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.

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[blindfighter]

"Don't--" Matt puts his hand up, though not directly where Tim is, more just a fraction from where he is as he stares right through the wall.

"Don't. Don't apologize," he says, and despite how soft his words are his tone is incredibly firm. A strong order, worded incredibly gently. It's reminiscent of the tone he uses in court when a witness is being short.

The hand lowers, very slowly, and Matt gauges everything. Heart rate, sweat, twitching of Tim's fingers--his face remains impassive as he concentrates, but it only lasts for a very brief second. He can do this. He can have a normal relationship, right? He has to.

"I feel the same way." And it's earnest, and his face looks more like he's going to flinch than he is going to smile. "Can we--can we sit down, to talk?"

[comfortablyerect]

Suddenly, Tim remembers why he didn't do this sooner. It's the talking he gets hung up on. Because in his experience 'can we talk?' doesn't usually lead to good things. Even when it's been followed by 'I feel the same way.' He's waiting for the but. There's always a but.

Why the fuck would it be any different with Matt?

He's tempted to leave. To cut this all off before it could go south, like he should've done months and months ago. That's what he should do now, but clearly, he's not very good at doing what he should do. He's only good at doing what's inevitably going to hurt him. Self-destructive in a way that apparently isn't entirely physical. He'll cut himself on Matt, sooner or later. Probably sooner.

'I feel the same way,' should fill him with relief, but instead there's dread starting to sink in. Just waiting for the punchline. It doesn't stop him from stepping a little closer still, until he can find Matt's hand. The other's fingers are awfully warm in his own, probably an indication that he's colder than he realizes. But he doesn't care.

"Yeah," he says, almost soft enough to be drown out by the sound of the rain outside. "Okay."

[blindfighter]

Matt realizes how cold Tim is. He's freezing to the touch, and he vaguely wonders if it's even colder for Tim since he didn't live in a place where this was common. New York isn't like London but it sure isn't the South. Matt's never been to the south--he wonders, idly, if it's nice there, too, or if he'd hate it because it isn't the city he loves so much.

He hears the 'okay,' and to show he actually hears it, instead of walking to the couch he feels for Tim's face. He touches the other, soft and caring, and wipes a few droplets of rain off of his face where his hair has dripped.

He hopes the gesture is enough to comfort. He silently prays it is.

"Come on," he says quietly, and ushers the other to the vague direction of the couch. He waits for Tim to sit before he smiles, trying not to look awkward, and moves to fill his kettle with water on the kitchen. After that, he disappears with sweat pants and a hoodie, both baring the logo of Colombia Law, and he can't help but laugh as he hands it to the other.

"You're cold, aren't you? I felt goosebumps."

[comfortablyerect]

Tim tips his head, pressing his cheek against Matt's palm briefly, and it's more than comforting. It's warm and gentle and he can feel rough callouses on Matt's hands that don't belong to a lawyer, but that might belong to a boxer, and he's suddenly reminded that Matt isn't as polished and proper as he comes off as sometimes.

He's rough around the edges, just like Tim is. But Matt's edges are hidden behind a smile and a nice suit. Tim's are accentuated by a lilting accent and military tattoos.

Whatever happens from here, good or bad, this isn't something he'll regret. Not this rain-drenched, impromptu confession, but the last few months as a whole. All the time he's spent in Matt's bed, at the kitchen table over breakfast, on various coffee dates, at a back table at Josie's. Because Matt is kind and incredible and smart and gorgeous and Tim is lucky to have gotten as much time as he has with the other man. So even if it crashes and burns tonight, at least he's spent the last few months happy.

He trails into the living room, only vaguely aware of the water he must be dripping behind him. The same goes for the couch when he sits on it, more concerned with pushing wet hair out of his face and trying not to physically shiver.

"I'm always cold," he says, and it sounds just a touch grumbly. "New York is cold."

He takes the clothes from Matt, setting them aside so he can strip completely out of his wet ones. The hoodie and sweat pants are warm and soft with use, and smell very distinctly of Matt. It makes his heart stutter a little.

[blindfighter]

When Matt returns, it's with a very warm, thick blanket that's soft to the touch. He bought it when he was younger and Stick would force him into a bath of icewater to train him to properly numb himself and slow his heart rate. Thinking back, he's amazed he made it out of his childhood alive.

He hands it to the other--or at least in the general direction of his voice, and he smiles ever so slightly. Once the blanket is out of his hands he lightly touches the wall as he walks towards the kitchen, and picks up the kettle a split second before it starts whistling.

"I didn't think you felt that way," he says earnestly as he feels for a teabag and smells to see if he has the right flavour. Peppermint. He begins pouring Tim a cup.

"Tim, I'm--I--there's no easy way to say this." He pauses. "I'm... Not exactly the best person to be with."

