Archive of Our Own

Matt woke up blind, which was normal, and deaf, which was not. The realization hit him like a bucket of ice water, sending him jolting upright.

The motion ignited miles of pain under his skin, the entire right side of his body lighting up in instant agony. It wasn't an ache, not a cramp or throb, but an indescribable kind of pain that forced out a wordless shout against his will. He could feel the rush of air slam past his lips, heard nothing.

Panic rose just as quickly, his hands skittering across the sheets beneath him- not silk, not his, where was he?-

Ever since his accident, Matt had hated swimming. It was near impossible to orient himself in the water, with no solid ground beneath his feet or sounds nearby to anchor himself to, no scent reaching him and the constant crashing of water against his skin with no discernible pattern or rhythm or safety.

Deafness was the same.

Distantly, logically, Matt knew he shouldn't panic. Panic had gotten him nothing so far, and a clear head would do him far more good than the frantic burst of energy in his bones.

But Matt had just woken up adrift, and when a hand touched his wrist, he lashed out like the cornered animal that he was.

There was something grounding about his fist striking solid. The second hit went wide, but the third and fourth landed hard against something soft and fleshy. He was clumsy and uncoordinated and hurting and his whole body felt heavy, but Matt had been a trained fighter since he was nine years old.

The other person didn't strike back. Matt's fifth swing was redirected by a forearm, the other hand grabbed before he could attack again. He jerked back violently, shoulder striking a solid wall behind him and sending a smart of pain down his arm.

His left hand was still caught in a surprisingly gentle- yet nowhere near soft- grip. Matt gasped for breath, lightheaded. He couldn't breathe.

Without thinking, running purely on instinct, his legs kicked out hard and wild. One heel connected, and he felt a satisfying crack and the distinct buckling of somebody getting the air knocked out of them.

Still, no counterattack. There was a hand wrapped around each of his wrists, and the stranger managed to pin one of his legs under their knee, but they didn't hit back.

Instead, one arm was slowly brought forward. Matt could feel his eyes scanning the room uselessly, quick jittering movements like his unconscious brain had forgotten that he couldn't see. He tried to jerk back, but the grip only tightened from a hold that was disproportionately soft to a firm clasp... which was probably still too soft, really, he should've been able to squirm out of anything that didn't make him feel the bones in his wrist grind together.

The palm of his hand pressed against something warm and firm and soft. He could feel the steady pulse of a familiar heartbeat, the rise and fall of a chest, and-

Matt cocked his head, wetting his lips as the panic faded. The rhythm was distantly familiar, the careful deep breathing that never failed to ground him. The name came as naturally as breathing.

“Foggy?”

A puff of air against his forearm, and Matt realized just how close they were sitting.

His hand was guided up, a slow motion as if he was trying not to startle a frightened animal. The frenetic energy of panic in his gut had condensed into a glimmer of hope, forgetting to breath as a cascade of emotions ran over him like a flood.

Matt flinched despite himself when his hand touched a face. The first touch was all it took to know this wasn't Foggy. His skin was the wrong temperature, not soft enough, the shifting of bone and cartilage under the tenderest touch not right.

His middle finger traced up the bridge of a nose that had clearly been broken far too many times, and Matt carefully fanned out his fingers over strong eyebrows, down over soft eyelashes to trace the shapes of his eyes, the faintest wrinkle lines, a familiar scar that he couldn't quite place-

It was the scent of his aftershave that gave him away.

“Oh.” Matt breathed. “Frank.”

Like this, he couldn't tell if his voice betrayed his combined despair and relief. Foggy hadn't made a miraculous recovery, was still dead and buried, but it was Frank who was with him at his most vulnerable and that... maybe shouldn't have been as comforting as it was.

Slowly, he let himself sink back into the uneven mattress beneath him. The world was still spinning around him, his body still on fire with pain, but Frank was here and Frank was calm, which meant they couldn't be in immediate danger.

He swallowed roughly, tried to catch his breath. With the panic quieted, his remaining three senses could stretch out. The scent of gunpowder and whiskey, the tastes of bile and iron on his tongue, and the steady thump of two heartbeats in the room fell over him like a heavy blanket. He was exhausted, aching, lost at sea and so, so tired.

Finally, belatedly, he realized that Frank must be speaking.

“I-I can't-” he stammered, coughing to clear his throat. The sensation of being underwater was roiling too close to the surface for comfort, feeling his throat work and not hearing the resulting words. He took a shuddering breath. “I can't... can't hear you, Frank.”

He could feel the rush of air that Frank let out, and a moment later a tentative hand touched his knee. Matt flinched when the hand moved up to his face, swiping away a tear he hadn't realized had fallen.

With the contact, Matt could feel Frank's heart beating faster now, smell the leftover oil and gunmetal on his fingers mixing with the salt of his tears. They were both breathing too quickly, Matt's hands were shaking, and he still had no idea where they were, if they were safe and out of danger, what Frank was doing here.

He reached up clumsily, bumping his hand against Frank's shoulder before managing to cup the back of his head. His hair was longer than when they'd last seen each other, with Karen all those months ago.

“Are we...” it was an odd sensation to feel his voice crack in his throat without hearing it. He coughed again. He still felt dizzy. “Safe?”

Frank nodded, slow and firm. That was all Matt needed.

He sank back into the mattress and let the creeping exhaustion drag him under.

