His skin is a map of raised, rough scars. Sometimes he finds himself in his little room, hands cataloging every one of them as if he is an undiscovered country, his fingers explorers. Here, a healed stab wound, there, a shallow cut scabbing over, and here are three rough patches of skin on his torso.
He asks Alexandra, once, about them.
“These,” she says, stepping closer with a sword in one hand, “are but the flaws of your vessel.” She rests a hand on his shoulder, and he smells blood and bone, underneath her jasmine perfume and the fading scent of the hospital. He can’t hear her heartbeat. He can’t hear his, either. “Would that I could take them, and this blindness he left behind, away,” she murmurs, soft and sad, “so you could serve life to your fullest potential.”
He swallows. “The Black Sky,” he says, quiet. “She said something. She knew me.”
“She knew the man to whom this body used to belong to,” says Alexandra, gently correcting. Cold steel rests against his other shoulder, just short of his neck. “He was a foolish man, who failed in all he set out to do. But you—I have high hopes for you, my hound.”
Her free hand goes to the nape of his neck, and he bows his head. A moment later, she does too, their foreheads bumping lightly against each other, a parody of familial affection. “I trust you won’t fail in your duty,” says Alexandra.
(Matthew?)
“I won’t,” he says.
--
The Hand serves life itself, he’s told. No offering is too great, for such a demanding lord, or at least that’s what Alexandra tells him.
He doesn’t tell her that he can smell death on her, the sterile, chemical scent of the hospital clinging to her skin. He’s sure she knows, anyway—more than once a whispered conversation between the Hand’s foot soldiers stopped while he was still in the other room, shut up, he’ll hear you, he’ll smell you, he’ll know.
The Hand serves life itself.
So the question he finds himself asking is: why bring so much death, then? But he doesn’t say it, not out loud, not even when Alexandra brings him to a rooftop, not even when the floor shakes underneath him and he grabs hold of the railing, hears screams and smells blood and fear in the air.
The city falls apart underneath him, for one long awful minute. When the shaking ends, he falls to his knees.
Alexandra’s skirt rustles as she kneels down next to him. Her fingers, slender and calloused from holding a pen, tilt his head up, gentle and careful as if holding something precious from her collection.
“It’s just a city,” she says, sweet and maternal. “It will fall, like all the others have. You’ll get used to the feeling, in time.”
They were screaming, he doesn’t tell her. They were terrified, they were scared, they died screaming, if you serve life then what is all this death for, why must so many people die, why—
“It’s just a city,” Alexandra stresses.
--
The Black Sky is a woman who smells like blood and jasmine, steel and orchids.
She says, “Matthew?”
(Silky hair in his fingers, a soft laugh, her heartbeat fluttering under him, get me back—)
--
In retrospect? Of course he would protect her.
In retrospect? Of course he would protect his city, somehow, in any way he could.
--
There is an office building in the midst of Hell’s Kitchen, sitting on a street corner, that feels familiar. His feet take him over a path he can’t remember, muscle memory guiding the way even as he tries to recall just what it is about this route that keeps bugging him.
He steps onto an office building, and crouches low, cocks his head to the side, listening as close as he can. Downstairs, he can hear the tinny strains of a radio, the whirring of old laptops, the chatter of different voices about the weather, the government, the bills, everything.
He breathes in, smells shit and sewage and perfume and food—he smells cheese and preservatives, and strawberry rhubarb. Unbidden, a forgotten voice cheers in the back of his head, strawberry rhubarb! you will be mine.
He finds a way down. The building has rooftop access, yes, but he’s not certain who’ll be coming upstairs or not, and it’s—it’s important that he stays out of sight.
One of the windows is gone when he gets there—the scent of cardboard, drying after a hard rain, gives away the easiest window to break into. So that’s where he breaks in, kicking the flimsy cardboard in and quietly setting foot inside.
