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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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.

Now is not the time to say what he wants to say. The words 'It sounds like we're more than just friends' nearly tumble out of his mouth.

He's glad he can at least keep that closed and to himself. And even if he wanted to, while this went on was not appropriate nor helpful in getting an actual answer. He thinks, briefly, of adding this line of thought to confession on sunday.

Tim is slowly coming to.

"It means a lot you did that," he says, and he doesn't want to leave Tim thinking he's a sad sack who really is eternally grateful of the gesture alone, he presses forward.

"That was the night I decided to drink bourbon with you," he says softly. His hand begins to stroke Tim's head, moving through short hair, stopping to actually touch the side of the other's face in a surprisingly intimate gesture.

"I can't match you drink got drink like that anymore,"

They are more than just friends. At least, it feels like they are. Especially like this, with Tim's trembling subsiding and Matt's hand moving slowly through his hair. He'd like to be more than just friends. More than just fuck buddies, because that's essentially what they are. Tim sleeps with other people, and Matt--

Well. Tim would find it hard to believe if Matt weren't seeing other people, too. Not when he looks the way he does, with an ass like that and an awkwardly charming smile.

But this will get old. Tim will have more nightmares and he'll drink more and all of these issues that he brought home from Afghanistan will become too much. Matt will cut ties and Tim won't blame him, even though it'll break his heart.

He knows it'll break his heart. That's how absolutely fucked he already is.

Finally, he scoots right up next to Matt, putting an arm around the other's back and pressing his face into Matt's neck. Anything, really, to keep from having to open his eyes yet. His lips twitch in the faintest of smiles. "Don't beat yourself up over it. I can drink most men under the table."

He laughs at that, light and airy, and he knows he has Tim back now. Maybe not in the normal sense, but he's not going to suddenly be alarmed. The worst is over.

And yet? And yet he wants to stay here, holding him. Like for a moment, it doesn't matter--it's just them.

It's just them, and not the ruckus three blocks over where a spanish couple fight. Or the hum of the neon add outside his window. He breathes in and out, slowly, listening to Tim's heartbeat steady and concentrating on where Tim's muscle movements are to know he's smiling.

"You could," Matt agrees, and he moves to kiss Tim on the temple, briefly, before he grabs Tim gently by the shoulders and lays down himself, back onto the bed with the silk sheets and the smell of sweat and a scent that is quintessentially Tim.

He takes the other by the shoulders, gently, and pulls him forward to join him laying down.

"But if we're being honest, I'm feeling less of a drinking competition and more of this. Come here."

Matt laughs, and somehow, Tim knows that he can now open his eyes without being afraid. He knows that he won't see any blood or bullet holes. Just Matt, those unfocused eyes and that smile. And all it took was a laugh that makes his heart skip unsteadily in his chest.

He's under no illusion that somebody else can fix him. That somebody else's unyielding love and support can make him all better, the way he was before he went to war. That's not how it works. And there's no way to get that part of him back. Matt won't ever be able to fix him, but he'll be damned if the other man doesn't make it easier, soothing his frayed nerves and pressing a light kiss against his temple.

Matt won't make the nightmares go away, but he'll make them bearable. He'll make everything bearable.

He knows that, eventually, he'll have to get up and pour himself a glass of bourbon. He can never seem to fall back asleep without it after a nightmare. But for now, this is good. This is perfect, pressed close against Matt's firm chest between silk sheets. He thinks maybe he could stay like this forever.

Finally, he lifts his head, having to lean back away from Matt to do so. But it's just to look at the other's face, the line of his jaw and his sightless eyes. Entirely intact and alive and well, with the exception of a fading bruise on his temple that Matt says he got bumping into a door. Tim's not sure he believes that, but he doesn't think about it right now either. Instead, he puts his palm gently against Matt's jaw and leans in to kiss his mouth.

Tim kisses him and touches his chin just so, and Matt is left with elation and satisfaction as the other does so. He kisses back, soft and kind, and moves his arms so they wrap around Tim completely. As much as he can with his wounds, anyway.

Matt does, though, gently move his thumbs along the other's back wherehe holds them. Still reminding Tim that he's here. Still reminding Tim that all of the comfort and safety of Matt pulling him into his arms would never stop.

He stares at the ceiling, gaze unmoving, still hugging the other as he speaks.

"Tomorrow," he says idly, "I'm making quiche lorraine. I think it's safe to say it's been a Night for both of us."

Tim's aware of Matt's injuries, the severity of them and where they're at, and he's careful not to jostle them as he shifts a little closer to Matt's side. One hand rests on Matt's chest, fingers tracing along the line of his collarbone idly. He doesn't quite lay back down. Instead, he stays partially propped up so he can watch Matt's face.

It's probably rude. Probably unfair, but Tim likes being able to watch without being watched back. He likes being able to memorize all the lines and curves of the other's face without Matt being able to do the same thing to him.

Especially now, feeling as exposed as he does. He takes comfort in the other's presence. He realizes, belatedly, that Matt hasn't asked him any questions. Hasn't pushed to find out what the nightmare was about. And Tim's grateful, because he definitely doesn't want to talk about it. He wants to forget it as quickly as possible.

"I have no idea what that is," he says, resting his temple against Matt's shoulder again. "But that sounds great."

Not necessarily the food itself, but Matt cooking. Them eating together and sliding back into normal habits. Enjoying each other's company and getting away from the emotional heaviness they've managed to fall into.

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

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