The next time Matt woke up, it was slower. Less of an electric shock into consciousness, more a steady receding of the foggy sleepiness. His mouth was dry enough to hurt when he swallowed, his head felt like it had been stuffed with cotton, but the panic was gone.

The pain, on the other hand, was every bit as present and brutal as before. The nebulous agony that has swallowed up his entire right side had faded somewhat, but only to be replaced by spearing bolts of pain down his arm and leg when he moved.

Matt grit his teeth as he pushed himself upright on the uncomfortable cot, feeling out beside himself until he found the edge of the bed and swung his legs over. The simple motion sent another throb of pain that, coupled with a wave of dizziness, doubled him over.

He took a moment, hunched over in pain on an unfamiliar bed in a still-unknown location, to assess.

The fingertips of his left hand skirted over his shoulder, feeling for bandages or open wounds. He found several dressed wounds, scattered across his arm and side, poked a little harder at his flank to reveal a few bruised ribs, but there was no apparent injury to explain the stabbing pain from his hip to his knee.

“Okay,” he breathed, then caught himself with a hitched breath. He still couldn't hear. It was disorienting, frightening, and he shook his head sharply. The motion made him reel, his balance thrown hard enough that he nearly toppled sideways, was barely able to catch himself on his injured arm a moment before he would have cracked his head on a bedside table he hadn't noticed before.

He exhaled slowly, carefully righting himself before gently skating his hand across the table. His hand met something cold and he flinched, accidentally sending it toppling to the floor.

Matt pursed his lips and shook his head slowly. Stupid. Stupid and helpless, he realized as the spreading cold water reached his bare feet on the floor. His world of fire had been reduced to soot and ashes.

Apprehension ran from the wet floor up through his body. Sitting duck, his mind supplied unhelpfully. Alone, or close to it, in an unfamiliar location and too lightheaded to stand. Vulnerable, weak, the voice in his head that sounded far too much like Stick said, and that was almost worse than hearing nothing at all.

It was a kind of quiet he hadn't thought possible until the first time he'd felt it, when Frank had shot him in the head. The kind where even the blood rushing under his skin was quiet, where his brain tried and failed to fill in the gaps where sound should be and left an aching echo in it's place. Before, he might have imagined it must be what it was like to be buried hundreds of feet underground, tombed in thousands of impenetrable pounds of stone. But even that would be louder, he knew from experience now, with at least the sound of his own breathing.

He scooted backwards on the cot until his back hit the concrete wall. The cold seeping through the oversized sweatshirt he couldn't remember putting on brought his head back to earth.

A deep breath, and he crossed his legs as best he could- the right didn't make it all the way over, but it was a close enough thing- and focused on sinking into meditation.

There was no way to know how long he meditated, with his head leaned back against the wall.

Two taps on his good leg started him back to reality. He startled, tilted his head.

“Frank...?” he asked, and-

Sound came crashing over him like a gunshot. His head reeled back, hitting the wall hard enough to send a throb around to the front of his skull. The blood roaring in his ears, a shrill ringing cutting through him- he let out a wordless yelp-

Silence.

Matt sobbed. A hand cupped his face, smooth skin contrasted by callouses on the palm and trigger finger, and he leaned into it without thinking. It was whiplash, the world becoming too loud in one instant and too quiet in the next.

The mattress next to him dipped with a person's weight, and Matt couldn't help but sink into the touch and the scent of his aftershave as Frank's hand carded through his hair, far softer than the Punisher had any right to be.

Don't be a pussy, Matty. the Stick in his head spat vitriolically. Leaning on a killer.

“I'm-” he choked, tasting salt and realizing belatedly that he was still sobbing. “So-sorry, sorry, I can't-”

The hand fell to his back, stroking in broad circles as the other came to Matt's hand, carefully guided him to a new glass of water on the table.

His hands were shaking hard enough that he spilled an embarrassing amount of water onto his shirt before he got it to his lips. Frank didn't try to stabilize it. Matt would have hit him if he did.

Once he had drank, once he could breath again, Matt leaned away from the hand on his back. Frank got the hint and backed off, his weight moving away but not leaving the bed. Matt was childishly grateful to not be left alone like this.

“Sorry.” he said again, once his hands had steadied somewhat. “I, um. Still can't-” he gestured vaguely at his ears. It was too strange to feel all the mechanisms of speech- vocal cords constricting, air passing his lips, tongue forming the motions- with no audible feedback.

A hand landed on his and squeezed. He squeezed back.

“Do you... have a bathroom, by any chance?”

He could feel the displaced air from Frank's laugh, but hands carefully grasped his elbows and guided him forward to the edge of the bed.

Matt took a deep breath to steady himself, feeling his hip twinge in a preemptive protest, and wrapped his hands around Frank's arm for support as he hauled himself to his feet.

His right leg went out from under him immediately and he bit out a curse, his body weight falling to the left before he could process the change and his balance toppled straight into Frank.

His inner ear had been damaged, must have been, and for the first two awkward hobble-walks to the bathroom he had to put most of his weight on Frank to stay upright with the world spiraling around him.

Matt's hearing began to return by what his best estimate told him was a day later, sprawled on his back on the cot trying to sleep. He let one hand dangle to the floor, taking a small comfort in the vibrations of the world under his fingertips. There was a subway tunnel around two hundred feet below him, an electric thrum running through the floor.

And the quiet rushing of blood in his ears.

