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

[blindfighter]

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.

Comments

[blindfighter]

"We're going to have to put on pants," Matt explains. "Clothing, at least. If you're up for it." It's only because he's concentrating that he knows Tim is smiling. He can hear the other's muscles shape, notices the air around them. It's the way Matt sees, and he paints a picture of Tim. Gorgeous, beautiful Tim in various shades of red.

Something occurs to him, though, and his face falls, just slightly. "A--are you?" He doesn't realize he's stuttered, doesn't realize he sounds like a kid, still, and he squeezes the other's hand tightly as a reaction.

"It's not--not far, though. At all."

[comfortablyerect]

Matt Murdock is ridiculously stupidly adorable and Tim has no honest idea what he did to get lucky enough to be sitting in his lap right now. Somehow, even as his expression falls, as he stutters and sounds uncertain, Tim wonders how he's still here. How Matt hasn't moved on to someone who actually deserves all the amazing things that he is.

He lets go of Matt's hands, but it's only so he can reach up and place his palms along Matt's jaw, touching his face in that light way Matt always touches his.

"I'm okay," he assures, and leans forward to kiss the other's mouth gently. "I'm more than up for it. Let's get cleaned up and get dressed and we'll go."

He's sore, sure. A little exhausted, more than bruised-- he can feel them blooming along his hips, on his ass and along his throat, everywhere Matt gripped him. He feels a little raw, but he's not immobile. Matt wants to show him something, and Tim wants to see it.

[blindfighter]

They clean up and get dressed--Matt not in a suit, but a hoodie and sweatpants-- and Matt leans on Tim even though he's not drunk. He normally just grips the other's elbow when he walks but it's different now, he feels. It's different and Matt likes it. Likes leaning just a little closer and letting shoulders touch and bump as he navigates with his stick and they both give little bursts of small talk.

It really isn't far--Hell's Kitchen is a mess, thanks to the Chitauri invasion. It's the old Hell's Kitchen of the 70s, all high crime rate and shitty buildings. It's home. They round the corner to an alleyway, equally shady, and Matt taps his cane in front of him until the old, closed gym's side door is visible. He's automatically digging for the keys.

"I thought I'd show you where I go when I lose," he says. Keeps his voice flat as he opens the door. The lights are off and Matt, once again, forgets to even turn them on. The board is on the side of the building.

It's old and full of memorabillia--a boxing gym of old, it looks, with a ring in the middle and bags and Battlin' Jack Murdock posters everywhere.

Matt sets down his cane.

[comfortablyerect]

Tim wears his jeans, but he snags one of Matt's shirts. It's a little loose, but it's comfortable. And more importantly, it smells like him. He doesn't mind the way Matt leans into him. Unnecessary, Tim knows, because they're both sober. Too sober, as far as Tim's concerned, but that's neither here nor there. Mostly, he likes feeling Matt's warmth through his hoodie, and lies that Matt enjoys being close to him enough to do it even when he doesn't have to.

He's acutely aware of the way his heartbeat gets a little unsteady every time he catches the scent of Matt's shirt. Such an insignificant thing, really, but it has such a large affect. It's worrying, honestly. If Tim were smarter, he'd try to distance himself from Matt Murdock instead of allowing himself to get closer.

But Tim's not smarter, and so he won't. And Matt's eventual departure will hurt, but at least he'll know it's coming. It'll be a wake-up call he obviously needs.

The walk itself is fine, and it does something to work out some of the soreness of Tim's body. He probably looks wrecked, if he cared to look in a mirror. He can feel the bruising on his neck, can feel how his lips are swollen. His hair is probably all mussed, too. But it's not as if they run into anybody on the way there.

And there, apparently, is an old, run down gym. Tim doesn't even recognize it as such until they're inside and he sees the ring and all the equipment. He catches sight of the posters, sees the name Jack Murdock, and figures that can't be a coincidence.

"Always wondered how a blind lawyer got so built," he murmurs, looking away from the board and towards the ring. "You box?"