No one’s here. He can’t hear any heartbeats nearby, and rattling the doorknob reveals that it’s locked. He’s glad of that much, it means no one’s going to walk in on him.
The office is familiar, is the thing. From the layout to the dying houseplant to the lingering scents of junk food and pie and perfume and alcohol in the air to the receptionist’s desk’s texture underneath his fingers, everything about it drags up another scrap of memory. The ones that must’ve belonged to—
He should go back. Alexandra must be worried, by now.
His fingers trace over a picture frame on the desk. Over a stack of papers, the ink rubbing off slightly against his skin. Over a book and its bookmark, sticking out between the pages.
He takes the bookmark, feels raised bumps against his fingertips. Braille—it reads, Rest in Peace, Matthew Michael Murdock.
(Stay with me, Matthew, stay, stay, stay—)
He turns. There’s something off about the layout here, he thinks, but it takes him a moment to realize even when he bumps up against it—someone moved a couch in, one that smells like bleach and, faintly, dried blood. The pillows on it are soft, velvety, meant for sitting on. There’s dog hair on one of them, he thinks.
He lies down on the couch, curls up, cheek resting against a pillow.
For the first time in a long, long while, he sleeps.
--
This is how it felt like, those first few hours:
You wake up bloody. You wake up alone.
You wake up trapped, drowning in blood, and you grasp for something—light, a hand, anything so you can pull yourself out of this hell. Because this must be hell, you can’t see anything but darkness and can’t taste anything but copper and ashes and bone.
You try to breathe. It’s—not a good idea, to say the least, and you grasp blindly about for something to hold on to.
You find it—a gap in the stone.
Stone?
You don’t—
It’s heavy against your fingers, but you grit your teeth and lift, as hard as you can.
The stone falls to the ground with a loud crash. Too loud—the sound rattles around in your head, even as you sit up straight with a panicked cry, a gasp for air.
All at once, everything hits you—the smell of rot, hidden underneath lavender and jasmine, the whisper of steel against fabric, the hitch of breath in three different throats, the rustle of fabric against skin, the sound of someone’s ragged breathing, the vague but fiery shapes against the darkness—
You fall out of—wherever you were. You have to get out of here. You have to—This isn’t where you’re supposed to be, you shouldn’t be here, why are you here—
“It’s all right,” comes a woman’s voice, in the darkness. She steps forward, and the sound of her footsteps on the stone floor is as loud as a scream. You inch away and slip on the blood, and you can’t—something is wrong with her, you can’t hear—
“It’s all right,” she says.
You whimper. The sound of it is so loud in your ears, you can hear every rustle of fabric, every breath, smell the sweat and blood and rot under the jasmine and lavender.
“It’s all right,” she murmurs, taking another step. Your back hits the thing you were in, before. Something sloshes, spills over the side of it, and you smell blood. “You’re safe now. You’re ours.”
You bare your teeth and snarl at her.
Steel slides against fabric.
“Stand down,” the woman snaps to her men. To you, she bends down, and fabric slides off her shoulders, winds around her hand. “It’s all right,” she says. “You were—unexpected, but you will be the path to what we seek. Come, now. You’re home.”
This isn’t home. You know that much. Home is—
Home is—
You can’t remember.
You can’t remember.
A growl rips from your throat, and you try to make a grab for her, hands like claws, but your legs still feel too heavy and she steps to the side easily.
You swipe at her again, and her block is almost lazy. You snarl at her, try again, but she grabs your arm this time and suddenly you can’t break her grip, bruising your arms and keeping them trapped behind your back. All you can smell is lavender and jasmine and blood.
“Shh,” she murmurs, even as you struggle against her. “Shh. It’s all right, it’s all right. Shh.”
Eventually you stop, too exhausted to keep fighting. Eventually they clean you up, and give you clothes, and press a sword into your hand and tell you fight.
Eventually you get used to the smell of rot.
--
He wakes to the sound of a woman’s heartbeat, rabbit-fast and fearful, and a can being shaken up.