He had to fight the urge to sit bolt upright at the realization, making it halfway before being violently reminded of his vertigo and falling back against the bedding.

The sound was distant, as though coming through a tunnel a hundred feet underwater, but it was enough.

Relief washed over him as a wave. He closed his eyes and sighed deeply just to hear the slight change in sound. It was coming back.

He'd been dancing around the idea for the last day that his hearing might not come back, that he would be left to wander in the abyss for the rest of his life. Frank would only tolerate him for so long, that much was obvious, and with no Foggy to guide him through the world-

Fuck, he wished Foggy was here.

He wished Foggy was anywhere, as long as he was alive.

Frank had said it before, in that safehouse before it all went to shit. “He talks to you, doesn't he?”

Matt sometimes wished he did. He heard Stick, and on more than one occasion Elektra had purred in his mind. Hell, he'd even heard Frank's voice in his mind once, on that godforsaken rooftop in the rain. But never Foggy.

In a way, it felt like Hell.

In a way, it felt like mercy.

After that first breakthrough, his improvement was steady. The distant ringing in his ears grew closer, and deeper noises began to creep through the silence. A door slamming, Frank's heavy footfalls, that underground train began to fall together into a soundtrack of this place.

By his best estimate, Matt had been here for three days when he could finally hear anything real.

He startled himself out of sleep, propping himself up on his elbows and cocking his head. The smell of leather and gunpowder permeated the place, making it an easy guess that this was one of Frank's safehouses, but why he was here in the first place was a mystery.

In the long hours spent laying alone in the abyss, he had tried to provoke his memory. Everything before the moment he'd woken up in a panic was hazy.

He'd been on the run with Karen, trying to get by under Fisk's radar, to find an army in the gutters and pavement cracks. Josie had offered to put them up in the room above the bar at first, but Karen had rightfully pointed out that it was the first place anybody would look for them.

Since then it had been a blur of safehouses, a slowly building resistance, the gradual acceptance that the life he'd built without the Devil had never been as real as he'd made himself believe.

And then the world turned itself inside-out.

And then, Frank.

As soon as he'd been able to walk again, Matt had done his best to map out the safehouse. One hand on the wall, the other clutching his wounded side, he had walked careful loops to try and paint a map of the room against his abyss. An impression of the space he couldn't really sense, devoid of the usual fire but no less tangible once he'd found the kitchenette, the bathroom, the sofa where Frank had been sleeping.

Speak of the devil, it was Frank entering the safehouse that had woken him up, accompanied by the heavenly smell of Thai food. After three days of canned chicken noodle soup, Matt was perhaps too hasty to push himself upright.

His wounds had been healing slowly but steadily, though his hip still smarted whenever he twisted too far in either direction. He let out a low groan at the motion, using one hand to guide the leg over to rest on the floor. And then he paused. Tilted his head.

Matt brought one hand up to his ear and snapped his fingers, twice.

The sound cut through the ringing in his ears like a blade.

He laughed despite himself, relief and incredulity flooding him in equal measure. Frank had paused at the door, and he could hear- hear!- his even heartbeat. The part of Matt that had worried he would never hear again gave way to the part that worried about what the hell he was doing here, but even that was drowned out by the euphoria of being fully himself again.

“Alright, Red?” Frank asked cautiously, a paper bag rustling as he moved. Matt grinned, pushing himself to his feet.

“Yeah. Yeah, I'm good, Frank.”

They talked while they ate. Matt chose not to read into the fact that Frank knew his go-to Thai order.

“What happened?”

“You don't remember?” Frank didn't sound surprised, more... curious and resigned. It didn't make Matt feel any better. He shook his head. “Some of Fisk's goons found your hideout. Heard it on the police scanner. They had some sorta sonic weapon, and a few grenades for good measure. Caught you off guard.”

“Shit.” Matt said bitterly. Frank scoffed a laugh.

“Yeah, shit.” he agreed. “I got there in time to drag your sorry ass out, but we caught some shrapnel and I had to shove your hip back into the socket, give you some stitches-” he cut himself off with a rough cough, going in for another bite instead of continuing. Matt's head snapped towards him like an accusation.

“What?”

Frank's heartbeat, normally so steady that a metronome could follow it, had skipped a beat. Matt had only heard it do that twice: once in a courtroom, and once on a street, after jumping out a window, bathed in car headlights-

“Fuck, is Karen okay?”

Frank let out a long breath, his head dropping towards the floor. Matt dropped his plastic fork. No. No, he couldn't lose Karen too. Not like this, not without Foggy to catch him when he inevitably broke. His life had already shattered once in the last year, he couldn't pick up the pieces again, couldn't build another castle of lies and propriety to-

“Matt.”

The single word cut through him more effectively than any bullet. He couldn't remember the last time Frank had used his real name. He was always Red, or altar-boy if Frank was feeling particularly volatile. Never Matthew. Never Matt.

“She's okay.”

Matt collapsed back against the couch. Then, ignoring the protest of his freshly-relocated hip, he twisted to punch Frank in the jaw. “Coulda led with that.” he muttered when Frank let out an indignant little sound. “Fuck.” he shook his head, blew out a tense breath. Frank just scoffed.

“She's banged up, but she'll be alright. Karen's tough as nails when it gets down to it.”

“Where is she?”