[blindfighter]

"My dad did," Matt answers, and he sounds proud. He is proud. "He taught me, before--" he lifts his hands to his face, now that he's set the cane down, and gestures vaguely. Offers a boy scout smile and reaches out until his fingers touch one of the punching bags, and he moves around it.

"This was where I was going to go before you were nice enough to have dinner with me," He explains. His hands run down the side of the leather bag and he tilts his head to the side, just so, listening intently.

"Throw a punch," He offers. He's curious.

[comfortablyerect]

Jack Murdock, Tim assumes. Just by the way Matt says that makes it very clear that he loved his dad. That, probably, they were close, and that Jack Murdock was somebody to be admired. Of course, though. That makes sense. Matt had to have an incredible role model to turn out the way he has.

"You say that like it was a chore." He follows Matt idly to the punching bag. There's a small smile on his face, in his voice, pleased that Matt chose to share this with him. "I like havin' dinner with you."

It's a stark bit of honesty, but it feels like the sort of night for that. He makes a face at the offer. It's not that he doesn't know how to throw a punch, but he's probably out of practice. And military training taught him how to fight in a much different way than how boxers are taught.

"I don't box," he murmurs, but it sounds more like a disclaimer than anything else. Because a second later, he throws a punch. There's something that's clearly combatic about it, a lot of muscle memory despite being a little out of shape for it. "Guess it's good for workin' out frustrations. And your biceps."

[blindfighter]

Matt's head is still tilted to the side as he listens. Automatically hones in. Tim's out of fighting shape but his stance is decent, and his aim works. He's got force but it's disciplined, though not in the same manner as Matt is.

It's not bad.

"Sounds good," He offers, and then can't help the light smile as he holds it.

"I just thought--I never really bring people here," He confesses, and his hands are running over the leather of the bag again. "It must be weird, having sex and then being dragged out to an old gym, but..."

But it means a lot to him. Matt can't find himself finishing that sentence, so he trails off and starts with a new topic.

"What was your dad like?"

[comfortablyerect]

He never really brings people here.

Tim ducks his head, even though Matt can't see it, because he's smiling. He should not enjoy that so much. He shouldn't let himself feel special because Matt Murdock brought him to an old gym, but he does. It's a part of Matt that, apparently, not everybody else gets to see. Not the soft-spoken blind man or the confident, capable lawyer, but the boxer.

"It's not," he assures, then pauses. "I mean-- It's good. I like it."

He likes Matt. So much. Too much.

But that question brings all the love-lilted feelings to a screeching halt, and Tim feels his heart stutter unevenly in his chest for a moment. Matt Murdock probably had a wonderful role model for a father. Tim did not.

He lets out a breath, doesn't let his unease show in his voice at all. He shrugs.

"Taught me how to shoot a gun, skin a deer, how to drive. What kind of bourbon was worth drinkin'." The only sort of example his father set for him was what not to do. Whatever his dad did, he needed to do the opposite. He semi-succeeded, in the end. "Is this how you got all those bruises? From boxin'?"

The sooner he can direct the conversation away from himself and his father, the better.

[blindfighter]

Yes. Tim's father taught him all of that--all of those charmingly southern things. Jack Murdock taught Matt to stand up for what's right, and how to stitch up wounds, how to use your brain and not your brawn.

His dad would hate what he's doing, he thinks. Skulking around in a mask. But it's what's right. He's reminded, suddenly, to go to confession. It's what he would have wanted.

There's something else, though, and Matt lets go of the bag and throws a half-hearted punch at it, more just for his hand to have something to do as he moves around the bag to where he knows Tim is. A hand goes out to where Tim's arm is, approximately, because he can feel the other's not telling the truth.

Omitting things is lying, according to your heartrate and perspiration. You're still thinking about it.

"My knuckles, yes. The rest is just being clumsy--Tim," and Matt's voice is soft, assuring. "Did you know your voice rises a half-pitch when you're anxious about something?"

[comfortablyerect]

Tim likes having Matt close like this. He likes Matt reaching out to him, seeking him with an outstretched hand. His fingers take Matt's wrist, sliding up to curl around his hand, thumb brushing lightly over bruised muscles.

