blindfighter | There was a time when I was good, but there are witches in the woods.

There was a time when I was good, but there are witches in the woods.

It's around 630 when Matt stops pretending to be asleep.

Though that's a lie, just a tad--Matt has slept. On and off, on his silk sheets and curled up naked with another man in what feels like forever. It's nice, and for a few hours it lasts. It really and truly lasts, and Matt can hear the steady beating of Tim's heart. He can hear every creak as his bones adjust, can still smell scotch and bourbon as he exhales in his sleep. It's not the kind that's overwhelming, it's natural and in a way comforting.

But it's still another person and Matt Murdock is used to being alone. He's used to not getting close.

He's used to one night stands and relationships that barely last a month, if that. He's used to Foggy clapping him on the shoulder and telling him there'll be more.

He's used to going to their place. This is the first time he's brought someone home.

Someone here.

He's brought people over, but not for a one night stand. This is a different circumstance in many ways--mostly that they're going to see each other again. They're going to pass each other in the courtrooms even if they're not going to actively see each other although, if Matt's being honest, he does want to. It had been one of the best lays in a while.

And that's how, at exactly 6:40 in the morning, Matt Murdock decides he can't get used to it just yet. So instead, he gets to work. Turns the alarm off to let Tim sleep in, gets half-dressed (socks, slacks and a dress shirt, the first few buttons undone and the collar a little rumpled), and is in the kitchen. He gets to work.

If this is a one-night stand with special circumstances, he may as well make breakfast. That includes half a grapefruit for each of them, fresh fruit, and Matt himself is in the middle of cooking up some of the bacon and eggs. Simple and scrambled, but if there's one thing Matt can do better than most thanks to his olfactory senses being heightened, it's cook.

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"I know," he murmurs. He knows Mat didn't mean to make him worry, but that doesn't mean he didn't. That doesn't mean he didn't spend several hours in the hospital trying to convince himself and Foggy and Karen that Matt wasn't dead. That doesn't mean he hasn't done more working than sleeping the past few days because people he cared about got hurt and died and all he wants to do is get that shot he couldn't get before.

It doesn't mean he's not frustrated. It doesn't mean he's not angry about it.

But it's a quiet anger. It's not like that sudden, exploding rage that his father possessed, the kind he can see in Matt sometimes. He's always had his mother's temper. Too slow to build to be worth mentioning.

He wants to ask Matt what happened. How, exactly, he got hurt. This time, the last time, next time, because it's not as if this is a one-off occurrence. It's not as if Matt hasn't been littered in these sort of injuries before. He wants to demand a real explanation that's not some bullshit about being clumsy.

But Matt doesn't owe him that. Didn't even owe him the vague string of texts over the past couple of days assuring Tim that he's fine. Matt doesn't owe him anything, and Tim-- he needs to stop expecting more than he deserves.

He follows Matt into the living room, closely watching the way the other walks, trying to determine just how bad the damage is.

It's not good, but he's had worse. He tells himself, at least. His walking is stiff and he winces when he shifts a certain way, but he's had worse.

He remembers training with Stick. Remembers how no one's going to pity him and how he doesn't want them to. He wants Tim to understand that he can't ask about things, but that's absurd. Matt's absurd.

Tim doesn't deserve him, he thinks. He deserves so much better.

He walks to where the drapes are closed, offers the tiniest smile as he turns into the kitchen. "Do you want anything?" He asks, and wonders when they started being so stilted with each other.

There's too much distance between them. It's insane how one incident can completely undo weeks worth of growing closer, getting more and more attached. And now he looks at Matt and feels like he hardly knows him at all.

It's probably better that they aren't dating. That they're not serious. There's too many secrets, too many unspoken personal issues between them, and they're both to blame for it. Matt's, maybe, are a little more serious, but Tim's never forthcoming with the truth, either.

It's almost like they're strangers again, and Tim doesn't like that. But there are blinds over the windows and Kentucky brewed bourbon in the cabinet, and those didn't show up until after Tim started staying the night. There's a book he accidentally left here weeks ago sitting on the coffee table, and that too is proof that they know each other. They're not dating, but they're not strangers.

"I got it," he says, moving into the kitchen. He knows where everything is, and that's more proof that they're not strangers. "Go sit down."

