if it ever gets caught. And theft. Can't forget about all the theft.) but he can't worry about the lawfulness of his actions. His first priority is to survive. (There are lines he won't cross, however. He won't assault anyone, for instance, no matter how desperately he needs clothes and shelter.)

He and Foggy don't have a house phone, because who has those anymore—though maybe getting a spare phone for the apartment itself wouldn't be such a terrible idea—hence, Matt's incredibly late arrival to their prearranged lunch date. And no way of giving Foggy a heads-up beforehand.

The grimy, vinyl covered table's not the most comfortable place to rest his head, but he's so worn out, he can't help but to succumb to the inevitable.

He feels like someone's come by and cut all his strings. He can’t move a single muscle, no matter how much he wants to. Turns out he really doesn't want to.

“Hey,”Foggy says. “Everything okay over there?” Then he starts poking Matt's forearm with the blunt end of his coffee spoon.

Matt bats him away like he's some kind of annoying insect, and Foggy squeaks at him he pulls his hand away. And it's that moment when their server decides to magically appear next to their table.

He sighs, and puts in his order. Just coffee. Black's fine, no cream or sugar; yes he's sure. The waitress huffs disapprovingly; she doesn't exactly seem impressed with the disheveled mess of a guy flopped over on the table in front of her. Whatever. He doesn't care.

She disappears, and eventually he mutters out an “I don’t want to talk about it,” to an increasingly unamused Foggy.

“'Just going to the library' my ass,” Foggy says, referring to Matt's very own words from the last time they spoke. When they were hammering down plans for today, and potentially for the rest of the week. “You're fucking hungover, aren't you.”

He groans, and begrudgingly hauls himself upright so he can rub at his face.

“No,” he says quietly, and folds his hands in front of him. “I really did spend most of the night at the library last night. I didn't lie to you about that.” He lowers his voice and pulls in closer, like they're a pair of conspirators, and adds, “but I also spent the last day and a half or so, you know. Elsewhere.” He shrugs.

“Oh,” Foggy says. He sounds small and far away, even though he's sitting straight across from him in a cramped and dingy diner booth.
When his coffee finally arrives, he somehow remembers to offer the waitress a polite “thank you,” and he has to internally kick himself, because remembering basic courtesy isn't any in any way some kind great accomplishment. (Not that he's excusing his behavior, he knows better that this, he does, but he's had a rough… day. Couple of days. Whatever. Right now, social decorum can kiss his ass.)

Anyway. He sips at his coffee even though it's still too hot for human consumption. It burns his tongue, and leaves a sharp, bitter aftertaste in his mouth.

He sets the mug down on the table, and cradles it tightly. The cheap ceramic mug is still too hot in his hands, but he holds onto it just the same.

“Matt.”

“I don’t want to talk about it,” he says again. He barely wants to think about it, so he takes another sip of coffee, hoping to avoid just that.

It doesn’t really work. Of course it doesn’t.

He’s not sure why this time's upsets him as much as it does. He’s been to the car crash countless times by this point in his life, too many times to count actually, so he doesn't know why he's this upset about it. He's never felt like this afterward, not in all the years he's had to endure it.

Well, no. He has to shake his head, because that's not true. It's horrible, pretty much every time. This time though, this time Foggy’s words played inside his head like a damn broken record. Not that he blames him, he doesn’t, this wasn’t anyone’s fault, but it was all he could hear as he stood up on that rooftop half naked, shivering and alone. How sad Foggy's voice had been when he’d said how unfair it all is. No. What he actually said was how ‘needlessly cruel’ it all is Needlessly cruel. That God, or fate, or whatever it was would continue to send him back to that same moment in time, and send him again and again and again.

He didn't realize that's where he had ended up, not at first. Not until he found himself raiding some poor soul’s clothesline for something to wear. Survival 101, and all that.