[comfortablyerect]

His wet clothes are draped over the back of one of the kitchen chairs. They probably won't dry very well that way, but it's mostly so they're not lying in a sopping wet pile on the floor where Matt can trip over them. Tim's always vaguely conscious of things like that. So much that he doesn't even have to actively think about them anymore, but that it's habit to make sure the glass touches Matt's hand when he's pouring them drinks, or to offer his elbow when they're walking down the street.

The blanket is thick and warm and Tim wraps it around himself tightly before sitting back down on the couch. He remembers the harsh climate conditions of Afghanistan, how he suffered through worse with less protection. A little bit of cold rain is nothing compared to that, but he still finds himself fighting off the urge to shiver.

He's quiet, not even looking up until Matt speaks. He watches the way Matt makes tea, how he compensates for his lack of sight with all his other senses. And he's glad, not for the first time, that Matt can't see the way he winces at those words.

"Don't," he says, and while his voice is quiet, it's awfully firm. "Don't give me any bullshit excuses like that. If you want to cut ties with this, that's fine. Just say so. But I like you more than I ever intended to, and I don't care if you think you're not the best person to be with. I want this."

He pulls in a breath, wrapping the blanket around himself a little tighter, and his voice gets a touch softer. "But if you don't, then just tell me. I don't need you to let me down easy."

[blindfighter]

"Tim." Matt's voice is stern and not angry, but he has the tone of a parent telling a child no. It's very brief, and he crosses the room. He offers the other the warm cup of tea and doesn't bother with his own, but his hands gently move up Tim's arm to his shoulder once the other accepts it.

It's his way of seeing where Tim is on the couch, but also his way of assuring Tim it's alright.

"You're better than bullshit excuses," He says automatically, and his jaw straightens and tightens, just slightly, before he forces himself to relax. "You're better than setting yourself up for failure."

Though he knows, deep down in his heart, this is what it is. Tim's going to date him and Matt is going to let him down. There's no right way of saying that he's dangerous.

"I--If--my problem is that I can't let you down easy, my problem is that I'm--I'm going to mess this up, Tim. I do every single relationship I have. But I want it."

[comfortablyerect]

Tim takes the cup of tea, gaze lowered as Matt's hand slides up his arm. It's warm, like the cup he holds between his hands, making him realize again how cold he is. He takes a sip, a little bitter and tasting strongly of peppermint. It warms him from the inside out, but mostly, it makes him miss Kentucky's too-sweet iced tea.

Still, he's grateful for it, letting it hover against his mouth so the steam warms his face.

"I think it's safe to say we're both used to fuckin' these things up," he mutters, and while it's not directed at Matt, it's loud enough for the other to hear.

He sets the cup aside and reaches out, finding Matt's hand and curling his cold fingers around the other's warm ones. He finds it very hard to believe that Matt's capable of fucking anything up, least of all something like this. He knows Matt's not perfect, but as far as Tim's concerned, he comes pretty damn close.

He's not sure what it is about tonight. Maybe it's the scent of Matt on the blanket and the warm, dry clothes he's wearing. Maybe it's the rain outside or Matt's hand in his. Probably, it's just the alcohol in his system, but whatever it is, he doesn't find himself closing off the way he normally would under the weight of such an emotionally heavy conversation. Instead, he finds himself being painfully honest.

But probably? It's being acutely aware of absolutely everything he has to lose and gain from all of this.

"Sometime after I got back from Afghanistan, I stopped tryin' to make relationships work. I came back with a lot of-- a lot of issues that nobody wanted to deal with, and I never blamed 'em. It was easier to not bother. And now, every time I wake up from a nightmare or we have to change tables at a restaurant because I can't sit with my back to the room, I expect it to be the last straw. I expect you to decide that it's just not worth the trouble."

His fingers tighten marginally around Matt's, and he realizes that he's spent this entire time looking at their joined hands. Not that Matt can tell one way or the other, but he looks up anyway, gaze trained on the other's unfocused eyes.

"But you're still here. And I still wanna be here. And I don't care if it gets rough, or you fuck up, because God knows I'm goin' to. I think it'll be worth it."

[blindfighter]

He wants to do so much, but all he can do is listen. He's reminded, vaguely, of Father Lantom talking to him in confession for the first time. How all he needed was someone to listen, to talk him through it, even though he cried.

His heart aches. It's not Tim--Tim is perfect, flaws and all. Tim is a masterpiece of a human being, strong but cracked, able to pick himself up time after time. Matt is stuck on his father. Matt is stuck on Stick.

He closes his eyes, listening, for a moment, but not at Tim--Tim has finished talking, and Matt is focusing on other things. Of a girl screaming as someone mugs her. Of people hustling in an alleyway. Of a hooker selling herself to an older man in a car, and of a brawl just outside of a bar.

When he opens his eyes, his grip is a little stronger.

"I'm disaster," he says quietly, and he means it as his face falls. He tries--tries--not to look hopeful. He doesn't think he succeeds.

"But I--I like that I'm here for you." He just can't be all the time. "I like that conversation, or no conversation, it's natural." But I have to leave. He licks his lips, unfocused gaze somewhere on the coffee table. "--I want this. I want us, even if inevitably it's going to crash and burn."