“Who the fuck are you,” she snarls, and that’s all the warning he gets before he has to duck a spray of chemicals directly to his face. Even when he manages to avoid it, it still smells awful, and he gags and almost retches on her. “Who are you and why do you look like Matt?!”
Oh.
“Oh,” he says. “I knew you. Didn’t I?”
“The hell?” says the woman. She smells like citrus, old paper, ink. “Oh my god. No. No.”
He holds his hands up, to show her that he doesn’t have any weapons on him. He does, but his swords are leaning on the side of the couch, and after a moment he drops a dagger at her feet as well, tries not to feel exposed and vulnerable.
“Matt?” she whispers.
He tests the name in his head. Matthew Michael Murdock. Matthew. Matt. “Yes,” he says. “That’s—who I was, right?” The bookmark feels heavy in his pocket. Rest in Peace.
If he could laugh, he would.
She bends down, a hand tentatively going to his cheek, fingers brushing over the stubble. There’s a half-healed paper cut on her finger, callouses from holding a pen, and he leans into her touch. Breathes in, then out, focuses on the steady beat of her pulse.
“What happened to you?” she asks, soft and sad. “How are you not dead?”
He hadn’t asked. All he can do is shake his head, and his hand reaches up to touch her wrist, gentle and tentative. “The Hand brought me back,” he says, and she goes still. “I don’t know how, they wouldn’t say. But I don’t—I can’t be theirs anymore.”
“Back up,” she says, confused, trying to understand, “you’ve been with the Hand?”
“Since they brought me back,” he says. “But I’m not staying there. They have something big planned, and whatever it is, it’s going to level this city, and I can’t let that happen.”
“Oh,” she says. “Shit. Okay, wait here—I’m going to call someone, he’ll be able to help better than I can.” She pauses, then adds, “Legally speaking.”
“You can’t—”
“I can and I will,” she says. “Matt, this, what you’re talking about—you can’t handle this alone. The Hand’s too big for one man to take down alone, but if you get help then we have a chance.” She clasps his hand in hers, and pleads, “Let me get some help, and we can work something out.”
He hesitates, pulls his hand away. “I can’t risk more people getting hurt because of me,” he says. “I’m already risking it, just being here.”
“I’m not asking you to leave, am I?” she says. “I know. I know. They kidnapped me once before, but if we can somehow bring them down—it’s worth the risk. Wouldn’t you say?”
“I can’t risk you,” he says. “Or anyone else. You don’t—You don’t understand, the Hand is ruthless, they won’t just go after you—”
“They’ll go after everyone I love first,” she says. “You don’t—You really don’t remember? They already did.” She moves closer and leans down, rests her forehead against his, her hand dropping from his cheek to the back of his neck. “They took you,” she says, grieving and angry.
He swallows the lump that’s grown in his throat. Citrus, old paper, ink, and now he hears the steel underneath her skin, her heartbeat, steady and calmer now than before. “You loved me?” he asks.
“I did,” she says. “God, Matt, I did. We both did.”
“We?”
“Me and Foggy,” she clarifies. “He was—is—was your best friend. You guys fought, and you weren’t speaking to each other when you died, and he’s been beating himself up over that ever since.”
What had they been fighting over? He can’t remember, now. Something twinges in the hollowed space in his chest where his heart must be—regret, he thinks, that when he died he left this unfinished, left this thread hanging.
“Matt,” she says, “I’ll call him, all right? Then I’ll go get you a drink. Are you going to stay here, if I leave to steal some milk off somebody?”
He shouldn’t. He should just leave, they’ll be safer that way, better off without him.
“You’re safe here, Matt,” she says, “you’re safe with us,” and her voice rings with truth, with conviction. Alexandra had never sounded like this, talking to him—assured, yes, arrogantly so, but this woman is different. She isn’t just being reassuring, she really, truly believes it, is determined to make it true, somehow.