"I've got it," Matt echoes, and he's moving to cut Tim off. He's not as weak as people think, he's never been as weak as people think, but this is different. This is Tim worrying about him and Matt being unable to do anything about it without looking weird. This is Matt brushing Tim off not because he wants to but because he has no choice.

"Tim," he states, and it stops so he can grab the other's wrist. His voice is soft.

"I've got it," He assures.

Don't worry about me, he means.

Matt is capable. He's capable of navigating a staircase drunk with someone all but clinging to his side, and he's capable of pouring some drinks for the two of them. Tim doesn't doubt it for a second, but he also doesn't care. He feels like, at the very least, he's earned the right to be worried. They're not dating, but they're friends, sort of.

At least, Matt's the closest thing Tim has to a friend in the city.

"You," Tim says, slowly and carefully, trying his best to keep the anger and frustration out of his voice. "Look like you got hit by a bus. I'm not gonna bother askin' where you were or what you were doin' when the explosions happened, because I know you're not gonna answer me. So just go sit down and let me get the liquor so we can get drunk. Please."

They'll be better when they're drunk. Less stiff and awkward and formal. It'll be better.

He hears it. Boy, does he hear it, and Matt's entire face falls. His knuckles flex, not from rage, but from shame, and his gaze would move to the floor if he could see. Instead, his adam's apple bobs just so.

"Tim," He says a second time, and doesn't exactly move but he grabs the other's wrist this time as he turns. He wants to tell him everything--EVERYTHING--but he can't. He won't.

Tim doesn't deserve him.

"I'm sorry," He says, and he means every single word.

Tim doesn't deserve him. But not for the reasons Matt thinks.

His expression softens, just a touch. Matt can't see it, of course, but it reflects in his voice, soothing over the raw edges of his frustration. He's glad, actually, that Matt doesn't bother with any ass-covering explanations, doesn't even bother trying to lie. The apology, while not as good as the truth, is almost welcome.

"I know." He doesn't say 'it's okay', because it's not, really. It's not okay, and Tim's not going to lie, either. But he does shift his wrist in Matt's grasp, turning his hand so he can curl his fingers around the other's, and bring Matt's hand up to kiss the palm of it briefly.

"Now go on, go sit down. I'll be there in a minute."

I know.

That's what Tim says, and Matt smiles, broken and trying so, so hard to be warm. He doesn't blame Tim for a lick of this--but he's barely been sleeping, barely been eating, so fixated on Fisk. And now Fisk is in the open and he has a not boyfriend who's upset at him and he'd give anything to let him know what, exactly, was happening.

Instead, he sits on the couch. Sits, and hopes that Tim won't draw away.

Instead, he finds his voice cautious:

"Stay the night?" He asks. What he wants to ask, really, is 'stay forever?'

This, he thinks, is where it starts falling apart. This is where the other shoe drops, like Tim's been waiting for, and Matt starts drifting away. Where there are longer and longer stretches of Matt being "busy" until eventually, they're only seeing each other in the court room. Tim can feel it, the distance already squeezing between them. It's only a matter of time now.

He should probably just cut it off now. Beat Matt to the punch and do it himself just to save him a little less heartache. He knew it was coming and it's still twisting in his stomach uncomfortably. It'll just hurt worse if he lets it drag on.

But Tim's never been very good at saving himself.

Instead, he grabs the bourbon and the scotch from the cabinet, two glasses, and joins Matt in the living room, sitting down before answering.

"Yeah. Of course." Of course. It doesn't matter how frustrated he might be, or how angry he was before, Tim doesn't think he'll ever be able to tell Matt no. Ultimately, it will be his downfall. But for tonight, it only means curling up with a good looking lawyer between silk sheets and catching up on sleep.

"I'm tired," Matt confesses, and his voice is soft but somehow gravelly, full of regret and sorrow and rage. It's the tone that he normally saves for his priest, but he feels he can lay it on Tim.

Tim doesn't need Matt. Tim needs someone better, and stronger, and able to shoulder their own burdens. Tim needs anyone that isn't him, but he hears the bourbon being poured, smells it in the air, and runs his hands down his face after he takes his glasses off. It's a vulnerable moment.

