Work Text:
A Beautiful Day
What you don't know you can feel somehow
It’s half-way through spring and the air smells clean and new. Each year Matt always thinks it’s impossible for Hell’s Kitchen to smell anywhere close to clean, but each year the city proves him wrong. He’s glad it does.
The office is stale by comparison. And still. Normally, Foggy is muttering under his breath, shooting quips at Matt and flirting outrageously with Karen. He’s running his hands through his hair or tossing his softball or ranting about sleazy politicians or maybe just the latest drama between his cousins and siblings. But Foggy has been out for a couple of hours now, pestering Mahoney for details on one of the cases they’re working. Matt can hear the breeze blowing gently outside and longs to feel the gentle movement and light coolness on his face.
He hears Karen’s heels on the floor and has his face turned in the direction of the door by the time she pokes her head into the office. “I don’t know about you, but I can’t concentrate. I thought maybe a walk? And I can’t stop thinking about frozen lemonade.”
For some reason, the smile he smiles at her feels a little more fragile than usual. “That’s fine, Karen.”
“No, Matt,” her voice sort of breaks in a way Matt has learned to mean exasperated fondness. “Come with me. Keep me company?”
He closes his laptop and reaches for his cane. “What kind of gentleman would I be to refuse the request of such a beautiful lady?”
She sighs, walking ahead of him at his pace so he can follow the sound of her steps. “Sometimes you’re a little… smarmy.”
“Oh? That’s not good.”
“No, you still look like a cute little duck, even when you’re being smarmy.”
“Uhm?” Matt replies, unsure despite the smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.
“So you end up coming across as sincere. And sweet.”
“Oh, good. That’s what I was going for.”
Karen never hovers over him in their offices, having learned early on how fast Matt adapts to the spaces he frequents. In fact, since they’ve shuffled around so much to accommodate more clients and new desks and filing cabinets (well, second-or even third-hand desks and cabinets, but still new to them), she sometimes even asks Matt where the scissors and extra batteries and those files about the Washington case can be found in their expanding environment. But as soon as they exit the building and enter the beginnings of a spring evening, Karen reaches down for Matt’s hand and props it on her elbow where he automatically presses his fingers into her soft skin and the hem of her gauzy sleeve.
Matt has always loved how easily Karen fit herself into his life. Like she didn’t have to adjust to having a blind man as a boss and a friend. Like Foggy, she offered her arm and narrated gestures and walked not-quite a half step behind to avoid his cane like she’d guided a blind person her whole life. Natural and easy, like breathing.
The sun, when able to slide in between the city’s crown of tall and bulky buildings, is warm on their cheeks. The cool, gentle wind slips underneath their collars and sleeves in giddy greeting.
“Such a beautiful day,” Karen says then hums thoughtfully. Matt thinks she’s looking at him, but he can’t read her vitals to understand if she’s waiting for a response or not, so he nods once just in case.
They pass a few teams of construction workers as they continue renovate the buildings on their street. The next block over they are met with a throng of pedestrians as they hurry home from work. Karen quickly finds a way for them to duck away from the madness and Matt, not for the first time, is amazed at how the city sounds and smells so different on each adjacent street. Like each block is it's own world.
They pass a game of baseball in one wide alley. The crack of the bat, kids shouting, sneakers scraping against concrete. Laughter. They pause for a moment while Karen watches and Matt listens.
“This is why,” Karen murmurs to herself, the trail end of a private thought. Matt doesn’t ask, but he’s pretty sure she’s thinking about Ben and Fisk. He waits. Eventually, she guides them away toward a small little park where there is a frozen lemonade stand and Karen gets them a cup each.
“Matt?” He tilts his head to show that he’s listening (he’s always listening). “Matt, I was wondering. I-If, you know, if you don’t want to—”
“Karen,” he interrupts. Her racing heartbeats are like drums pounding in his ears. They’re walking slower than normal. He’s forgone the cane in favor of holding his drink, making a show of relying on Karen to guide his steps. “It’s fine. Ask me whatever.”
She lets out a rush of breath in a way that Matt has discovered to mean, I’m so stupid.
“You’re not being stupid. Whatever it is, thank you for respecting my feelings. But it’s okay, you can ask. You can’t possibly ever be more indelicate than Foggy.”
She laughs and Matt smiles at the sound. She puts her hand, the one holding the lemonade, over his where he’s holding on to her arm. Condensation from the cup drips between his fingers.
“How do you always know what to say?”
“You told me already. I’m sincere. And suave.”
“I said sweet.”
“I like to think you said suave.”
“No one says suave anymore,” she giggles. “I better be careful or your big head won’t be able to fit through doorways.”
He pouts at her and she presses her mouth against his shoulder to let him know she’s smiling (she’s the only one who’s ever thought to do that and Matt didn’t know how much he missed seeing someone smile at him until she did it).
“Matt, do you have beautiful days?” When he just frowns in thought she rushes on. “I was thinking, for me, a beautiful day is like this. Blue sky with big white clouds cutting through it. Sun shining bright off of windows and cars. Bright sundresses in window shops. Little kids in tiny overalls and bare feet playing on stoops. Yellow flowers, green grass. There’s more, but just about all of it is visual. What I see makes a day beautiful. And I just wanted to know what it was like for you, what makes a day beautiful for you?”
Distantly, very distantly, he remembers beautiful days. Remembers splashes of color, clear weather, dirty sneakers and a worn baseball glove. As a kid he didn’t think of much as beautiful, really, but he remembers that those days meant outside and running and laughing and maybe, every once in a while, tossing around the ball with Dad. Beautiful days were something to be grasped and put to use.
He thinks of the darkness he peers into each waking minute. He thinks of a world on fire. He remembers the sting of Nobu’s blade, Fisk’s impossibly large fists he used to break Matt again and again with unrestrained glee. He thinks of the sirens and the screams, the sirens and the screams, thesirensandthescreams each night over and over and over and over.
Even the night Fisk was arrested there was vindication but with the ghosts of Ben and Elena at his shoulders there was nothing beautiful about it.
“Matt? I-I’m sorry, I shouldn’t—"
He lets go of her arm long enough to wrap his around her shoulders, tugging her close for a few steps. “Please stop apologizing. You know you don’t have to. I was just thinking.”
She opens her mouth, probably to say “sorry” again, but Matt just flicks her shoulder, causing her to break off into a light giggle.
“I don’t know,” he answers her finally. “There are other ways to see, but maybe just one way to see a day like today.”
Her breath trembles and she lays her head on him in a way Matt has learned to mean, just a little bit broken today. He presses his fingertips into her gauzy shoulder and swipes his cold lemonade cup against her forehead. Karen jerks back, laughs, the sound echoing beautifully in Matt’s bones.
end