“I’ll stay,” he says, and finds that he isn’t lying at all.
fill. role reversal au: elektra as a defender, matt as an assassin
He asks Alexandra, once, about them.
“These,” she says, stepping closer with a sword in one hand, “are but the flaws of your vessel.” She rests a hand on his shoulder, and he smells blood and bone, underneath her jasmine perfume and the fading scent of the hospital. He can’t hear her heartbeat. He can’t hear his, either. “Would that I could take them, and this blindness he left behind, away,” she murmurs, soft and sad, “so you could serve life to your fullest potential.”
He swallows. “The Black Sky,” he says, quiet. “She said something. She knew me.”
“She knew the man to whom this body used to belong to,” says Alexandra, gently correcting. Cold steel rests against his other shoulder, just short of his neck. “He was a foolish man, who failed in all he set out to do. But you—I have high hopes for you, my hound.”
Her free hand goes to the nape of his neck, and he bows his head. A moment later, she does too, their foreheads bumping lightly against each other, a parody of familial affection. “I trust you won’t fail in your duty,” says Alexandra.
(Matthew?)
“I won’t,” he says.
--
The Hand serves life itself, he’s told. No offering is too great, for such a demanding lord, or at least that’s what Alexandra tells him.
He doesn’t tell her that he can smell death on her, the sterile, chemical scent of the hospital clinging to her skin. He’s sure she knows, anyway—more than once a whispered conversation between the Hand’s foot soldiers stopped while he was still in the other room, shut up, he’ll hear you, he’ll smell you, he’ll know.
The Hand serves life itself.
So the question he finds himself asking is: why bring so much death, then? But he doesn’t say it, not out loud, not even when Alexandra brings him to a rooftop, not even when the floor shakes underneath him and he grabs hold of the railing, hears screams and smells blood and fear in the air.
The city falls apart underneath him, for one long awful minute. When the shaking ends, he falls to his knees.
Alexandra’s skirt rustles as she kneels down next to him. Her fingers, slender and calloused from holding a pen, tilt his head up, gentle and careful as if holding something precious from her collection.
“It’s just a city,” she says, sweet and maternal. “It will fall, like all the others have. You’ll get used to the feeling, in time.”
They were screaming, he doesn’t tell her. They were terrified, they were scared, they died screaming, if you serve life then what is all this death for, why must so many people die, why—
“It’s just a city,” Alexandra stresses.
--
The Black Sky is a woman who smells like blood and jasmine, steel and orchids.
She says, “Matthew?”
(Silky hair in his fingers, a soft laugh, her heartbeat fluttering under him, get me back—)
--
In retrospect? Of course he would protect her.
In retrospect? Of course he would protect his city, somehow, in any way he could.
--
There is an office building in the midst of Hell’s Kitchen, sitting on a street corner, that feels familiar. His feet take him over a path he can’t remember, muscle memory guiding the way even as he tries to recall just what it is about this route that keeps bugging him.
He steps onto an office building, and crouches low, cocks his head to the side, listening as close as he can. Downstairs, he can hear the tinny strains of a radio, the whirring of old laptops, the chatter of different voices about the weather, the government, the bills, everything.
He breathes in, smells shit and sewage and perfume and food—he smells cheese and preservatives, and strawberry rhubarb. Unbidden, a forgotten voice cheers in the back of his head, strawberry rhubarb! you will be mine.
He finds a way down. The building has rooftop access, yes, but he’s not certain who’ll be coming upstairs or not, and it’s—it’s important that he stays out of sight.
One of the windows is gone when he gets there—the scent of cardboard, drying after a hard rain, gives away the easiest window to break into. So that’s where he breaks in, kicking the flimsy cardboard in and quietly setting foot inside.
No one’s here. He can’t hear any heartbeats nearby, and rattling the doorknob reveals that it’s locked. He’s glad of that much, it means no one’s going to walk in on him.