What he doesn't like is that he's pretty sure Matt's not being entirely honest. Those aren't the kind of bruises you get from running into door knobs and bumping into walls. Those are the kinds of bruises you get from being hit. He's seen them, on himself, on his mother. He can practically hear Sadie's voice in his head explaining to doctors that she's just so clumsy, and she fell, that's all.

Matt is good at navigating, despite his lack of sight. Tim can't remember ever seeing him be clumsy.

However, Matt's doing exactly what Tim's trying to do. He's deflecting, pointing the conversation away from himself by asking questions. He's better at it, probably. He's a lawyer. It doesn't matter how soft and how kind and how careful Matt's voice is, Tim will never stop feeling like a cornered animal when the conversation goes in this direction.

"I'm not anxious," he says, and he can taste the lie on the back of his teeth. "And you're not clumsy."

[blindfighter]

It's too confrontational. They should stop, Matt thinks. This was a mistake. He shouldn't pry, shouldn't try to get other people's secrets. He has his, too. Like where the bruises really come from or that he's suspecting Tim's dad is less-than-stellar.

He needs to let it go.

He needs to, but this night, the way Tim reacted when Matt got angry--when Matt wanted to let the devil out. Tim can taste his lie but Matt can hear it, and it's practically shaking the entire room. His hand twitches. He can hear the mice in the walls.

"He hit me, once," Matt says softly. "Just once. I got into a fight at school because kids were making fun of him, saying he always lost. I got angry, and I snapped. The moment he heard I didn't fight in self-defense he smacked me so hard I lost my balance."

He lets it sink in. Lets it mellow in Tim's senses before he grips his arm a little tighter.

"I'm beginning to think your father was less than kind when it came to things like that."

[comfortablyerect]

Tim doesn't talk about his childhood. He doesn't make a big deal out of it, because in those parts, it's not exactly uncommon. It's not in every household, of course. But there were a handful of girlfriends and a handful of wives and a handful of kids who all supported their own bruises and scrapes. There were too many, probably. Especially back then.

People generally weren't surprised when a secret like that slipped out, but when it did, it quickly got swept under the rug. The community would rally together and start a fund raiser for the bus driver with cancer, but the mom of two kids with frequently reoccurring black eyes? Not so much.

Like any other family, the abuse in the Gutterson household went widely unspoken of. Tim didn't talk about it then, and he doesn't talk about it now.

Even as Matt is meeting him halfway, giving them common ground to stand on, Tim still feels trapped. Tense and on-edge and ready to run. He wants to ask why it even matters. Why Matt cares when they're not even dating, and this is only temporary anyway. But dismissing it also means dismissing Matt's so-called clumsiness. And he doesn't want to drop that, either.

"He hit my mom," he says, and it's low and quiet, his jaw tight. "A lot. She always said she was clumsy, too."

[blindfighter]

Matt's jaw tightens but he gives no other outward sign, no other show or facial tell to entail he's bothered by it. He is, though. And he knows this is part of his own issues--that he has to fix people. That he can get as bloodied and bruised as possible and he can walk on cinders for an entire city, for his home and his family and his friends (and Tim, he realizes) and not even think about it.

They're not dating but he wants to. They're not in love but Matt desperately wants to be.

"I'm sorry," he confesses, and it's genuine. No pity--Tim doesn't deserve pity--but empathy. "You and your mom are very brave."

[comfortablyerect]

Tim relaxes, just a touch. Because with that, the empathy that Tim doesn't exactly mind, but wishes he didn't need at all, it feels like maybe he's gotten away with only revealing that much. Maybe he doesn't have to go into the rest of it, talk about when his father started hitting him instead. Doesn't have to talk about why or when or how it got worse.

Matt's fingers are on his arm, and Tm reaches over to take his hand, intertwine their fingers together. He moves just a little bit closer, enough that he can feel Matt's warmth. He's not mad, though there's still a tenseness in his jaw and his shoulders that he can't quite shake.

"It's fine," he says, voice still quiet. "He's dead now. Car wreck when I was at boot camp. Mama's better off without him."