He'd been wrapping a thin and awkwardly short bathrobe around himself when he heard that unmistakable sound. That ugly sound of tires screeching and the crunch of impact. He knew those sounds intimately, he knew them more than anything else on the face of the Earth. Of course he did, he's heard them so often, he sometimes hears them in his dreams.

But this time, this time, the loudest thing he heard wasn't the sound of impact, or of his own child-self's screaming, No this time the only thing he could hear was the panicked voice of the old man himself.
He kept calling (shouting, screaming) Matt’s name over and over and over again, and more than anything else in the world, Matt wanted to call back to him. To yell down into the street below and shout, “hey! Look here! Look up here. I’m here. I’m right here.” But of course, those words wouldn’t come, and his feet wouldn’t move, because ultimately, it doesn't matter what Matt wants. Because he doesn’t control his own life, because he’s never had a say in it.

He startles when a warm hand rests atop his own, and he ends up cursing under his breath. Shaking his head, he pulls his hands away from the cooling coffee mug and wipes at his wet, hot face.

“I’m… I’m sorry. I’d been gone for almost two days, and I didn’t have anywhere to go, or to sleep, and I--”

Foggy’s hand stays on Matt’s, in fact he squeezes it like it’s the next best to a hug. “Sometimes I can’t wrap my head around it,” he says softly.

“Yeah,” Matt says.

“I mean, you really do look like it's been days since you last slept.”

“Thanks, Fog.”

After a long beat he says,“any time. I mean, why sugar-coat it, right?” He has to admit that he appreciates the way Foggy laughs as he says it. The way he sticks with the joke even though he's embarrassed he'd walked right into it, face-first.

He's tempted to set his head back down on the table, he feels himself listing, anyway, so he says, “Do you mind if we... you know,” and he hooks his thumb toward the door.

Foggy dramatically slaps himself on the forehead. “Buddy, I don't know about you, but some of us? Would love to get the hell out of here some time today. I am not kidding. I'm gonna start calling you the Pokey Little Puppy if you don't hurry it up.”

Matt can't help but to let out a laugh at that, because it's not at all the response he expected. Though, honestly he probably should have expected something a little like it.

Foggy stands up, fishes out his wallet to pay the bill, and shrugs into his jacket.

“Chop chop! Waiting on you now.”

“Yeah, yeah,” he grumbles affably, and knocks back the rest of his ice-cold coffee.

*

On the walk back to their place, Matt nearly stops in the middle of the sidewalk.

“I have to go back,” he says all at once.

“Go back,” Foggy says, baffled. “To... wherever you'd been the past two days? I didn't think that was something you could--”

“No, no. It's not. I just mean I have to go and get my stuff. From the library.”

“Oh. Right. Okay, so how 'bout this: we get you home, and I'll go instead.”

He sighs, because he doesn't really have the energy to argue.“Yeah, okay.”

Foggy elbows him in the ribs. “If only you could be in more than one place at at a time, huh?”

“Ha. Yeah,” he says. “If only.”

*
“Well, you sure lucked out.”

“How's that,” Matt says. He'd planned on catching up on sleep while Foggy had been out collecting his stuff, but. That'd been a bust.
“So turns out some kind soul found your stuff for you before I got there. Bagged it all up, too. Set and ready to go.” He lifts up a large paper bag, which crinkles as he sets it down on the coffee table. “Lost and Found. Even had all your books.”

“Wow,” he says. As he sorts through the bag, he tilts his head up to offer Foggy a quick 'thank you,' then gets up from the couch.

“You think it was you?” Foggy asks, following closely behind.

“I don't know,” he says, shrugging a little. “Maybe. Could've been the librarian though,” he says. “I keep wondering how it is I don't have a reputation.” He pauses in his bedroom door. “I don't, right?”

“Not that I know of. But, maybe you might want to avoid going down there for the time being.”

“Oh my god, please tell me no one said anything to you.”