The office is familiar, is the thing. From the layout to the dying houseplant to the lingering scents of junk food and pie and perfume and alcohol in the air to the receptionist’s desk’s texture underneath his fingers, everything about it drags up another scrap of memory. The ones that must’ve belonged to—
He should go back. Alexandra must be worried, by now.
His fingers trace over a picture frame on the desk. Over a stack of papers, the ink rubbing off slightly against his skin. Over a book and its bookmark, sticking out between the pages.
He takes the bookmark, feels raised bumps against his fingertips. Braille—it reads, Rest in Peace, Matthew Michael Murdock.
(Stay with me, Matthew, stay, stay, stay—)
He turns. There’s something off about the layout here, he thinks, but it takes him a moment to realize even when he bumps up against it—someone moved a couch in, one that smells like bleach and, faintly, dried blood. The pillows on it are soft, velvety, meant for sitting on. There’s dog hair on one of them, he thinks.
He lies down on the couch, curls up, cheek resting against a pillow.
For the first time in a long, long while, he sleeps.
--
This is how it felt like, those first few hours:
You wake up bloody. You wake up alone.
You wake up trapped, drowning in blood, and you grasp for something—light, a hand, anything so you can pull yourself out of this hell. Because this must be hell, you can’t see anything but darkness and can’t taste anything but copper and ashes and bone.
You try to breathe. It’s—not a good idea, to say the least, and you grasp blindly about for something to hold on to.
You find it—a gap in the stone.
Stone?
You don’t—
It’s heavy against your fingers, but you grit your teeth and lift, as hard as you can.
The stone falls to the ground with a loud crash. Too loud—the sound rattles around in your head, even as you sit up straight with a panicked cry, a gasp for air.
All at once, everything hits you—the smell of rot, hidden underneath lavender and jasmine, the whisper of steel against fabric, the hitch of breath in three different throats, the rustle of fabric against skin, the sound of someone’s ragged breathing, the vague but fiery shapes against the darkness—
You fall out of—wherever you were. You have to get out of here. You have to—This isn’t where you’re supposed to be, you shouldn’t be here, why are you here—
“It’s all right,” comes a woman’s voice, in the darkness. She steps forward, and the sound of her footsteps on the stone floor is as loud as a scream. You inch away and slip on the blood, and you can’t—something is wrong with her, you can’t hear—
“It’s all right,” she says.
You whimper. The sound of it is so loud in your ears, you can hear every rustle of fabric, every breath, smell the sweat and blood and rot under the jasmine and lavender.
“It’s all right,” she murmurs, taking another step. Your back hits the thing you were in, before. Something sloshes, spills over the side of it, and you smell blood. “You’re safe now. You’re ours.”
You bare your teeth and snarl at her.
Steel slides against fabric.
“Stand down,” the woman snaps to her men. To you, she bends down, and fabric slides off her shoulders, winds around her hand. “It’s all right,” she says. “You were—unexpected, but you will be the path to what we seek. Come, now. You’re home.”
This isn’t home. You know that much. Home is—
Home is—
You can’t remember.
You can’t remember.
A growl rips from your throat, and you try to make a grab for her, hands like claws, but your legs still feel too heavy and she steps to the side easily.
You swipe at her again, and her block is almost lazy. You snarl at her, try again, but she grabs your arm this time and suddenly you can’t break her grip, bruising your arms and keeping them trapped behind your back. All you can smell is lavender and jasmine and blood.
“Shh,” she murmurs, even as you struggle against her. “Shh. It’s all right, it’s all right. Shh.”
Eventually you stop, too exhausted to keep fighting. Eventually they clean you up, and give you clothes, and press a sword into your hand and tell you fight.
Eventually you get used to the smell of rot.
--
He wakes to the sound of a woman’s heartbeat, rabbit-fast and fearful, and a can being shaken up.