He doesn't mention it was drinking and driving that killed his dad. He doesn't mention that he's better off without him, too. He definitely doesn't mention the bitterness he can still taste on his tongue over not being the one to end his dad's life.

[blindfighter]

Matt can put two and two together. He's smart--smarter than any other Murdock, his dad used to say. The truth is that Matt is just stubborn. He has to get to the truth, has to latch onto things like a dog with a bone.

It's a major, major flaw.

Tim's hand intertwined with Matt's, though, and the whole situation suddenly strikes him as absolutely absurd.

"Really romantic, isn't it? Bringing someone to an old sweaty gym." He shakes his head and leans a bit closer--he'll stop prying. At least for now. Tims already said so, so much.

"Can I ask you something? I remember posters on the wall, when I was younger. Are they still there?" He knows they are, but he leans his head on the orher's.

"Describe them for me."

[comfortablyerect]

He does not feel better from having talked about it like they say you're supposed to. He doesn't feel lighter or more at ease, and maybe part of that is because he hasn't said the whole truth. But probably most of it is just his unwillingness to discuss the things he spent all of his childhood carefully covering up.

If anything, he feels like there's a good chance his nightmares will be particularly nasty tonight. He needs something stronger than wine.

He leans into Matt a little, careful not to upset any of the bruises along his abdomen. "Can't say I've ever been on a date like this before."

Not that he's complaining, though. He's really not. He hasn't even been on that many dates, and the ones he has been on-- well, they weren't with Matt Murdock. And that, honestly, is what makes all the difference. He turns his head to look at the posters on the walls, letting his temple rest against Matt's forehead. He can't imagine what it's like to not be able to see them. What it's like to be Matt.

But he complies. Of course he complies. He describes them in detail, everything from the colors to the fonts and the sizes and the curves of the letters. The posters themselves are worn, dusty and yellowed with age, and he describes that part, too. He describes it all in a quiet, slow drawl.

[blindfighter]

Matt smiles, and it's genuine and almost loving as he listens. He has an odd relationship with his sight, he knows, but Tim explaining the stuff to him is actually sort of soothing. It doesn't feel like he's missing something. It's almost like Tim is his eyes and that's how it's always been, even though they've only known each other for a couple of months.

Sometime in all of that, he's holding Tim's hand.

Eventually they leave--the janitor actually comes around and asks for another 50 if Matt's going to be staying for longer, so Matt takes that as his time to leave. They walk back to the apartment and the rest of the night is perfect. It's food and wine and jack daniels once Matt realizes Tim is staying and needs something else. They don't push each other like they did at the gym and it's good. It's nice. The closest to an interruption they get is Foggy drunkenly calling Matt to tell him that he's his best friend, with Karen laughing in the background. It's the way it should be.

They fall asleep on the couch, manage to drag themselves up and to the bedroom at one point where they fall asleep with their limbs intertwined. Matt falls asleep to Tim's steady heartbeat and thinks everything, for once in his life, is perfect.

He prays. Silently, and in his head, but he prays that no matter what he can remember this moment, no matter what he does or what he has to do that this moment will give him comfort and peace.

In the morning, the usual happens--and the fact that it's a 'usual' is nice--Matt makes breakfast, Tim eats before they head their separate ways. Foggy looks like death warmed over and Karen shoots a knowing look at Matt.

"You wore that tie yesterday," she says.

"They're all the same colour," Matt points out. He buys multiples. The truth is that Karen is right and Matt had been too preoccupied by Tim's mouth to really pay proper attention. Matt makes sure when he has a lull in work he visits the precinct, not to say hello to Brett but to give Tim a proper New York coffee--star bucks--and chat with him for a few moments. Tim's office, he notices, tends to look at the two of them oddly. He can sense the way the room quiets. It doesn't matter, though, because it's Tim.

The next week or two is a flourish of quick visits, a few lunch and dinner dates and the occasional night at Josie's with Tim and Foggy that always end up with Tim going back to Matt's apartment. It's almost normal. The nights where he makes excuses, the nights where he says he's just too tired, though, are anything but.