He realizes, suddenly, he only wants Tim. Only wants to be with Tim, and he can smell fading bruises and knows there are nights when Tim isn't his. It's stupid, but it's all now starting to bother him. All amassing at once.

"I'm glad you're safe." He isn't even sure if he's said it before or not.

"Me, too," Tim admits, all quiet, drawling murmurs. It's not the sort of thing he'd normally admit, because it feels like he's admitting to a weakness. He's a soldier. He shouldn't feel weak. But he does, and he admits it to Matt in different, fewer words.

He pours the bourbon for himself, then pours the scotch for Matt, sliding it across the table until it touches his hand. It feels like these past few days that he's been running on nothing but cat naps and bourbon and coffee. He can't get away with keeping a bottle in his desk (or, as it is, in Nelson's desk) here like he could in Kentucky, but there's a bar down the street from the station, and more often than not, Tim ends up taking his work home with him.

He smiles ruefully as he sits back against the couch, leaning just slightly towards Matt. He always said he'd be nothing like his daddy, but he thinks that maybe Matt was right to be concerned about his drinking. It's a little more than just 'a glass before bed'.

But he's functioning. As long as he's still functioning, it's alright.

"The thing about bein' a sniper," Tim says, voice quiet as he takes a sip of bourbon. "Is that you're almost always out of harm's way. You watch a lot of people get hurt and a lot of people die while you're tucked away safe and sound on whatever rooftop or cliff side they put you on."

He knows. Matt tenses, not because he's mad but because this is a very difficult subject for Tim and for a brief moment Matt's not sure how to handle it. This is new territory, not ventured. Matt gets the feeling it's why Tim drinks. It's why Tim needs someone to fix him.

He decides to treat this like a fragile witness, but instead he sips his scotch and reaches over to gently grasp Tim's hand. His bruised and battered knuckles are nothing to him when he's running his fingers over Tim's own. His gaze isn't on Tim but that doesn't mean he's not paying extremely close attention to him.

"You still did the right thing," He assures. "You did your job, Tim."

Tim's never been entirely comfortable with affection. He's grown used to rejecting it, hand holding and cuddling and all that stuff, because that's when the hook-ups and the one night stands get too personal and too messy and all those things he tries so hard to avoid.

He tried to avoid them with Matt, too, but clearly failed. He didn't stand a chance. Not against a justice-driven, good-looking lawyer with a smile that rivals the fucking sun.

It's different, with Matt. He likes holding Matt's hand, likes twining their fingers together, as he does now. His thumb brushes along the length of Matt's index finger, and he can feel bruised, split knuckles beneath his fingertips. He's never been entirely comfortable discussing this sort of thing either, but here he is, gazing at their joined hands as he talks.

"Not this time. I couldn't get the shot." He takes another drink of bourbon, a long one. "And instead of lettin' the response team go in, I tried to find a better angle. He got away. The team went in to find him and some of 'em didn't come back out."

He's not being specific, but he figures Matt probably knows anyway. He can put two and two together.

Matt feels like his entire body has been crushed.

But he keeps his face neutral. Matt furrows his brow and pretends that this isn't hurting him and tearing him up inside. This is all valid. Tim is valid. Tim needs to talk about his problems and Matt understands where he's coming from.

It's all over the papers, that the devil of hell's kitchen is a terrorist. Fisk made sure of it, but all of that seems insignificant because Tim is hurting. Tim is so broken, so damaged, and Matt can't do a damn thing. He wants to explain that it's not Tim's fault, it's his fault, but he can't.

"If they had gone in more people would have died, Tim."

Logically, he knows that. Or, he suspects it, anyway. If he'd let the team go in the first time, a lot more bodies would've been dropped courtesy of the vigilante. It does not, however, make it any easier to deal with. Tim is used to being directly responsible for peoples' deaths. But usually, it's the bad guys dying, not the good ones.

His hand tightens around Matt's briefly, just a quick squeeze. He gets through his first glass of bourbon in nearly record time, and leans forward to pour himself another without letting go of Matt's hand.

He knows there's not enough alcohol in the world to combat the nightmares he's bound to have tonight, but he's sure as hell gonna try anyway.

"They don't teach you how to get rid of the guilt," he says. "In the army. They teach you how to compartmentalize, how to lock it all away and separate it from your job so you're a more proficient killer. So you won't hesitate when you pull the trigger. What they don't tell you is that you can't keep it separate once you get home. Doesn't work. Don't have a mission to bury it under."