“Who the fuck are you,” she snarls, and that’s all the warning he gets before he has to duck a spray of chemicals directly to his face. Even when he manages to avoid it, it still smells awful, and he gags and almost retches on her. “Who are you and why do you look like Matt?!”
Oh.
“Oh,” he says. “I knew you. Didn’t I?”
“The hell?” says the woman. She smells like citrus, old paper, ink. “Oh my god. No. No.”
He holds his hands up, to show her that he doesn’t have any weapons on him. He does, but his swords are leaning on the side of the couch, and after a moment he drops a dagger at her feet as well, tries not to feel exposed and vulnerable.
“Matt?” she whispers.
He tests the name in his head. Matthew Michael Murdock. Matthew. Matt. “Yes,” he says. “That’s—who I was, right?” The bookmark feels heavy in his pocket. Rest in Peace.
If he could laugh, he would.
She bends down, a hand tentatively going to his cheek, fingers brushing over the stubble. There’s a half-healed paper cut on her finger, callouses from holding a pen, and he leans into her touch. Breathes in, then out, focuses on the steady beat of her pulse.
“What happened to you?” she asks, soft and sad. “How are you not dead?”
He hadn’t asked. All he can do is shake his head, and his hand reaches up to touch her wrist, gentle and tentative. “The Hand brought me back,” he says, and she goes still. “I don’t know how, they wouldn’t say. But I don’t—I can’t be theirs anymore.”
“Back up,” she says, confused, trying to understand, “you’ve been with the Hand?”
“Since they brought me back,” he says. “But I’m not staying there. They have something big planned, and whatever it is, it’s going to level this city, and I can’t let that happen.”
“Oh,” she says. “Shit. Okay, wait here—I’m going to call someone, he’ll be able to help better than I can.” She pauses, then adds, “Legally speaking.”
“You can’t—”
“I can and I will,” she says. “Matt, this, what you’re talking about—you can’t handle this alone. The Hand’s too big for one man to take down alone, but if you get help then we have a chance.” She clasps his hand in hers, and pleads, “Let me get some help, and we can work something out.”
He hesitates, pulls his hand away. “I can’t risk more people getting hurt because of me,” he says. “I’m already risking it, just being here.”
“I’m not asking you to leave, am I?” she says. “I know. I know. They kidnapped me once before, but if we can somehow bring them down—it’s worth the risk. Wouldn’t you say?”
“I can’t risk you,” he says. “Or anyone else. You don’t—You don’t understand, the Hand is ruthless, they won’t just go after you—”
“They’ll go after everyone I love first,” she says. “You don’t—You really don’t remember? They already did.” She moves closer and leans down, rests her forehead against his, her hand dropping from his cheek to the back of his neck. “They took you,” she says, grieving and angry.
He swallows the lump that’s grown in his throat. Citrus, old paper, ink, and now he hears the steel underneath her skin, her heartbeat, steady and calmer now than before. “You loved me?” he asks.
“I did,” she says. “God, Matt, I did. We both did.”
“We?”
“Me and Foggy,” she clarifies. “He was—is—was your best friend. You guys fought, and you weren’t speaking to each other when you died, and he’s been beating himself up over that ever since.”
What had they been fighting over? He can’t remember, now. Something twinges in the hollowed space in his chest where his heart must be—regret, he thinks, that when he died he left this unfinished, left this thread hanging.
“Matt,” she says, “I’ll call him, all right? Then I’ll go get you a drink. Are you going to stay here, if I leave to steal some milk off somebody?”
He shouldn’t. He should just leave, they’ll be safer that way, better off without him.
“You’re safe here, Matt,” she says, “you’re safe with us,” and her voice rings with truth, with conviction. Alexandra had never sounded like this, talking to him—assured, yes, arrogantly so, but this woman is different. She isn’t just being reassuring, she really, truly believes it, is determined to make it true, somehow.
“I’ll stay,” he says, and finds that he isn’t lying at all.