Frank shook his head like he knew Matt wasn't going to like his next words. “They're holding her at Metro-General for now. I hear Fisk wants to see her once she's cleared to leave.”

Matt was on his feet before he could finish talking. Frank scoffed again.

“Sit your ass down, Red. Hospital's the safest place for her right now, and we've got a plan for keeping it that way. Not like you'd be a lot of help in this state anyway.”

It was Matt's turn to scoff now as he rounded on Frank, dinner forgotten. “Right, like you didn't see me fight my way out of my own apartment with a bullet in my shoulder. You're not the only one who can walk off an injury, Frank. You think she's safer alone right now? Really? You don't know what Fisk's guys are ca-”

“Fuck you mean, I don't know!?” Frank was on his feet too, now. “'Course I fuckin' know! Fisk's little fanboys put me in a damn cage, Red, and I was able to get the fuck outta there because I know how dangerous those sons of bitches are!”

Matt shook his head with incredulity. “Right, and you still thought you should leave her alone while she's hurt, is that it?”

“When did I say she was alone, huh, Red? I said your injured ass wouldn't be much use, not that I'm the kind of dumbass who would leave her to fend for herself!” To punctuate his point, he jammed his thumb against one of the wounds on Matt's collarbone. He reeled back like he'd been shot, cursing at the electric shot of pain.

Their mutual anger seemed to simmer down with that. Matt leaned on the wall, left hand hovering protectively over the wound, while Frank dropped back onto the sofa with a groan and returned to his food.

Matt retreated to the bathroom for a shower, after their scuffle. Frank tossed him a set of clean clothes and settled in front of his police scanner, cleaning his guns as he listened.

The bathroom was small, and Matt leaned his forehead against the door as soon as it shut. It was a flimsy barrier between himself and the world, but it would do.

Frank wouldn't tell him what the plan was, who he was working with, and loathe as he was to admit it he had good reason. They both knew damn well that Matt wouldn't hesitate to go straight to Metro-General the second he had any semblance of a plan.

Matt peeled off the baggy sweatshirt he'd been wearing since he woke up, briefly wondering who's it was before discarding it and feeling for the handle of the shower, cranking the heat up as hot as it went.

Fisk wanting to see to Karen was bad. Karen was more than capable of protecting herself, had proven it more times than he could count, but Fisk was a force of nature. Perhaps more worrying, though, was the fact that he hadn't already been in to see her. If he wanted her dead, he could have done so a thousand times over while Matt was down and out. If he wanted her alive...

He kicked off his pants and boxers and stepped into the stream of hot water.

It was blissfully loud. He could hear water rattling up through the pipes, every drop hitting his skin like a tiny eruption of sensation that dragged him out of his head.

Matt stood there for a few long moments, eyes closed and head tilted back.

A baptism, of sorts.

When he finally started moving, he set about properly cataloguing his injuries as he bathed. Two rib fractures that were already well on their way to healing, plus one bruised rib that managed to hurt more than both the fractures combined. A hip that still protested it's relocation. Three shrapnel wounds on his side, two of which had been stitched up, the third bandaged tightly, though when he tentatively pressed his fingers to the edge of the one on his chest he could feel a small piece of metal still inside. He had walked off worse.

Frank's shampoo was two-in-one, because of course it was.

His balance had returned with his hearing, whatever had been interfering with his inner ear resolving itself with his enforced resting period. He could go home, he thought, then chuckled humorlessly at himself. There was no home to go to. Not now. Not like this.

Not with the Devil rearing it's head inside him stronger than ever.

There was a razor sitting innocuously on the small shelf built into the shower, a bottle of shaving cream nearby- frankly, he was surprised Frank didn't shave dry- and it only took one drag of his hand through his disheveled beard before he decided that he might as well.

It was almost meditative, the steady drag of the razor against his skin with the air slowly turning to steam around him. It took a few passes before he was satisfied, the blade probably well past it's prime, but he only nicked his skin once and the wound healed in the time it took to finish the shower and step out onto cold tile.

“Was startin' to think you drowned in there.” Frank deadpanned when he emerged. Matt flipped him off as he sprawled onto the couch. “Nice shirt.”

Matt ran a hand down the front of the shirt he'd been given and smirked. “If this thing has your logo on it, I will strangle you in your sleep.” he said, amicably.

It was... domestic.

Matt wasn't used to domestic.

Frank went out the next day, and Matt tried to busy himself around the safehouse. It was the least he could do, really, to wash the dishes in the sink and rummage in the single tiny closet for a vacuum.

When Frank returned several hours later, he was pacing the small space. He could hear him coming, didn't startle when the door opened. Frank paused in the doorway, taking in the freshly cleaned space, and scoffed. If his tone sounded a little bit fond, Matt decided that was between him and God.

“Goin' a bit stir crazy, huh?”

“What gave me away?”

Frank shook his head with a soft chuckle, crossed the room to the folding table that served as a kitchen island. “Swung by your old place while I was out. Shitbags took your phone, but I got an old burner you can use.” A paper bag rustled, and Matt padded over to take the offered phone wordlessly. “They pretty much trashed it after I got you out. Grabbed one of your fancy lawyer suits and some normal clothes, though. And your cane and glasses.”

“Frank...” Matt cut himself off. He didn't find himself speechless very often, but... well, what could he say? This is the nicest thing anyone has done for me in a year was too honest, too intimate, but a simple thank you didn't seem like nearly enough. “You didn't have to...” he said finally, running his thumb over the glasses he'd been handed tenderly.