“You mean, besides the old homeless-looking dude who tried to sweet talk me out of your ratty sweater and cheap-ass sneakers?” Matt laughs at that. “Nah. But you know. You don't exactly blend in.”

“Yeah,” Matt says. “Fuck.” He sits down on the bed and runs his hands over this face. He'd been too tired to think about all the potential ramifications of leaving his stuff behind in such a public space. He groans and sets his hands in his lap. Too late now.

“Yeah,” he finally says. “Thanks, Foggy. You know, for doing all that for me. I appreciate it.”

“Of course. Any time, bud,” he says, rapping on Matt's bedroom door before gently shutting it behind him.

*

He's not one hundred percent sure, but he thinks there's a good chance that he's been in this church before. Back during that unbearable manic spell in undergrad.

It'd had been cold then, too, he remembers, but he hadn't been there (here) long enough for it to have been a problem.

He sits up, brings his knees up toward his chest so that his toes don't freeze on the floor, and rubs his arms to encourages circulation.

He's pretty sure it's snowing outside--he can smell it, can feel the sharp crystals on his tongue and in his lungs--and he can't help but scowl at that, because it means sneaking out isn't an option, not until he wants to freeze to death.

His teeth chatter, and he knows he should get up, get moving, get that blood flowing, find something to wear, something warm. He's not sure he'll be able to...

A figure—a person, a man—is moving toward him. He's moving slowly but firmly, deliberately, and there's something about the steady rhythm of the man's movements, the unflustered way he approaches the naked man in the pews that Matt finds oddly reassuring.

Without saying a word, the man stops next to him, and just stays there for a long, long moment.

He's holding a heavy cardboard box, and has to shift his arms to better carry the weight of it.

Matt turns his head up towards him. “Father?” he guesses.

“Lost and Found,” the man says by way of an answer, and sets the cardboard box down next to Matt. He moves to sit in the pew directly in front of Matt, settling in at his ten o'clock.

“I'm almost afraid to ask,” the man—the priest?--says as Matt rifles through the box for something to wear. He eventually comes up with something twisted up and balled in on itself. At first he can't identify it, not until he unrolls the thing. Turns out he's grabbed a hold of an old and tattered broomstick skirt. Next he pulls up a thin t-shirt, and after that he finds a pair of cheap plastic flip-flops. He'd be perfectly dressed for a leisurely summer stroll along the beach.

He shrugs and dresses, because beggars can't be choosers.

“Thank you,” he finally manages. But not just for the clothes. For not commenting on the obvious: how he'd ended up on a cold pew in the middle of a snow storm, as naked as a day he was born.

Matt tries not to look surprised when the man turns around and and casually asks him if he'd like some coffee, as if that's a thing they do, as it this was a perfectly normal day.

But Matt is cold, and maybe a little hungry, and he knows he's not going to be going anywhere for a while. And besides, perhaps this is the perfect opportunity to get a second opinion on some of the weirder problems his condition presents.

Then the man—the priest, Matt now knows—reminds him that even coffee is included in the seal of confession, and Matt can only smile at that, because it's pretty clear this isn't... this won't be the first time they have this conversation.

“Yeah,” he says, and stands, and walks behind the man—the priest—because if he isn't going to comment on Matt's wardrobe, then neither is he.

*

Nice way to include Father Lanthom in here.

*

Foggy hovers over him, rattling a pill bottle in his ear like the world's most annoying percussion player.

Irritation must show on his face, because Foggy says, “don't give me that, I got these especially for you.”

“Thanks, but no thanks,” he says, and goes back to his reading.

“C'mon. Put that aside for a sec.”

“No. I'm--”

“--A stubborn pain in the ass?”

He tries not to bark out a laugh. “I don't deny that, but. I'm busy.”

“Just listen for a sec. Please? That's all I'm asking.”

“Yeah, fine.” He very pointedly removes his hands from his Braille display, and neatly folds them in front of himself.