He pauses, frowning at his glass. He won't look at Matt. He doesn't think he can right now, honestly. Not when he's talking about this. "I could never decide if livin' with the guilt was better than never feelin' it again. Some soldiers can't find their humanity again when they come back. Kept it buried to long, I guess. They end up losin' their wives, their kids. They're the ones that become hired guns. Sometimes I think the only difference between snipers and hitmen is that hitmen are paid better."

"Tim," Matt says, and it's sharp but not enough to sound like he's blaming the other. Not enough to sound like he's angry or upset--he isn't. He's crushed, and he can't let Tim know this. Tim is opening up, now. Being honest and real and Matt wants to return the favour but he can't. So he gently lets Tim know just by his voice that he's here.

He'll let him drink, he decides. And then he'll hold him when the nightmares inevitably come. He'll talk about the days he and Foggy were in law school, tell him about Thurgood Marshall. Anything to help him, tonight.

Tomorrow, Matt tries to convince Tim to stop drinking and start trusting in him. He's decided he wants Tim to date him and only him, now. He wants to help Tim.

"You're on the right side of the law," Matt reminds him. Leans forward to kiss his jaw, softly. "You're on the side of the heroes and the angels. You compartmentalize but you don't have to--not with me."

Matt smiles, gentle and soft, and he brings a hand up to touch Tim's jaw.

"Tell me everything."

There's a part of him — and it's a part that Tim has become very familiar with — that is doing this, saying all of this out loud, finally, for the first time, because he's hoping it'll make Matt push him away faster. This part of him is the self-destructive part, the same part that picks bar fights just so he can taste blood in his mouth. This is the thing that kept any other potential relationship from working. The baggage they couldn't carry, even though Tim never asked them to.

It will be the same, he reckons, with Matt. He'll talk about it and there will be nightmares, and afterwards he'll drink and become just a little more distant as he tries to stop seeing the ghosts. And soon, Matt will realize he doesn't want to deal with these issues either, and he'll leave.

It'll hurt, but it'll be a familiar hurt. And the sooner it happens, the sooner Tim can make it happen, the less painful it'll be. The sooner he can remember why second dates are a bad idea, the better.

He'll make Matt let go because Matt deserves to be with someone who isn't quite so damaged.

Matt's lips find his jaw, and Tim's eyes slip shut, his grip on his glass of bourbon tightening slightly. Matt will assure him like this until assuring him becomes too much work. And it will, eventually. It always does. He turns his head, pressing his cheek against the palm of Matt's hand.

"You don't want to hear about it. It's not pretty."

"I want to," Matt corrects. He knows he has to take this in slow, simple steps, and he knows he can't patronize Tim. Not that he would, but the trick is letting Tim know he wouldn't.

Matt wants to protect his city. That includes the people in it. That includes Tim. Sightless eyes lift towards Tim in an attempt at making eye contact, and he knows it's not quite there but it's an alarming amount of effort and concentration. He needs to know Tim knows it's alright to talk to him.

"That's exactly why I want to hear about it."

Talking about it doesn't make Tim feel better. It doesn't lift some metaphorical weight off his shoulders. It's part of the reason he never bothered with any sort of therapy. Talking about it just makes him want to drink more, and that, usually, is something he wants to avoid.

Except for tonight. Tonight, he wants to drink well past the point of being too drunk, past the point where the nightmares should stay at bay, even though he knows that this time around, it's pointless to bother. The nightmares will come no matter how much alcohol he consumes or talking he does. It's inevitable.

He downs what's left of his glass and refills it. He wants to lean into Matt's side, but doesn't want to jar any of his injuries. So he settles for scooting a little bit closer and kissing him on the mouth, briefly, before leaning his shoulder against the back of the couch and talking. He doesn't discuss everything. He doesn't talk about his kill count, and there are some missions that involved such big name terrorists that, legally speaking, he can't talk about them. But he talks about what it's like to watch a man live his life for days before shooting him through the head. He talks about how, sometimes, there's a wife or kids around, and the people giving the orders don't care about that. He talks about how he hasn't ever missed, not once in his entire military and law enforcement career.

