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Copper danced across his taste buds, acidic and familiar. Matt wouldn’t say it tasted like home, because it didn’t. It tasted like relief, like endorphins and justice that the law often didn’t bring.
Licking his lips, he snuck into his bedroom window, feet quiet across the floor. With practiced ease he divested himself of the costume, ignoring the creaking of his ribs and the scent of slowly drying sweat. Heading to the kitchen, he poured himself a glass of room temperature whiskey and downed it in a blink.
In the back of Matt’s mind the memory of a burning sip, the first taste of alcohol he’d ever received, flared to life. More came, flushing through his system. The taste of similar whiskey, cheaper, watered down by Josie’s purified tap. Laughter and smiles and bad jokes. It tasted like a victory after a court case, after Dex, after becoming Matt Murdock again. It tasted like regret, like Jessica’s sorrow and Claire’s numb responses when he asked about the prognosis.
Setting the empty glass in the sink, Matt sighed. Enough of that, then. He needed to try for something a little less steeped in the past.
Opening the fridge, he patted around until he found the leftovers from last night's dinner. It was pasta, doused in a now half congealed alfredo, sprinkled with red pepper flakes despite the fact that they tended to hurt more than Matt enjoyed them.
Scooping it out, Matt considered heating it up, considered the moon shining brightly somewhere above his apartment, and decided to just eat it how it was. Fork in the meal, he leaned against the counter and chewed cautiously.
It was just leftovers, disgusting texture and subpar ingredients. There was no assault this time, for which Matt was thankful.
After finishing the mess of a meal, washing the dishes despite the late hour, Matt turned to the bathroom to scrub his face clean and brush his teeth. Tomorrow was a big day, after all. He’d need some sleep to get through it.
Mint had always been too sharp against his senses, burning hellfire through his throat and across his teeth. Instead, he’d opted for a more natural alternative that tasted closer to dirt. It wasn’t his favorite, but it was better than spending an hour trying to tune out the residue on his tongue or the mint wafting up his nostrils each time he spoke.
Dirt from the man’s hands who served it, a voice floated through Matt’s mind and if the brush wasn’t firmly between his molars he may have snapped it with his hand.
No.
Matt quickly rinsed away the taste with a swig of New York’s finest filth and dropped the toothbrush back into its holder. He was quick to go lay down, trying to keep his mind as blank as possible.
By the time he finally drifted off the sun was beginning its ascent across the horizon.
When he next woke up it was to the taste of smoke, burned toast crumbling three floors down. Matt flew to the bathroom, whiskey and acid crawling back up his throat to be expelled in what he was sure was a recreation of Foggy’s favorite horror movie, The Exorcist.
Ash coating his throat, the tang of blood so buried under the raw burning of his skin that he could barely decipher it. The taste of their last kiss lingered on his lips, sweet and heady, steeped in the rush of adrenaline and the bitter taste of death.
Another heave took away the reminder and Matt tried instead to focus on the present. He tried to focus on calming down his breathing, on lowering his heart rating and ceasing the tumultuous waves in his gut.
It didn’t work as well as he’d hoped, but he did manage to quit retching long enough to flush the toilet and brush his teeth again, this time with the mint toothpaste Foggy had left on his last ‘Matt babysitting’ duty.
It was too sharp against his tongue, but at least it didn’t hold the horrors of his past.
After a quick shower, lukewarm because Matt had a feeling too hot or too cold would cause a repeat of this morning, Matt dragged on a suit and headed out the door. Six blocks to the east, two north, a flight of stairs, and there he was.
Nearby a bakery was pumping out the scents of croissants and pastries. A family was walking their kid to the park where Matt could hear dogs playing, couples kissing, and a fountain bubbling. He can feel the warm breeze of a New York spring day, scent the cherry blossoms down the street and the basil in the window pot a few stories up.
Licking the sweat from his upper lip, an immediate hit of salt that did little to calm his nerves, Matt swallowed and knocked on the foreboding wooden door.
Footsteps, the clack of a heel against laminate flooring and then tiles. The mingling scent of perfume and laundry detergent, the same Karen had always used. Gentle clinking of jewelry and then the door being pulled open. The wind of it brushed Matt’s skin and he forced a smile onto clumsy lips.
“Good morning. You must be Matt.”
“So I’ve been told.” Matt joked, the dull flavor of anxiety tripping through his mouth.
“Come on in. I’m so glad you’re here.” Matt stepped in, cane scanning the floor as he followed the woman in front of him. He could tell she was about 5’5, her hair was pulled into a loose bun, she seemed at ease. There was no tension in her muscles, just warmth that emitted out.
They reached a room on the right side of the hall, nearly fifty steps later, and she instructed him to turn and go in, find the chair six steps to the left and get settled. Matt did.
She settled herself in her own overstuffed chair a few feet away, the smile on her face clear in her voice. “I’m sure you already know my name, but I’ll state it again anyway. I’m Dr. Lee but you can call me Penolpe. Why don’t we talk a little about why you’re here today?”
A dry mouth, tasting of regret, of being forced into this situation. Matt took a slow breath, trying to remember to not run. He was safe. He’d made sure of it. This was safe.
“I think I need to talk to someone about….about the possibility of PTSD.”
Another warm smile and softness that felt like Penelope relaxing. “That’s a very good place to start, Matt. Would you like a candy, it might help calm your nerves?”
Matt agreed unthinkingly and held his hand out. A small package was dropped into his palm and Matt quickly unraveled it, dropping the cinnamon sweet into his mouth. It didn’t pack the punch he expected. It was sweet, low and slow. It tasted of honey and lemon, spun together with cinnamon and sugar. It tasted good.
“Alright.” Penelope announced, settling into her chair. “Let’s start at the beginning.”