Karen Page sobs through the eulogy, and Franklin Nelson stands there, still as a statue, as if he's been drained of all his tears and all that is left now is a numbness in his heart. This, Elektra knows just as well as he does.
She doesn't attend the funeral, per se. She stands outside the church, instead, wonders what might've happened, if it had been her. Would Matt stand outside, as she's doing now? Would he be giving the eulogy? Would she even have a funeral, a white casket, people mourning her loss?
She doesn't think so.
And yet she cannot envy Matt these things. That he has these things doesn't matter, because he's not here anymore, he will never—
He will never, again.
She shuts her eyes against the hot sting of tears.
--
The sticking point of it is this:
He died in her arms.
Romantic stuff, you know. The kind of thing she'd have laughed at in a movie, because it was so clichéd, so stupid, so dramatic.
It's less so when it happens to you. When you can feel the blood on your hands, hear the choking wet sounds, see the struggle for every breath, every word. Matthew, stay with me. Matthew, please. Stay with me, love. Stay. Stay, stay, stay—
But he hadn't.
So—that's what love feels like. Blood on her hands, a corpse in her arms, the rain soaking her through to the bone.
--
She does not—intend to stay in the city, is the thing.
She's never quite seen the appeal of New York City, except what was embodied within Matthew Murdock, and he's dead and buried and gone. So she packs her things up, and goes out one last night to—to do something, feel something, she doesn't know.
She stumbles on crime almost by accident. The girl is young, her eye swollen shut, cowering as a man looms over her, slurring his words, trying to grab at her purse.
Elektra sees red, and drops down from the rooftop. The man swings a knife at her, and she ducks easily, breaks his arm and throws him aside into a wall. She swings her sai, intending to make an end of it.
The girl whimpers, says, "No, please—just let me go home."
Elektra turns to look at her, and sees a young girl, just barely out of her teens. She's never seen a man die before, Elektra realizes, never taken a life, hasn't ever truly been in danger until now.
"I just want to go home," the girl repeats, eyes wide and terrified.
Elektra kicks the man in the head, when he stirs. She turns to the girl and says, "Where do you live? I'll take you there."
--
The girl thanks her, afterwards, hugs her as if Elektra is not a killer, as if she is worthy of love and hugs.
Elektra's still in New York, the next night. She stops a robbery of a small family-owned store and gets a free homemade waffle out of it. She stops four muggings, and two of the victims run away, two of the muggers end up slightly impaled, one runs away screaming when she drops from the fire escape. She stops a john from forcing himself on a woman, stops a kidnapper from taking away a young boy, stops petty crime after petty crime.
She's not always so well-received, but by the time she climbs back through her window, exhausted and bleeding a little, she thinks of the girl who'd hugged her, the bright light in her eyes. She thinks of the little boy, whispering thank you you saved me thank you into her leg. She thinks of Matt, stupid and brave Matt, the devil and the martyr.
"Damn it, Matthew," she says, out loud. "I asked you to stay."
But he didn't, and now she thinks—damn it, she has to get out of this damn city before it claims her the same way it did Matt.
--
She does not.
--
She buys an apartment. She gets better armor—Matt's armor is too big for her, and anyway she has other ideas about protection. She builds up a network of contacts, in both the underworld and the world of Elektra Natchios, philanthropist and diplomat's daughter.
She visits Matt's grave and says, "Look what you've done to me, Matthew. Now I'm the one defending your city." She kneels down, traces fingers over the inscription on his headstone: A Good Man.
The black stone is cold, smooth against her fingertips. She closes her eyes and imagines phantom fingers, trailing through her hair. Sweetheart.
"Look at what you've left behind," she says, into empty air.
fill. role reversal au: elektra as a defender, matt as an assassin
Karen Page sobs through the eulogy, and Franklin Nelson stands there, still as a statue, as if he's been drained of all his tears and all that is left now is a numbness in his heart. This, Elektra knows just as well as he does.
She doesn't attend the funeral, per se. She stands outside the church, instead, wonders what might've happened, if it had been her. Would Matt stand outside, as she's doing now? Would he be giving the eulogy? Would she even have a funeral, a white casket, people mourning her loss?
She doesn't think so.
And yet she cannot envy Matt these things. That he has these things doesn't matter, because he's not here anymore, he will never—
He will never, again.
She shuts her eyes against the hot sting of tears.
--
The sticking point of it is this:
He died in her arms.
Romantic stuff, you know. The kind of thing she'd have laughed at in a movie, because it was so clichéd, so stupid, so dramatic.
It's less so when it happens to you. When you can feel the blood on your hands, hear the choking wet sounds, see the struggle for every breath, every word. Matthew, stay with me. Matthew, please. Stay with me, love. Stay. Stay, stay, stay—
But he hadn't.
So—that's what love feels like. Blood on her hands, a corpse in her arms, the rain soaking her through to the bone.
--
She does not—intend to stay in the city, is the thing.
She's never quite seen the appeal of New York City, except what was embodied within Matthew Murdock, and he's dead and buried and gone. So she packs her things up, and goes out one last night to—to do something, feel something, she doesn't know.
She stumbles on crime almost by accident. The girl is young, her eye swollen shut, cowering as a man looms over her, slurring his words, trying to grab at her purse.
Elektra sees red, and drops down from the rooftop. The man swings a knife at her, and she ducks easily, breaks his arm and throws him aside into a wall. She swings her sai, intending to make an end of it.
The girl whimpers, says, "No, please—just let me go home."
Elektra turns to look at her, and sees a young girl, just barely out of her teens. She's never seen a man die before, Elektra realizes, never taken a life, hasn't ever truly been in danger until now.
"I just want to go home," the girl repeats, eyes wide and terrified.
Elektra kicks the man in the head, when he stirs. She turns to the girl and says, "Where do you live? I'll take you there."
--
The girl thanks her, afterwards, hugs her as if Elektra is not a killer, as if she is worthy of love and hugs.
Elektra's still in New York, the next night. She stops a robbery of a small family-owned store and gets a free homemade waffle out of it. She stops four muggings, and two of the victims run away, two of the muggers end up slightly impaled, one runs away screaming when she drops from the fire escape. She stops a john from forcing himself on a woman, stops a kidnapper from taking away a young boy, stops petty crime after petty crime.
She's not always so well-received, but by the time she climbs back through her window, exhausted and bleeding a little, she thinks of the girl who'd hugged her, the bright light in her eyes. She thinks of the little boy, whispering thank you you saved me thank you into her leg. She thinks of Matt, stupid and brave Matt, the devil and the martyr.
"Damn it, Matthew," she says, out loud. "I asked you to stay."
But he didn't, and now she thinks—damn it, she has to get out of this damn city before it claims her the same way it did Matt.
--
She does not.
--
She buys an apartment. She gets better armor—Matt's armor is too big for her, and anyway she has other ideas about protection. She builds up a network of contacts, in both the underworld and the world of Elektra Natchios, philanthropist and diplomat's daughter.
She visits Matt's grave and says, "Look what you've done to me, Matthew. Now I'm the one defending your city." She kneels down, traces fingers over the inscription on his headstone: A Good Man.
The black stone is cold, smooth against her fingertips. She closes her eyes and imagines phantom fingers, trailing through her hair. Sweetheart.
"Look at what you've left behind," she says, into empty air.