“Least I could do. Was in the area anyway.” Frank dismissed him easily, leaving Matt dumbfounded as he walked away. “I'm takin' a shower, feel free to order lunch.”

He didn't move for a few long moments, taking in the enormity of Frank's kindness. He hadn't needed to go back, had put himself in more danger by risking being seen there, but...

But he'd wanted Matt to feel at home.

And Matt would be lying if he said it hadn't worked. This shitty little safehouse on the edge of Hell's Kitchen, with it's ridiculously loud shower and the police scanner taking up half the folding table that served as a dining space, already felt more like home than the uptown apartment he'd shared with Heather.

The sound of the aforementioned ridiculously loud shower turning on startled him out of his reverie, and he carefully slid the glasses back into the paper bag. He didn't feel as naked without them as he normally did. Not when it was just Frank.

(When did The Punisher become Just Frank in his mind?)

In the bag Frank had brought he found a suit, yes, and beneath it a few pairs of jeans, a couple t-shirts, and one sweatshirt that he didn't immediately recognize.

Matt turned it over in his hands, rubbing the fabric between two fingers. It was worn and soft, but it was too small to be one of his- it would fit him, sure, but he'd always preferred his sweatshirts a size too big. The leftover smell of smoke and debris clung to the fabric, but beneath it-

Oh. One of Karen's.

The University of Vermont text embroidered on the front confirmed it, though some of the text was beginning to unravel.

Without really thinking, Matt pulled it on over the t-shirt Frank was lending him. A small part of him thought he should be ashamed of how comforting it was, to be swamped in the scents of Karen's shampoo and Frank's aftershave, but the much larger part of him, the part that had felt off-kilter since the moment he'd woken up deaf, settled slightly at the familiarity of it all.

He did end up going out for lunch. On Frank's dime, because his wallet had apparently been one of the things Frank couldn't find among the wreckage. There was a deli a few blocks down that smelled heavenly even from the safehouse, so he grabbed a pair of jeans and his glasses and set out.

Hitting the streets for the first time in days felt like a baptism in and of itself.

The controlled chaos of the street was just as much his home turf as the courtroom, and with the steady tapping of his cane to keep his senses honed in front of him, he made quick time down the street. Even dressed in civilian clothes, clothes that the Matt Murdock who he had created over the course of one hellish year would never wear, he felt vulnerable in a way he hadn't felt since-

Well, since four days ago.

And yet, he felt infinitely more in control than he had since he had dove in front of that bullet, since he and Frank had leapt out that window, since Josie's.

The deli was a hole-in-the-wall place across the street from a church, and he paused on the sidewalk outside, the faint sound of organ music drifting over the sounds of traffic and people talking. It must have been mass, or maybe just a bored parishioner trying their hand at the instrument, and a part of him was tempted to cross the street, to slip inside the church's walls for just a moment.

He hadn't been into a church since Foggy's funeral.

He wasn't sure that he wouldn't break down if he stepped inside one now.

He turned away.

Even with the aroma bleeding out into the street it took Matt a moment to locate the deli's door. He paused in the doorway, taking a deep inhale of spiced meat and woodsmoke, and tilted his head.

It was quiet, but not deserted. There were three people by the counter, two more in a booth tucked away in an alcove near the door, and another approaching him with quick steps. He could hear her heels clicking on the ground under the quiet drone of a television playing the news, and he turned to face her, putting on his best charming smile.

“Hello! What can I do for you today?” the young woman asked, bright and kind, and a wave of nostalgic longing crashed over him like a wave.

Nelson's Meats. Doors always open, one or another of the Nelsons always there with a bright smile and gentle touch. The intimacy of Hell's Kitchen, a layer of unbridled caring for one another striking just as hard as the brutality he was so familiar with.

“Excuse me?”

He let out a shaky breath and forced his attention to the woman. “Oh, so sorry. I was just distracted by how nice in smells in here.” The pleased little noise she made would have been imperceptible to anybody but him. “I was hoping to pick up lunch for myself and a friend,” he added, offering his elbow. “Afraid you might have to read me the menu, though.”

Now her laugh really was audible. She took his arm and led him deeper into the shop, closer to the scent that had come to feel just as safe as the worn leather and sweat of a boxing gym.

By the time he left half an hour later, with two carefully wrapped sandwiches in a paper bag, he had been introduced to half the Baker family (which, the eldest daughter continued to emphasize, was an incredibly ironic name for a family of butchers) and had added his signature to a petition to protect the local library.

Matt was still smiling when he stepped back into the run-down apartment building that housed their safehouse, but it dropped away when he reached the second-floor stairwell. Frank's police scanner had been turned off for the first time since he'd arrived, being replaced by Frank's hushed voice.

He stopped just outside the door, tilting his head to listen.

“Twenty minutes, tops. Just gotta find Red.” Something clicked- the safety of a gun. “We'll get her outta there.”

Matt shouldered open the door. “What's going on?”

“Fuck. Call you back.” The phone beeped, and Frank whirled to face him. It only took that movement for Matt to feel it- the rustling of kevlar being pulled on over linen, the chafing of holsters strapped over jeans. He put down the paper bag.

Frank was suiting up.

Matt's heart skipped a beat. There was only one reason Frank would risk suiting up now, with the two of them sharing a spot at the very top of Fisk's hit list.