When he tilts up his head to give Foggy a bland, inoffensive smile, Foggy says, “you're such an asshole,” and Matt instantly regrets giving him his time.

“Or you can insult me. That's fine too.”

Foggy shakes the bottle at him again, and Matt gives a defeated sigh before shifting his focus, trying to work out what it is he's being assaulted with.

He shakes his head. Nothing. When he opens his mouth to ask, Foggy beats him to the punch, but in the most obnoxious way possible. “Ding ding ding! We have a winner! I have, in my hands here, your new bottle of... Melatonin!” He sounds like a day-time game show host. And Matt's the lucky winner. Fantastic.

He wrinkles his nose. “Isn't that for insomnia.” He keeps his tone flat, hoping to deter Foggy. Maybe a little.

“Exactly right,” Foggy says, infuriatingly undeterred. “Okay,” he says, and plops himself down in a chair. Matt's shoulders droop. “I've been doing some reading up on... you know, time-related disorders, when I came across this doctor--”

“No.”

“What, no. You haven't even heard what I have to--”

“And I don't need to, because I've already told you. No doctors, so you might as well stop while you're ahead.”

“See, and I knew you'd try that, so I went ahead and got this melatonin for you instead.”

“I don't follow.”

“Okay. So, this doctor--”

“Foggy.” He doesn't growl, but it's a near thing.

“This doctor,” he very pointedly repeats, “specializes in time travel disorders, right? Super interesting stuff, actually. Probably wouldn't hurt for you to look into it.” Matt presses his lips together. “So this guy's whole thing's is on circadian rhythms, and how--”

Matt absently worries at the edge of the table. He stops once he's aware he's doing, and hastily folds his hands to set them in his lap. “Mine's kinda fucked up,” he finishes quietly.

“Yeah,” Foggy says, “kind of an understatement.”

Now he's picking at his jeans, so he moves his hands up to his face, and runs his fingers through his hair. “”Yeah, but. That isn't what I meant. I have a... It's not...” He stops, tries again.“It's a blind thing.”

“Yeah,” Foggy says, distracted. Matt breathes out and runs his hands over his stubble, because Foggy's just wasting his time with all this. “It's a...” and now there's the shuffling of papers, which, yeah, okay. That makes more sense. He's double checking his notes for the right wording. “A sleep disorder, right?” More papers shuffling, then: “yeah, okay. Here we go. It's... Non-24-hour sleep–wake disorder. Wow, is that a mouthful.” Foggy laughs a little, then continues: “okay, this is great, now we're both on the same page.”

He laughs again, before continuing. Self-conscious, maybe. A deep inhale, then he's scratching himself. His arm, maybe. No, his wrist. An itchy spot where sweat's been collecting under his leather watch band.“So, I've been reading about these clinical trials, right? They used melatonin to treat people without light perception--”

“Okay, stop,” because Foggy's trying to help, but he's barking up the wrong tree with this whole thing. Matt doesn't time travel because he's blind, for fuck's sake. He time travels because he fucking time travels. “This kind of thing is for insomnia, which I don't have, by the way.”

“But the Non-24 thing.”

“Yeah,” he says, and all at once he's exhausted. “My circadian rhythm is fucked up, Foggy, you're right about that, but it's not a... it's a mild inconvenience at best. Of all the things I have to deal with, insomnia is not one of them. So can we drop it already?”

“Okay, but you don't think that maybe they're related? Your circadian rhythm is off. You time travel. It's not that big of a stretch.”

“Foggy, I appreciate what you're trying to do, I really do, but you sound like you know more about my disorder than I do.”

“So I've read some medical journals here and there. Sue me.”

Matt sighs. “Is 'I should have been a chronobiologist' going to be the new 'I should have been a butcher'?”

“...that's a thing?”

“So you don't know more than I do. Got it.”