The Russians kidnap a kid to draw Matt out. Matt obliges and channels his father. Channels the devil in him and proceeds to take on an alarming amount of men. Gets his ass handed to him but wins, and carefully carries the boy out. He learns more of Fisk, more about the heroin, and spends the next few nights investigating.

There's five explosions across Hell's Kitchen, all covering up Fisk. Matt runs, but he already knows what's going to happen. He's with the Russian, now, and it's a blur how they got into the warehouse: the Russian, a dead cop--courtesy of Fisk's corrupt officers--and him. The entire building is surrounded. Matt is on the phone with Claire, trying to safe the Russian's life for information. HE's aware of how many people are outside, of how many cars and even a helicopter.

Matt is scared, but he refuses to show it.

[comfortablyerect]

It's nice. It's more than nice, actually. It's very nearly perfect.

There's coffee dates and dinner dates and drinks, and there's nights where they're tangled together, rocking against each other, panting and groaning and it never fails to be some of the best sex Tim's ever had. There are also nights where they fall asleep watching a movie instead, and those nights are just as good, honestly. Some nights, Matt's busy, or Tim's busy, and they don't see each other at all. He misses Matt more than he cares to admit. Things are going well, but that doesn't mean they'll last.

They still aren't exclusive. There haven't been any talks, and Matt hasn't made any mention about wanting to be. Part of Tim is still waiting for the other shoe to drop, but he tries to ignore it. Focus on the good rather the inevitable bad.

He doesn't really stop hooking up with other people, but he slows down significantly. There's a lot less enjoyment in it now. It's not quite as satisfying, quite as fulfilling. Half the time, it feels like it's more trouble than it's worth. And all the time, he ends up thinking of Matt when there's another guy's mouth on his throat.

He notices the way Matt's bruises fade, and how more appear in their place. It's unsettling, at best. Matt's capable, strong, but that doesn't mean Tim's any less concerned. But he doesn't pry. Doesn't push. Doesn't want to force open any doors that might make Matt push back.

It's relatively quiet when the explosions happen. They're in a meeting, discussing the vigilante. It feels like Tim's been doing more of that these days than actually hunting fugitives. He remembers their meeting on the roof, being told that they're wasting their resources chasing the wrong guy. He remembers the information he was given, not quite proof but some damning evidence.

But Tim doesn't know how to not trust in the system.

The explosions send tremors through the cities. There's a commotion outside the conference room, officers dashing around and people gesturing out the windows. Hell's Kitchen is on fire, and all hands are on deck.

Tim calls Matt no less than four times without any answer. He tries not to worry. Tries not to let the panic rise in his throat. It's not as if Matt hasn't missed a call before, but he almost always immediate texts back with an explanation of being busy, and a promise to call later. Tim gets none of that now, and he hears the officers discussing the locations of the bombings. They're splitting into groups, already sending teams out to work damage control. They're saying the man in the mask did this, and part of Tim doesn't want to believe it.

It doesn't sound like the man that told him to do the right thing on the roof that night.

For now, Tim has to focus on his work. Matt's probably fine. Tim has to believe he's fine, because if he doesn't, he can't do his damn job. Which, right now, is joining the team that has the vigilante trapped and cornered. They need a sniper on a roof, and Tim's the best shot they've got. He can see movement in the building from where he's perched, but he can't get a visual.

But he can smell smoke. Taste it on the back of his throat. It's dark out, but he thinks he feel sun on the back of his neck, too, and feel grit and sand in his mouth. Now is not the time to be flashing back. Now is the time to fucking focus.

"I can't get a shot," Tim says into the comms unit, watching nothing but shadows through his scope. "He's stayin' away from the windows."

"Then we go in," an officer says. "And we shoot to kill."

Tim grimaces, pulling back from his scope. "Hold on. I'm gonna find a different angle. Do not go in."

[blindfighter]

He's concentrating, as he waits for the Russian to wake up. Concentrates to hear how many people, how many things he should be worried about.

"I can't get a shot," he can hear Tim Gutterson say, and Matt freezes. It's for the wrong reasons, he finds, because he doesn't freeze at the thought of Tim being a good sniper, which he is. He freezes at the fact that it's Tim.