He talks about Mark, his friend with the shattered leg and the oxy addiction. He doesn't talk about Mark's death, or Colt, and he definitely doesn't talk about how he goaded Colt into drawing on him so he could put his friend's killer down.

There's a lot more he doesn't talk about. A lot of parts he's vague on. He talks until he's had too many glasses of bourbon, and it's late and all those days of sleepless working are catching up with him. He and Matt crawl into bed, and it's warm and comfortable and Tim closes his eyes, even though he's scared of falling asleep.

But he does. And the nightmares come. They're vivid and intense, a little more so than usual. He can taste smoke, but it tastes more like the smoke from the bombings a few nights ago than the smoke in Afghanistan. This dream is different. This dream is rooftops and New York City's nipping chill instead of dusty cliff sides and Afghanistan's hot sun. There's a terrorist still, but instead of it being the Taliban, it's the vigilante, right in the sight of his scope. And as Tim watches, the vigilante turns into Matt, and then his mother, then Raylan, Rachel, Art, Nelson, then Matt again. And it's Matt when he pulls the trigger and wakes up.

Waking up means sitting bolt upright in bed, gasping for breath like he's broken water surface. The silk sheets around him are damp with sweat, and a gunshot echoes loudly in his head. He can smell gun powder and blood and the city air, and he can see crosshairs on everyone he loves when he closes his eyes.

He can't catch his breath. He can't even think straight as he pushes himself back against the headboard of the bed.

Matt is awake when Tim starts. Doesn't wake the other up, because he's not sure if he could or should, but it's hard to have heightened senses and not notice the sweat, or the smell of fear and panic, or the feeling of someone twitching. It pulls him right out of sleep and right into his fight or flight mode but it's always been fight with Matt, always been the protector.

He's listened so he knows what it's about. He's heard the other toss and turn in his sleep, too, and he's no stranger. He knows this happens and has had a good idea why, though tonight confirms it. It's stress and exhaustion and PTSD and Tim being lonely and unable to cope, Tim being too young to drink but able to kill a terrorist.

So when Tim jolts awake Matt is already sitting up. He's already shifting on the bed so he's facing the other, already reaching up to grab his arms and steady him. Tim can try to punch or attack back but Matt's grip is firm and he knows how to deal with panicked people that try to fight back.

"Tim," He says softly and quickly, voice syncopated and firm. "Tim, it's alright. It's alright, look at me. Focus on me and hear my voice. You're in New York, at my place. 435 51st street, in Hell's Kitchen. You're not anywhere else but my bed, just focus on me and try to breathe."

Tim, despite all his training and all his instincts, does not choose fight over flight, in this instance. He doesn't want to attack, he wants to get away. He's unused to other people being around when he wakes up from his nightmares, and so his immediate reaction to the contact is to jerk back. But Matt's grip is firm and so Tim's hands ball into fists instead, tense and trembling.

His heart is slamming against his rib cage and he's looking at Matt like he's not really seeing him at all. All he can see is Matt's body, dead eyes, a bullet through the head. Dead before he even knew what hit him.

He might be sick, honestly.

Matt's talking. Tim squeezes his eyes shut until he sees bright colors blooming on the dark insides of his eyelids, until he can't see the crosshairs or the blood or the bodies anymore. And he listens to Matt's voice through the echo of the gunshot, and though he can't quite get a handle on what the other's saying, it's the sound itself that starts to ground him.

It's just a little, like one root in the ground, but it's something. His breathing is shaky, unsteady, catching in his throat regularly. There's smoke in his mouth and blood and gunpowder in his nose, and his jaw is clenched just as tight as his fists. He does not open his eyes, but he focuses on Matt. The Matt that's here and real and alive and talking, not the Matt that's still and dead in his dream.

"You're safe," Matt repeats, and he feels like he needs to keep saying that. He doesn't know--he honestly doesn't know what to do--but he can tell from the heartbeat and the level of adrenaline that it's helping. Slowly and gradually, it's helping.

He doesn't want to disturb the other, doesn't want to upset him by moving closer despite all the lawyer wants to do is press gentle lips on soft temple, and to tell him it's alright. That this, too, shall pass.

Instead, he tries to speak again, tries to put his words into something useful. Maybe it's the sound of his voice that helps, instead of the grip.