[comfortablyerect]

Tim thinks his heart might beat out of his chest at this rate. It thumps quick and hard in his chest, all anticipation and worry and hope. Waiting for Matt to shut him down, waiting for the inevitable it's not a good idea, and just hoping beyond hope that it doesn't happen. That, for once, this sort of thing actually works out in his favor.

It's unfair of him to ask Matt to stick around through his issues, to deal with all the baggage that he comes with. Matt deserves better. He deserves somebody unbroken and whole, somebody who didn't lose the best parts of themselves to a war. Somebody less fucked up.

But Matt's not saying no. There is no it's not a good idea. Just I want this, on that isn't even followed by a but. His fingers tighten briefly around Matt's before letting go completely, scooting closer and reaching up to take the other's face between his hands. His thumbs touch Matt's cheekbones, just shy of brushing over an old, fading bruise. Maybe Matt is disaster. He keeps secrets and comes home with cuts and bruises the way Tim went to school with them. He possesses a dangerous, white-hot rage that never fails to make Tim's stomach knot up, despite himself. Despite knowing that Matt would never lay a mean hand on him.

Maybe he's disaster, but he's disaster that Tim's fallen in love with.

"I am, too," he says quietly, and it's hard to tell what, specifically, he's responding to, or if he's responding to all of it as a whole. He tips Matt's chin until that unfocused gaze is directed more towards him. "Maybe it'll crash and burn. But if it does, I want to make the most of it."

[blindfighter]

He looks not in Tim's eyes, but instead somewhere near his chin. He does make an effort, though, and as Tim speaks he lifts his gaze a fraction of an inch, hoping that's better. It's difficult, even with his heightened senses, to actively look like that. Even if he concentrates, it's just his world on fire.

He can hear Tim's heart beating rapidly, adrenaline spiking. Can feel all of his nerves and if he concentrates hard enough he's sure he can hear the tension in his neck as his muscles wrap around bone.

But he hears truth in Tim's voice. He ventures that he hears hope, too, which is what Matt is currently praying for. In his head, before he speaks and as he moves a hand up to Tim's face and actually touches the side of it, fingers roaming, he actually does pray.

"Does that mean we're dating?" He asks, and it's so earnest and such a quick blurting out of his phrase that he can't help but laugh at himself.

[comfortablyerect]

Matt's hand finds his face, and Tim reflexively tips his head towards it, pressing his cheek against Matt's warm palm. He realizes suddenly that he's not as cold as he was before, too distracted by the conversation to realize that between the dry clothes and the blanket and the tea and Matt's hands, the chill has left his bones. He's warm and his heartbeat is slowing down to something more reasonable, something relieved, and he's happy.

Maybe this will crash and burn, just like Matt said. Maybe one or the both of them will manage to destroy it, but Tim plans on holding onto it for as long as he can.

He laughs a little bit too, soft and breathless and just a touch drunk. Matt didn't break things off, didn't shut Tim down, and it's not even awkward now. He'd walked in the door with only the tiniest sliver of hope and now it's actually happening somehow. He leans forward a little bit more until his forehead rests against Matt's, closing his eyes.

"That's what I want it to mean," he says quietly, and all he wants to do is tip his head just so and kiss Matt on the mouth, but he refrains, waiting for Matt's response.

[blindfighter]

Matt smiles again, and laughs again, and just like that everything is right. Tim may still be a little wet and Matt might be a little sore but it doesn't matter. It's them, it's their moment and Matt treasures this because he knows, eventually, it's going to crumble.

"Then yes," Matt says simply, their foreheads touching, his hand on the others, and he ignores the fact that Tim has hot tea in his hands and instead tilts his head to kiss him on the mouth, not rough but longing, and the hand on Tim's face goes to the other's neck, gently placing fingers on the side of it, tender and fragile much like the moment.

He tries to ignore that all of this is going to change tomorrow when he goes after Fisk. When he gets his revenge for the bombings.

When he isn't sure he'll come out alive.

[comfortablyerect]

And just like that, everything clicks into place. It's a mess — the tea is almost too warm between his hands, his hair's still drying, he's a little bit drunk, and he can see the way Matt moves just a little bit stiffly, something a less observant person might not notice.

It's a mess, but it's them. And that's what makes it perfect, honestly. It's them, and that's all Tim's wanted for a very long time. To know that he means as much to Matt as Matt does to him. He doubts Matt's stupidly in love the way Tim is, but that doesn't matter right now. This is a start. And it's a very, very good start.

He's going to have to call his mother tomorrow. She'll probably insist that he bring Matt down for Thanksgiving.

Tim sets the tea down on the coffee table without looking, somehow managing to do it without dropping it on the floor, and brings a hand up to touch Matt's face as they kiss. It's not rough and bruising the way it normally is, but gentle and longing and loving and it's perfect. Everything's absolutely perfect.