Tim Gutterson is trying to hunt him down and it's a lot more severe than before. They think he's a terrorist. They think he's done it when it's Fisk--it's Wilson goddamn Fisk and there's not a thing he can do about it but interrogate the guy that tried to kill him and killed a cop. He has to get out. Has to.

"Please," he can hear Claire, and he mentally ignores the other. Hangs up, as a matter of fact, and takes the Russian by the waist.

"We're both going to go," he says simply. He can't take Tim finding him. Can't take Tim shooting him. They disappear under the building's unfinished drainage.



Foggy calls Tim six times. THe first three are mild, the next to worried, and the last one explaining that he just can't find Matt and he's in the hospital now, but Matt's blind and he's scared something happened to his best friend. Karen can be heard crying in the background.

Matt Murdock has all but disappeared.

[comfortablyerect]

"Must be just like old times, Gutterson," one of the officers says, and Tim can't put a name to the voice, but it's the same one that spoke earlier. "A piece of shit terrorist blowing everything up and an order to kill on sight."

He says it as if he's reminding Tim. Reminding him that they have orders kill the vigilante as soon as someone has the shot. They will not take him alive. They only want him dead. They're not orders Tim is unused to by any means, and he sure as hell doesn't need to be reminded of them. He also doesn't, however, actually want to kill the vigilante. Not when the label of terrorist doesn't match the image of the man in the mask he has in his head.

Maybe he was wrong, though. Maybe this is doing the right thing. Maybe the devil of Hell's Kitchen is less vigilante and more villain. Tim will follow his orders.

"Except in Afghanistan, I didn't have three dozen cops talkin' in my ear." Tim finds a better perch, a better angle, stares down the scope into the partially constructed building. There's no movement, not even any shadows this time. And it's not because the building's occupants are still, it's because they're not there. "Fuck. He's gone."

A team goes in to search. They search the unfinished drainage system and find nothing. They search the surrounding area and find nothing there, too. They had him cornered and he slipped through their fingers, because Tim wasn't willing to let a team go in and get slaughter just because he couldn't get a damn shot.

It's frustrating. He can still taste smoke in his mouth despite being nowhere near the burning parts of the city.

He gets Foggy's messages, and that doesn't bode well at all. Matt's not answering his phone (Tim calls another three times before heading to the hospital, and two more times once he gets there) and Foggy and Karen haven't seen him, either. Matt Murdock is MIA. He holds it together when he finds Foggy and Karen at the hospital, if only because it's very evident that the other two are not. He murmurs quiet reassurances and checks his phone at three minute intervals.

Sadie calls, at one point, panic high in her voice even though Tim answers halfway through the first ring. She hears the tightness in his tone even as he does his best to sound fine. She always knows when he's not fine. So he explains, quietly, void of detail, the situation, and she makes him promise to call her as soon as he has any updates.

All they can do, really, is wait. It's too chaotic and messy to search, and workers have already started clearing the rubble, sweeping the streets, looking for the injured and the dead and the trapped.

[blindfighter]

The Russian is left back. They find him just outside the drainage system, and he takes down as many cops as he can. It's not what Matt wants, but Matt is too tired, too sore, too damaged to do anything. He can't.

Claire fixes him up. He manages to get home and Claire fixes him up, though she writes a quick text for him to Tim and Foggy.

I'm okay. Stay safe.

Though with Tim, he adds I'm sorry to it.

He spends two nights recovering, meditating to cure his wounds faster, to block out all of the pain. It's not much but he keeps Tim in the loop--that he's fine, that nothing happened, he's just busy. It's a load of horse shit and they both know it but Tim was there, Tim was ready to shoot, and Matt can't stop replaying what he overheard again and again and again.

Wilson Fisk publicly defends Hell's Kitchen. Comes out of hiding and plays the good guy, paints the devil of hell's kitchen a terrorist. Matt throws his laptop, tries to figure out what to do, and winds up using the voice-to-text feature to get Tim's attention:

I want to hear you. Come over?

