I'm here.

[man_without_fear]

[previously: unbound]

Matt barrels through the door and finds himself in the hallway of the apartment building he'd left behind before being trapped in Milliways.

He takes a moment to get his bearings. Musty carpets, muffled TV's, traffic out on the street-- Russians.

Springing forward, Matt rushes for the stairwell; tackling the staircase several steps at a time and leaping the banister to drop the last flight. His lungs are burning and his heart is drumming loud when he finally makes the street.

The city slams into him: pedestrians and traffic, the caterwauling of sirens, dirty storm drains, and broken bottles reeking in the alleyway. But, no Russians, no car, and no Claire.

Hands on his hips and head tilted back at the sky, Matt struggles to catch his breath through the twin fists of defeat and guilt clamped around his windpipe.



He's lost her.



[dialogue taken from Netflix's Daredevil: 1.4 - In the Blood]

Comments

[nocturnalmedicine]

Her mouth tightens, briefly, in bemusement.

"Never had a doubt."

With Mike's help, she scrubs her face clean, revealing a split lip, abrasions on her right cheekbone, raw scrapes on her forehead and chin, and an ugly gash near her right temple.

Unable to entirely stifle a wince, she sets aside the soiled towel, her knee bumping his as she does so.

[man_without_fear]

The air is filled with the tang of blood, he can smell and taste it even as they try and wash it away. He listens for the catches in her breath, the tension of tender areas beneath her skin, but it's hard to get a full reading on everything just yet.

Right now, through her, he feels like everything hurts.

Moving the bowl of tainted water aside, he reaches down to give her knee a steadying pat.

"Think we're ready for bandages."

[nocturnalmedicine]

She isn't sure when she closed her eyes, but they reopen with the warm press of his palm on her knee.

"Mm," she says, watching as he tears open an alcohol wipe, "my favorite part."

She licks her lips, and runs her tongue along her teeth, scraping copper from her taste buds.

[man_without_fear]

The wrapping to the wipe rips open, releasing the stringent odor of alcohol into the air.

"This isn't gonna feel great," he warns her, voice soft and apologetic.

Holding his breath he leans in and uses steady hands to gently clean the gash on her temple.

[nocturnalmedicine]

She holds still for him, her eyes slipping shut once more.

"You've got pretty good hands for a blind guy."

[man_without_fear]

He draws back, giving a bare nod and flashing her a brief smile.

"I used to patch up my dad."

[nocturnalmedicine]

Her eyebrows lift.

"He run around in a mask, too?"

[man_without_fear]

Matt breathes a laugh, giving a slight shake of his head while he readies a butterfly bandage; the wrapper crinkling in his hands.

"He was a boxer. Took a lot of beatings."

Discarding the adhesive backing on the bandage he leans in again to carefully apply it to her temple.

[nocturnalmedicine]

"Huh," she says, absorbing this unexpected piece of personal history. "So you take after him, then."

They're both chuckling as Mike presses the bandage in place.

Claire grimaces, no longer laughing.

"Ow, shit."

[man_without_fear]

She deserves the honesty, and more.

When she flinches he pulls his hands back, resting them in his lap.

Regarding her, he wets his lips and speaks a soft, "I'm sorry."

[nocturnalmedicine]

She lifts her hand, fingers gingerly feeling out the bandage.

Finding Mike's patch job more than satisfactory, she waves off the unnecessary apology.

"Don't be," she says, unable to stifle a wince as she speaks. "It's okay. You've had a lot worse."

[man_without_fear]

"I mean, I'm-- I'm sorry for getting you into this."

He takes a breath, the shake of his head almost imperceptible.

"I never thought that I'd be putting anyone else at risk." Foolishly, he knows now.

[nocturnalmedicine]

She shakes her head in response.

"It was my choice. You didn't ask me to pull you from that Dumpster."

[man_without_fear]

"No, you did it because you're a good person," he replies, his throat getting harder to work as his vocal cords knot.

"And you almost got killed. Because of me." The guilt over that thought cuts deeper than any wound she's ever patched for him.

[nocturnalmedicine]

He's half-lit in the soft yellow glow from the window; Claire's exhausted eyes skim the shadows slashing his face, seeing sorrow and remorse take shape and weight within his unfocused gaze.

"Tell me it was worth it," she says, not unkindly, as she shifts again and straightens her spine against the back of the chair. "Tell me that you've got a plan."

[man_without_fear]

"Claire-- " Apology is written in every line of his features.

He can't give her anything. Not promises, or assurances, not even a course from here.

[nocturnalmedicine]

When he hesitates, licking his lips, Claire's heart drops straight to the scarred hardwood under her scuffed sneakers.

"An end game?" Urgent, now. She has to believe this is bigger than her, bigger than nearly being beaten to death. "Anything?"

[man_without_fear]

There was never any plan. No tangible goal for him to reach when he began all of this.

He was just tired of standing by listening to his city fall apart.

The Devil finds work for idle hands...

And now, how does he explain that to someone who nearly gave her life for what he started?

"I'm-- I'm just trying to make my city a better place. That's all."

[nocturnalmedicine]

She pushes out a short breath through her teeth — a slight hiss, mostly a sigh.

A better place. What does that even look like from here?

She shifts again in her seat, radiating discomfort from every pore.

"Ow," she murmurs, mouth tightening when she carefully rolls her left shoulder. "I think maybe it's a little more complicated than that, now."

[man_without_fear]

His frown deepens and he gives a stuttered head shake.

"Nothing's changing out there."

Beyond them and his kitchen there's a siren wailing in the dark. Downstairs on the street a drunk stumbles into a line of garbage cans. And somewhere in the hidden shadows a faceless man named Fisk pulls strings, runs crime and gets away with it.

"No matter what I do, I'm just-- I'm making things worse."

[nocturnalmedicine]

Twin furrows appear between her eyebrows.

"Tell that to the boy you saved from the Russians," she says, "or all the other people you've helped."

This is what a better place looks like: giving a shit, and turning intent into action.

[man_without_fear]

"And what about the people I've hurt?" he counters. "What do I tell them?"

In each movement and breath she takes he can hear the signs of pain beneath.

Her heart and lungs each stutter when she tenses. One or two of her ribs are fractured, maybe broken. Each word she speaks seems to require extra enunciation to get around the split in her lip and the swelling of her jaw.

The Russian's may have been the ones to take her, but he's the one who did this to her.

[nocturnalmedicine]

She draws a short, careful breath, then another.

Her palms feel tight, itchy, clammy; she runs her hands along the thighs of her grime-streaked jeans, and opens her mouth to speak.

Her lower lip trembles.

She breathes out once more. In.

"Feel my heart."

[man_without_fear]

The unexpected request halts him from sinking further into the mire that was threatening to drag him down.

He cants his head, listening, hesitating, not sure what she wants from him.

[nocturnalmedicine]

His uncertainty reinforces her own resolve.

She licks her lips, and gestures to her chest.

"C'mon, feel it."

She takes his hand in both of hers, and guides his palm to her sternum. Beneath the thin cotton of her sweat-stained blouse and camisole, behind bruised skin and aching bone, the rabbit-quick drum shares secrets meant only for Mike's heightened senses to interpret.

"What is it telling you?"