“Is Karen okay?”

“She's fine. Cleared to leave the hospital.” Some of the tension bled out of Matt's shoulders, right up until- “Fisk's on his way to see her.” The rough metal-on-leather sound of a gun sliding into it's holster, and Matt suddenly couldn't find it within himself to protest Frank's numerous weapons.

“I'm coming with you.”

Frank scoffed out a rough laugh. “Nah, Red. You don't know what Fisk would do to you.” He moved to brush past him, but Matt dodged sideways, jamming their shoulders together to stop him. Frank's skin was hot even under the layers of armor and fabric.

“Oh, yeah, but he can do whatever he likes to you!? I'm not letting you go alone, Frank.”

“Not gonna be alone.”

“Yeah, well, you still haven't told me who you're working with, so you might as well be! I'm not gonna sit around on my ass while you get yourself and Karen killed because you're too fucking stubborn to accept the help!”

Frank's heartbeat didn't speed up when he was angry. It was an interesting quirk of his that Matt had picked up on. What did happen when he got mad, though, was the literal raising of his hackles. Matt could hear the skin on the back of his neck prickling, feel the heat rising in the air between them. If he'd reached a hand up to the back of his neck, he knew he would feel the goosebumps there.

“Not every fuckin' situation needs your help, Red! Fuck, if one of Fisk's goons got their hands on you-” he threw up his hands, spinning on his heel to pace the small room. “You think I should have to worry about protecting your sorry ass too, huh? Plan's got enough moving pieces as it is, we don't need you throwing a fuckin' wrench into it.”

“I can handle myself!”

“Yeah, so can I! So can Karen! Doesn't mean you gotta-”

“You're not the only one who loves her, Frank!”

Frank's heartbeat may not raise when he was angry, but that sure as hell did it.

His jaw snapped shut with an audible clack of teeth. They stood in silence for a moment, face to face now with nothing but two feet of air to separate them. For a moment, Matt thought he was about to get hit. Finally, breathing heavily, Frank swore under his breath.

“Never learned when to give up, did'ja?” he laughed humorlessly, shaking his head and whirling on his heel to return to the folding table, something rustling as he adjusted the straps on his kevlar, grabbed something that had been sitting on the police scanner. “Sorry 'bout this, Red.”

Matt took a step back, opened his mouth to ask-

Frank moved faster.

Something sharp dug into his neck. He could feel the slight burn of something pressing into the muscle between veins.

Matt's body reacted before his mind could process what was happening, ducking away and landing a retaliatory punch square on Frank's jaw, feeling his teeth jam together under his knuckles before his body was reeling backwards, the syringe clattering innocuously to the floor.

“The fuck-?” he managed a moment before his back hit the wall, the breath being forced out of his lungs at the impact.

“Yeah, I deserved that.” Frank said, rubbing his jaw. “For what it's worth, that wasn't my idea.”

The ground heaved under Matt's feet, and there was a new weight building in his limbs, a clumsiness to his fingers as he scrambled at the wall behind him for purchase. “What did you do?” he choked, breathless.

It was panic, he recognized distantly. He'd let his guard down and Frank had attacked him and he was panicking as the world twisted around him, vertigo and seasickness hitting him hard enough that he doubled over with it, gasping for breath that didn't come. One of his knees buckled, the other failed to compensate, and his weight tipped backward against the door despite his best efforts.

His ears were ringing loud and shrill enough that he could barely hear Frank's voice cutting through the sound.

“Just a sedative. Keep you down for an hour or two. Jesus, Red, how stubborn do you gotta be for druggin' you to be the better option?”

“Language.” he muttered without thinking, years of Catholicism sweeping back to the forefront abruptly as the ground rocked beneath him again. His word slurred, just slightly, as it slipped past his lips, and fuck Frank had fucking drugged him.

Frank let out a startled laugh, stepped closer. Matt flailed an angry hand at him, the other too busy grasping at the wall for stability for it to really serve as a threat, but he took it in stride and stepped back anyway.

He wanted to ask more, wanted to demand why Frank had done this, who's idea it had been, but his tongue felt heavy and thick in his mouth and he couldn't breathe around the sudden tightness in his chest. The best he could manage was a soft, questioning noise that sounded broken even to his own ears.

“Easy, Red.” Frank was closer now that Matt's world was spinning too hard to fight back, one hand catching him under the elbow as his body pitched sideways to try and escape the contact. “I've got you.”

“I've got you, buddy.”

Matt's head jerked, trying to pinpoint the source of the second voice, the one that cut so smoothly through the static in his head. It called back to long, drunken nights getting lost while stumbling back to their dorm, to abogados.

It was impossible to tell if it was a hallucination or a memory or a ghost, but as he stumbled into Frank's touch Matt would have sworn that it was Foggy's hand that brushed his hair out of his face.

Matt woke up with a throbbing headache and a mouth that tasted like stale. The pain throbbed behind his eyes when he sat up.

He was on the couch. Frank had put him on the couch. After drugging him.

The world was hazy around him, static ringing in his ears and fingers tingling distantly as he sat up. Pain pulsed through his head in protest.

He cursed and stumbled to his feet, ignoring the way the ground heaved beneath his feet as he stumbled to the sink. A splash of water in his face and a long drink out of cupped hands abated the worst of the headache, letting the rest of the world come back into focus around him.