[comfortablyerect]

They lose a lot of officers that night. To the vigilante, to the Russian, to fire and collapsing buildings and smoke inhalation as they rescue the citizens of Hell's Kitchen. There's a memorial service for the fallen officers, and Tim attends, done up in his dress uniform. Not because he's particularly close to any of the dead officers, but because he's expected to be there.

Close or not, losing a fellow soldier is not easy, and this is the same exact thing.

He's angry. He's angry and he's relieved and he's concerned, all at once. Matt's alive, though Tim hasn't seen him since before the attacks. He's relieved that Matt's okay and concerned with his absence and angry because he knows — he knows — Matt is lying to him.

He hasn't been sleeping well. Some combination of his concern over Matt and working overtime every night with the vigilante task force and still thinking he can taste smoke in the back of his throat. He's been going non-stop, more or less, throwing himself into work and glasses of bourbon and cups of coffee just to avoid the nightmares.

He tells himself repeatedly that it doesn't matter. That they're not dating and Matt doesn't owe him anything. Doesn't owe him an explanation, or even the truth. But Tim's still angry. He's angry and he's hurt.

Enough so that he considers ignoring Matt's text. Or telling the other he's busy, just out of spite. But he can't. It doesn't matter how much Matt lies to him or strings him along or slowly breaks his heart, Tim will always come when Matt calls. This is no exception. So he texts back (On my way.) before leaving the office (he was working overtime, anyway) and knocks on the door when he gets there.

[blindfighter]

Matt is tired. He is tired he is battered and he's just glad it looks like debris and the like thanks to Claire taking care of his immediate wounds and him using Stick's techniques.

Doesn't mean it doesn't hurt like hell.

It also doesn't change the fact that he's mad at Fisk, mad at the world and in pain and all he wants is to curl up with Tim. He's healed enough it doesn't look suspicious and Tim--Tim eases him. Tim calms the proverbial devil inside of him.

Tim Gutterson isn't a fighter like he thinks, he's a healer.

Matt takes a while to get to the door so he calls out, first, and when he opens it he's not wearing his usual snappy lawyer things. It's obvious he's been home and home for a while--his hair is a little messy, he's barefoot and he's wearing track pants and a hoodie. He looks almost like he's going to the gym.

Or, would, if it wasn't for the nasty bruise across his temple.

"Tim," he murmurs, and opens the door for the other to walk through. "Thank you for coming"

[comfortablyerect]

The anger doesn't entirely dissipate when Tim sees Matt, though it does lessen significantly. It's hard to be mad at someone you care about when they're all roughed up. Not that he hasn't seen Matt roughed up before, but this is different. It's different because for several hours that night everything went to hell, there was a very real chance that Matt Murdock was dead.

But he's not. He's here, alive and breathing in front of him. A little worse for wear, but not dead.

Tim doesn't think he can go to any more funerals.

But even as he reminds himself that Matt shouldn't mean as much to him as he does, and that he doesn't mean that much to Matt, he's glad that the other asked him to come over. Relieved that he's safe and, as unjustified as it is, still a little bit angry.

"Jesus," he murmurs, and steps inside, though just enough to pause in front of Matt. He lifts a hand, careful and slow, and touches the other's face, the spot right above the bruise on his temple. His fingers are feather-light and gentle, and he's glad Matt can't see the pained expression on his face.

"I wish you would've called me sooner," he says quietly, and drops his hand.

[blindfighter]

"I know," Matt says softly, and he feels like a small child in front of Matt as Matt examines his bruises. He's reminded of his dad examining him when he had a hard time keeping balance when he couldn't see.

"I'm sorry." And he means it. His face smiles but it doesn't reach his eyes, not quite, and he places his hands on the other's forearms, gently squeezing. A half-embrace for the worried. He's thinking too much. That's Matt's problem--thinking too much.

All he can taste is his rage for Wilson Fisk.

"I'm glad you're safe, too," He states softly, and he means it as he heads to the living room. He's purchased blinds at some point, it seems--mostly for Tim, though he tells Claire it's for when they patch him up.

"I didn't mean to make you worry."