“Okay. That's totally fair. But, Matt. This doctor guy,” and it's all Matt can do to keep from pulling out his hair. “He'd probably be really into the whole Non-24 aspect of things, too.”

“I have exactly zero interest in turning myself into someone else's lab rat, thank you very much.”

“Okay, so maybe you don't have insomnia. But you've always been a bit of a night owl, and maybe, just maybe--”

“Foggy. Why aren't you hearing me on this? I'm not going to see any doctors, and I won't self medicate, either. Got it?” Foggy huffs out disapprovingly, opens his mouth to protest, so Matt says, “I know you're trying to help, but please. Stop trying to help.” And here he lowers his voice, because he hadn't meant to get so worked up over this whole thing. “Unless you wanna help me study. That I'm more than okay with.” He smiles, and laughs a little, hoping it'll defuse some of the tension hanging over them.

“Okay, but just so you know,” and he sounds fond, and maybe a little exasperated, “you don't have to suffer through this alone.” Foggy's arm makes an aborted motion over the table, like he wanted to reach out and take Matt's hand, but thought better of it at the last second. Matt wishes he'd gone through with it.

“I know that.” Then with a crooked half-smile adds, “that's what I have you for.”

“Damn straight you do. Wait, so does that mean...”

“Sure” he says, still keeping that same half-grin, “how else am I going to get through law school without the world's best study partner. ”

Foggy pauses for a long beat, then says, “that was not as smooth as you think it was, Murdock. Just to let you know. Also? Feel free to butter me up any time you want. Okay. So. What'da we studying here.”

*

The next morning he's standing naked in his own bathroom, not a single bit surprised to find an unfamiliar container innocuously sitting in the medicine cabinet next to his razor and curled up tube of toothpaste. Lifting the thing up next to his ear, he shakes it until he's sure it's the same stuff Foggy tried selling him on the night before.

That man does not give up.

He isn't petty. He's not, and tells himself this when he hides the damn thing somewhere behind Foggy's bottle of artificially fruit-flavored candy (somehow marketed to adults like Foggy as “nutritional supplements.”)

By the time he's done showering and shaving, he's forgotten all the unwanted, unneeded over-the-counter medication.

*

An undermined amount of time later:

His foot slips on the still-wet tile floor, and he doesn't whack his head against anything on the way down, but it's a close thing.

He's in a bathroom—a shower, more specifically—and when he reaches out to stop his fall, he ends up grabbing hold of the molding vinyl curtain lining the inside of the bathtub, and the whole thing ends up coming down with him, metal shower rod and all.

“Whoops,” he lets out, bare-assed on the slippery tub floor. He tries to extricate himself from underneath the heap of wet shower curtain, and as he stands says, “sorry,” because whoever lives here is now on the hook for putting this all back together, and he can't imagine they'll be very happy about that.

He finds a bathrobe made of damp terry cloth hanging on the door, and almost loses his footing again. He doesn't go down again, thank goodness, but the bathrobe comes off the door all the same, taking the cheap plastic hook with it.

He breathes out through his nose, because this is just a ridiculous comedy of errors here.

Once he's wrapped himself with the robe, several things hit his senses at once: a scant few molecules of some vaguely familiar fragrance hanging in the air; sweat, aftershave, yeah, toothpaste; something made of mostly sugar and gelatin; the outline of a man in the doorway wielding an aluminum baseball bat; mold in the grout, piss on the floor. “Foggy.”

Foggy.

It's Foggy's bathroom. It's Foggy outlined in the door frame... it's...

It's.

“Fucking--”

“--Foggy.”

“Fucking what the fuck.”

He reaches out. Finds the damp curtain, finds terry cloth, finds...

“Do you know,” Foggy starts, carefully, oh so carefully, “where I've been the past several hours?”

Matt just shakes his head. Of course he doesn't know. How could he. He's... He just. He's standing in the middle of someone else's bathroom, cold and naked and. And.