Matt was alone in the safehouse. That was the first thing he noticed, once he could think again. He'd been unconscious for- Frank had said an hour, maybe two?- and he was still alone. Surely it shouldn't have taken two hours to get Karen home safe.

The second thing he noticed was the radio. Frank's police scanner, but tuned to one frequency instead of rapidly scanning through channels like the white noise he had become used to over the last few days. There were voices talking over each other, distant gunfire, and one booming voice that he recognized all too well.

“I need Page alive, but if you get a shot at Castle or the other girl, take it. If she's working with the Punisher, I want her dead.”

Matt crossed the room in a few long strides, hands fumbling over the scanner. It took him a moment to find the button on the attached microphone, but he knew Frank too well- he'd never own a radio that couldn't go both ways, in a pinch.

“Fisk.”

The word cut through the radio chatter like a knife.

“Hello, Mr. Murdock.” Fisk said, and if he was surprised his voice didn't show it. “Officer Fields, this is a private matter. You know your orders.”

The gunfire on the other end stopped abruptly as Officer Fields- who Matt could only assume was part of Fisk's task force- muttered a yessir and switched frequencies. For a long moment, the only sound broadcasted was their breathing.

“What do you want with Karen?” Matt asked finally, when it became clear that Fisk wasn't going to speak first. His voice didn't betray the anxiety buzzing under his skin, fingers still numb from the sedative, heart pounding in his throat. Fisk needing Karen alive was almost more troubling than him wanting her dead, the way he wanted Matt or Frank dead.

“Why would I ever tell you that?” Fisk laughed, booming, and as the radio adjusted to the volume Matt caught the faintest sounds of shouting in the background- he wasn't too far from the conflict. “Actually, I'm surprised you're not here in the flesh, Matthew. Though I hear my men gave you quite the beating before your guard dog showed up. Maybe you should call him off, before we have to... put him down.”

Matt scoffed sharply. “Cute. You really think anyone call call off the Punisher?”

“I think Miss Page can.”

Oh. Well- that wasn't untrue, but Matt was a lawyer. He knew how to sidestep around his weak spots. Fisk didn't need to know how true his words rang.

“So, what, that's your play? Kidnap Karen, and expect her to work with you to keep him in line?”

“Not... willingly, no. But everyone can be convinced, with the right... incentive.” Fisk paused, hummed thoughtfully. “For example, the Punisher might be persuaded to stay in his place if I have a gun to his favorite little journalist's head.”

Matt shook his head, though Fisk couldn't see him. “You seriously think Frank Castle would tolerate that?” he sneered, hoping his disdain would bleed through his voice. “You're underestimating him, Fisk. If you even think about hurting a hair on her head, he'll have yours on a goddamn platter.”

“I'm counting on it.”

Oh.

Oh, shit.

Dread hit Matt like a sucker punch to the gut, and he sank back in the wobbly folding chair with a sharp exhale.

Fisk wasn't kidnapping Karen to hold her hostage, or use her as leverage. She was a weapon.

Frank was a powder keg, and she was the trigger. Threatening her might- might- keep Frank in line, but hurting her would send him over the edge. And anything he did would be fuel for Fisk's crusade against vigilantes.

“Besides,” Fisk added like an afterthought when Matt had been silent for a moment too long. “You're too busy licking your wounds to save her. Why else would you be hiding away instead of fighting side by side with your little... powered friends?” he said the word powered like it was a slur, scorn obvious in his tone, and Matt clenched his jaw so hard it popped.

Fisk was right. He should have been there, fighting to keep Karen safe. God knew she'd risked her life for him enough times, he should have repaid the favor. But he wasn't, because Frank had deemed him more of a hindrance than a help. His fingernails dug into his palms, the pain dragging him back into the moment.

He could still fight. Wasn't that the entire reason he had gone into law? To fight his battles with his words as much as his fists?

“Are you familiar with the story of Job, Fisk?” Matt asked abruptly, and now Fisk showed his surprise, letting out a low chuckle.

“Vaguely.” Fisk said. “Enlighten me.”

Matt sat back in his chair, casting his face skyward and taking a deep breath. The longer he kept Fisk talking, the more time he bought Frank and whoever else Karen had fighting for her.

“Job is... God's perfect little follower.” Matt said slowly. “And finally, after a lifetime of devotion, God decides to test him. He kills his wife, his kids, and scorches his land. And still Job is loyal. He prays on his knees in the salted earth, every day, even as his friends encourage him to turn his back on God for all He did to him. Job insists that it's God's will, that there must be a reason for his punishment. He doesn't know what it is, but he refuses to believe that maybe he's just being toyed with. And finally, God rewards him tenfold for his undying reverence. Job never once wavered in his faith, even when it was clear that God was trying him for a crime he didn't commit.”

There was a long pause. Matt lowered his head.

Finally, Fisk spoke. “So tell me, Mr Murdock. In this little story of yours, which of us is Job... and which is God?”

He'd taken the bait. Matt grinned, tasting blood in the water. “I think you like to think you're God, Fisk. But you're going to find out very, very soon that very few people are as loyal as Job, nor should they be.”

Matt paused, waited until Fisk was taking a breath in to speak, and went in for the kill.

“After all, wasn't it your wife who had Foggy Nelson killed?”

Mutually assured destruction. If Karen was Frank's fuse, then Vanessa was Fisk's.