"Our last date was for coffee and we went to the bodega on 8th. I couldn't stay for long but we'd meet up for lunch, but you got pulled away. You sounded annoyed." His wounds are hurting from how bolt upright he'd sat, but he knows he can meditate that all the way down. Tim needs him now.

"More annoyed than I've ever heard, I think, but I waited at your door until you were done and we walked along 8th and King to go have Indian food, because you'd never had it before."

Slowly, but surely, the instinct to get away starts to ease. Matt doesn't try to get closer, and that's fine. That's good. It's what most people do, on the rare occasions things like this happen, and it only ever makes things worse. He doesn't like being around people when he feels vulnerable, let alone being touched. And nobody seems to get it.

It's different, with Matt. Not because Matt gets it, or because he knows what to do (he's not sure that Matt does know what to do, and that's fine. Tim doesn't know what to do either, truthfully), but because he's learned that feeling vulnerable around Matt Murdock is not altogether a bad thing. Somehow, Tim feels vulnerable all the time around the lawyer, like he's raw and exposed despite how much he works at keeping himself closed off. Either he fails terribly or it doesn't seem to matter, because it's like Matt can see right through him sometimes.

Ironic, maybe. But not untrue.

And here, now, when Tim's at his weakest, he can feel Matt's thumbs against the rapid pulse in his wrists, and he knows that even though he feels awfully exposed, he will be okay.

With some effort, he manages to concentrate on the words Matt's saying just as he starts talking about lunch. And just like the instinct to flee, everything else begins to fade too. It's not fast. He hardly notices it's happening, and honestly, it'll probably be days before he can forget the fine, gritty taste of sand in his mouth. But it's better. He's getting better.

"That was the third time that week my lunch got cut short," Tim says, and his voice is quiet and pained and it breaks twice just in that sentence alone. He moves a little closer, doesn't open his eyes, but puts his forehead on Matt's shoulder. He still doesn't think he can look at the other man without seeing a bullet hole in his forehead. And until he's positive that he won't see the blood and the death, he won't look Matt in the face at all. He can't.

"Keep talkin'," he murmurs.

Tim's voice breaks Matt's heart, and he winds up with a slightly quivering lip as his vacant gaze is blankly on the wall. His sight may be missing but all of Matt is with Tim nonetheless. Tim's forehead on his shoulder is enough for Matt to figure that it's alright now, and he doesn't hesitate. He's not sure if his arm around the other would be too much, so he instead moves his hand to gently touch Tim's chin, brush along up his face, running fingers lightly over him. He ends it with his hand in the other's hair, holding him close.

He continues.

"I remember you ordered chicken tandoori because it they looked like 'chicken wings' to a degree. And I remember kissing you afterwards and how you tasted like cumin and garlic." He smiles. "I held your arm and you smelled like aftershave but not your usual kind, and I realized it was because you switched it to scent-free." He could obviously still smell it, but he'd been floored. He doubt he made that decision because of him, but it's something to talk about that'll get his mind off of things, right?

Tim exhales slowly. Matt's hand in his hair is grounding, a steadying force just like his voice. These little things — Matt's fingers and the way he talks about the menial things, even the silk sheets on the bed beneath him, the feeling of the other man's skin when Tim turns his head so it's his cheek resting on the lawyer's shoulder instead of his forehead — they're like individual anchors for him, dragging him back to reality.

Back to the present. Back to Matt.

Somehow, despite this being one of the worse nightmares he's had in a long time, he's seeming to come down from it sooner than he ever has on his own, or with anyone else for that matter. Eventually, all he can hear is Matt's voice, and the sound of the city outside. No more gunshots. He can still smell smoke, still taste dirt in his mouth, though those always linger longer than the rest.

But he still doesn't dare open his eyes. He's too afraid to.

"I know you're sensitive to things like that," Tim says quietly, and there's still a faint tremor in his voice, but at least it doesn't crack this time. "I remember you sayin' something a few weeks ago about the guy's cologne next to us at the bar."

It was for Matt's benefit, though it's not something he'd admit under normal circumstances. But tonight is different. Tonight, he can't possibly feel any more vulnerable than he already does, so he might as well tell the truth.

There was a time when I was good, but there are witches in the woods.

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