“I can't. Fucking. Get away from you! Can I? It's like we're fucking attached at the fucking hip! And, you know what, Matt. Excuse my fucking French here, but I just can't do this anymore, I just can't. Not after tonight. Not after...” He's trying not to cry. He's... And Matt...

A shuttering breath, and: “Foggy.” And maybe he did hit his head? He's not sure, he's...

“Get out.”

“What?”

“Get. Out, Matt.”

“Foggy.”

“Get. The. Fuck. Out. I don't want you. I don't want you in my life.” Foggy makes a choked off sound. He doesn't mean that, he doesn't...

Foggy evaporates—he's gone, he's--and while he's... away, Matt sits on the toilet seat and waits. He just waits.

Okay. So. Going over the last few moments: he knows that dropping into a situation out of context isn't the best thing ever, but. What is... Matt shows up in Foggy's bathroom unexpectedly, which, fine. These things happen. Foggy knows it does. He knows Matt's life is fucked up and out of context.

Unless. Unless this is before? Is this before that? No. It can't be. Matt's never been in this room before. This apartment. This bathroom. This is after, it has to be, unless. Unless.

The door creaks opens, and Foggy unceremoniously tosses a pile of clothes at him.

He catches them easy enough, then finds himself pawing at them. Feels the texture of the fabric, their weight. He recognizes these pieces: and well, he should, since they belong to him. A t-shirt. A pair of sweatpants. They smell stale; it's been a few years since they've seen the inside of a washing machine.

“Thank you. Foggy, thanks.”

“Yeah. You can thank me by getting the hell out of here. Go home, Matt.”
As he pulls the shirt over his head, he says, “love to, but,” and spreads out his hands to indicate what can you do.

“You're not cute,” Foggy says. He shakes his head and mumbles something that sounds something like, “don't know why I ever...”

Matt stands up to ask, “have any shoes?” and waves his right foot at Foggy to emphasis his state of shoelessness.

He huffs unhappily. “I might have an old pair of sneakers. Hold a sec.”

He nods and shoves his hands deep in his pockets. Picks at the lint he finds there, and waits for Foggy to come back. Again. He knows Foggy always comes back.

“Shoes are at your one o'clock.” Foggy bends down and places them just inside the threshold. Then turns around and leaves Matt standing in bathroom alone. He shivers, even though the air is still warm and humid. Foggy couldn't have finished his shower more than a few minutes before Matt arrived here. No wonder he felt intruded upon.

He slips on the old, worn pair of sneakers, and follows Foggy out into the living room. He's never been here before.

“Can I at least know what I did?” They stand awkwardly in front of one another, and Matt sways on his toes. “Because you don't usually...” Blame me for something I haven't done yet. “You're usually happier to see me.”

“Do you know how to get home? You know where you live?” Yeah, Foggy really does want him out of his hair.

“Yeah,” he says, swallowing. “But I don't... the last time I was there... I don't think I can... I don't want to be there. Not yet.”

“Yeah, well. Join the damn club. I stayed all night, Matt. The whole night. I'm tired, and you.” Foggy's crying. Christ. This is... Matt feels his face crumble. If this goes on for much longer, he's going to cry, too.

“And I was on the roof the whole time?”

“You were up on the roof the whole night, yes.”

“Okay,” he says, because at least they're on the same page now.

“So please. Get the hell out of my living room so I can get some damn sleep already.”

Foggy leaves Matt standing in the living, even though he knows that just behind that shut bedroom door, Foggy's trying to have a his freak-out with making an ounce of noise. Without Matt hearing.

“I'm sorry,” he mutters, and closes the door behind him as soundlessly as possible.

*

Re: Always Crashing in the Same Care part 13

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Re: Always Crashing in the Same Care part 13

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Re: Always Crashing in the Same Care part 13

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*

Some time later, he stands framed in Foggy’s doorway, knocks to announce his presence, and says, “we’re good, right?”

Foggy turns his head up toward Matt. “Huh?”

“Never mind. Just.” You were so angry, and I… He shakes his head. Staying in the present is a skill and a mindset he’ll probably never truly master.

“Matt.” Foggy pauses. Then: “did something happen?”

Matt breathes out. “Let me just give you a piece of advice: if you ever find a crystal ball or something like it, and it offers to read you your future? Throw it away. Don’t even give it a second thought. Knowing too much about your own future… it’s not great, Foggy. It really isn’t.”

“That sounds pretty dire,” he says with a small laugh. He might be saying ‘that all sounds dire,’ but he isn’t taking any of this very seriously. Matt kind of loves him for it. “But let me offer you a bit of free advice of my own: fortune telling is a scam, and anyone who claims otherwise is selling you something.”

“You’re right,” Matt says. Now he’s trying not to laugh. “I don’t know what I was thinking.” This is okay. They’re going to be okay.

He knocks on the doorjamb, a quick one-two to indicate ‘I’m heading out to the gym,’ and Foggy nods in acknowledgment.

“Oops,” he says under his breath. “I mean, I’ll catch ya later.”

And Matt can’t help but to laugh as he nods in return.

*

The pill bottle sits in the back of his medicine cabinet, and in the very back of his mind.

*

During his last year of law school, he barely travels at all. There’s a couple of bullshit trips here and there, but it isn’t anything he can’t handle.

“Maybe you should consider meds for finals, though,” Foggy says when Matt mentions this to him.

Matt groans. “It’ll be fine.”

“Are you sure, because--”

“I’m not worried about it. And neither should you.”

“All right,” Foggy finally says with a sigh. “But I will remember you said that.”

*

To be honest, he’d been expecting his stomach to drop out the first time he (technically) steps into his new place, but nothing like that happens. He doesn’t feel much of anything at all. The room and these wall are blank still, like a slate. They don’t yet hold any of the memories that keep circling around and around in his brain.

Blandly he says, “I didn’t know about the billboard,” when Foggy complains about it.
For the first time in his albeit topsy-turvy life, Matt shares his bed with another version of himself. Matt’s traveling from two weeks from now, and apparently he’s still feeling subdued and a little bit empty.

The walls might not remember, but Matt does, and so neither one speaks, too afraid of buckling under the weight of it all.

*

On graduation day, Foggy leads Matt up and across the stage when Matt’s name is called, and the crowd of students and spectators alike seem utterly charmed by it.

Matt hadn’t even put up an argument about it, which apparently shocked the hell out Foggy. He’d been expecting a fight, and Matt’d let him down.

This way seemed special, though. Important in ways he doesn’t really know how to articulate, and Foggy seems to melt a little bit when Matt tells him so.

Afterwards, Matt runs his fingers over his diploma, finds the words Summa Cum Laude, and stands there with his shoulders square and his head up, because they’re going to conquer the world, he and Foggy. It’s going to be… They’re. They’re going to be great.

“Hey! Look who it is,” Foggy says later on that night. After most everyone’s gone somewhere else to celebrate their own personal success.

“I don’t see anything,” Matt says through a small laugh, and someone he doesn’t know audibly gasps. Foggy smacks him on the arm for it, and he can’t help but to grin at him.

Foggy’s spotted Matt out there in one of the folding chairs, and he can’t help but to remember how he had sat there all night in that cold, uncomfortable metal chair until morning. Stayed there until the sprinklers came on, until the sun came up, until he traveled back to where he was supposed to be.

“C’mon,” Foggy says. “Let’s go say hi.”

“That was a weird time,” Matt mutters to himself. He shakes his head when Foggy asks him to repeat himself. “Never mind,” he mutters. Then: “no, you go on ahead. I’ll catch up with you later.”

“Oh, if you’re sure,” he says, sounding disappointed.

Matt claps him on the shoulder, and makes his way home.

*

When it finally comes time to take the bar, Matt and Foggy rent a hotel room so they don’t have to waste any of their valuable cram-time on commuting.

Matt hasn’t traveled in months.

“I’m gonna fuck it up, I just know it.”

“Do you actually know, or are you just stressing yourself out for no reason.”

“What do you mean, do I know.”

“I mean, how do you know anything weird, Matt.”

“Oh. Yeah, that. No. I… I have no idea how any of this goes.”

“Oh, well good. Now you can be like the rest of us non-temporally challenged for a change.”

“Temporally challenged,” he says. Then: “yeah, okay. That’s fair, I suppose.”

Later that night when he readies for bed, he finds the bottle of melatonin in the bathroom, even though he hadn’t been the one to pack it. “Subtle,” he mutters. “I don’t know if this was such a good idea.”

He picks up the bottle and shakes it. Since he’s not able to read the label for himself, and he doesn’t exactly want to ask Foggy, he has no idea what the appropriate dosage should be. Not that it matters, because he won’t be taking any. After all, he doesn’t believe in self-medication.

He leaves the pill bottle where it is, even as a small voice somewhere deep in his subconscious warns him that maybe it would best if he just threw them all away.

*

The next night, he adds one pill to his bedtime routine, and he ends up sleeping better than he has in a long, long time.

*

“Game day tomorrow, you ready?”

“We got this,” Matt says as he head to take his shower.

“Yeah we do,” Foggy says, and when he’s not looking, Matt swallows one, then (fuck it) two pills before brushing his teeth and crawling into bed.

*

The next morning the entire city of New York is abuzz with nervous energy as test-time looms overhead. Or maybe it’s just Matt.

The two of them sit in a coffee shop sipping overpriced lattes as they kill time before the big event, and Matt’s regretting the intake of so much caffeine. His fingers won’t stop twitching, and he’s starting to develop a headache.

“You okay over there?”

“Just nerves,” he mutters. “Don’t worry about.”

“I’m just saying. Don’t stress yourself out, cuz, you know. Stress is big trigger for you.”

“I know that,” he says through clenched teeth. “It’s fine. I’ll be fine.” He breathes, and adds, “we both will. You’ll see.”

“Oh yeah,” Foggy says brightly. “Murdock and Nelson!”

“No,” he says, laughing a little. “I’ve already told you. It’s the other way around,” and puts out his fist for Foggy to bump.

Foggy laughs as he returns the gesture, and he knows everything will work out just fine. It will. It has to.

*

A headache he can handle. It’s when his stomach clenches and he’s sweating enough to dampen his clothes that he begins to worry that something might be wrong.

He makes it to men’s room, and he doesn’t have time to think about how this type of scenario usually plays out. He’s too busy dry heaving into a piss-soaked toilet bowl to worry about anything else.

When his stomach’s finally had enough of oh so productively expelling nothing at all, he collapses on the floor, and waits for the inevitable to come. His muscles cramp up in that familiar way they always do, his headache blooms, and, nothing happens.
Nothing at all.

Then he’s writhing and seizing on the floor, all tense muscles and coiled pain.

“Holy shit! Matt! Matt!”

He’s never wanted to travel so fucking much in his entire life.

He tries to say, “call Claire,” but the most he can manage is something like “ka. Ka. Kla.”

“It’s okay, buddy. It’s okay. I got you. I--”

“Fa--”

“Yeah, yeah t’s me, pal, it’s gonna be okay, okay? It’s gonna… the paramedics are on their way, okay? Matt?”

He tries to nod, but just rolls over and ends up puking all over his friend.

“Oh, well, that’s okay. That’s okay, Matt. Don’t worry about… oh, oh shit.”

Which is the last thing Matt hears before his body finally, finally remembers what it’s supposed to do here.

*

Foggy/Matt - Time Traveler's Wife AU

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Always Crashing in the Same Care part 13

Always Crashing in the Same Car part 15