“Do not speak her name!” Fisk boomed, and Matt bared his teeth, but before he could reply, the radio crackled, and the sound of distant gunfire intensified- somebody else had tuned in.

“Sir-” it was Officer Fields, the one Fisk had been talking to before Matt had cut in. “Sir, Daredevil is here. Shoot to kill?”

“What?” Fisk and Matt said in unison, though Matt immediately bit his tongue- one rule that war and law had in common was to never interrupt one's enemy while they were making a mistake.

“How are you here?!” Fisk roared, and Matt laughed, bloodthirsty.

“When have I ever been one to lick my wounds, Fisk?” he sneered into the microphone, letting his bluff bolster his voice. “You may think you're God, but I accepted the name of the Devil for good reason.”

Fisk snarled wordlessly, breathing heavily into the microphone for a long moment before the man finally spat “This is not over, Murdock.” and he was gone, the radio falling into static. Matt sat for a moment before reaching out with one hand, feeling for a dial or slider. He found a button that sent the machine into silence.

His ears were ringing, but the pins and needles had finally receded from his fingertips.

Matt pushed himself to his feet slowly, thoughts turning over and over like the car engine he could hear idling out front. Fisk thought he was there, at- well, wherever Frank and Karen were fighting- which meant that somebody was impersonating him, which meant-

Oh. That was why Frank had gone to his place. He hadn't been acting out of the kindness of his heart to bring Matt some familiarity. Maybe Matt had been naive to think he had been, when in reality he'd been stealing his suit.

But who was wearing it?

It had been all of ten minutes and Matt... wasn't sure what to do with himself, honestly. Frank didn't have a television in the safehouse, and he wasn't sure if the police scanner could pick up the news, had no idea how to operate it anyway, so he had no way to keep up with whatever was going on outside.

He had paced the safehouse for five minutes until the headache came back in force, Frank's drug- where had he even gotten a medical-grade sedative, anyway?- still scrambling his senses, so instead he was sprawled out on the couch, tracing the text on Karen's sweatshirt with one fingertip meditatively. University of Vermont. University of Vermont. University of Vermont-

There was a sudden, heavy pounding downstairs.

Matt sat bolt upright.

Somebody was knocking on a door, hard and loud. A cop, or someone who wanted people to believe that's what they were.

Shit. Shit.

He moved quickly and quietly, rolling to his feet off the sofa and ignoring the painful throb in his head as he crept to the bedroom, the room that faced out over the street, and cocked his head to listen.

The normal sounds of New York City flooded in, of course, threatening to overwhelm his still-fragile senses. He took a steadying breath and let his fingertips rest on the gnarled wood of the windowsill, keeping his mind anchored.

Car horns, a distant train, people talking and yelling and dogs barking surrounded him. A building creaking as it settled, old pipes rattling, the song someone was blasting from their earbuds as they walked past just below- and there, amidst it all, was a large engine- a van, maybe, or an SUV- idling in front of Frank's building. A radio was chattering inside, indistinct, police radio broken up by the occasional bout of static.

Fisk's task force had found him.

Frank's safehouse was on the second floor, and already he could hear a shout of clear! from the apartment on the floor below, which meant they were searching the building, which meant he had to get the hell out of dodge- fast.

He couldn't exactly take the stairs, but he knew Frank. He'd never stay in a place with only one escape route.

Frank was a paranoid son of a bitch, but Matt had to be grateful for it just this once.

There was only one door, but Matt had spent hours walking laps around the small space while he recovered, one hand on the wall to outline the rooms in his mind. He knew every weak spot, every corner that wasn't insulated, and more importantly, every window.

He couldn't go out the front, not directly into the street, but there was a small window just above the sink that led out into a side alley, if the smell of booze and garbage that oozed in the moment he pried it open was any indicator.

Getting into the window was no small feat in itself, especially with the vertigo starting to kick up again, but he managed it with one foot in the sink and the other hanging down the side of the building.. It was a second-story window, so the drop couldn't be that far, but his hand scraped something sharp on the tiny windowsill as he got his other leg out and he froze, biting back a yelp at the abrupt pain.

Three booming knocks on the door matched perfectly with the pounding pressure behind his eyes, and he took a deep breath. No time to gauge the distance properly, no time to leave a message for Frank, no time to be anything except the man without fear.

A phone rang somewhere in the apartment.

The latch gave way under a heavy knock.

Matt let himself fall.

As it turned out, there was a dumpster under the window that he hadn't accounted for, and his well-practiced combat roll turned into an muffled thunk against a plastic lid. He winced and rolled sideways, dropping to the ground gracelessly.

Matt stayed low, pressing his side to the dumpster to keep himself hidden from the street as he strained his senses. It shouldn't have been so hard to hone in on a sound, but there were cars whizzing by and people talking in the deli down the street and the radio in the task force's car and his heart pounding in his ears and pain throbbing in his hand where he'd cut it on the sill, and by the time he had focused on the apartment a voice was saying “looks like the kind of shithole Castle would live in” and another was asking if they should answer the phone that was still ringing.

Who would be calling Frank?

“Answer, but don't say shit.” said the first voice, and the phone fell quiet before a voice rang out on speaker.

“Murdock, we're en route. You there?”

Matt tilted his head, brow furrowing. He recognized the voice, but he couldn't put his finger on it. Female, a little rough around the edges, but it could have been anyone he had passed on the subway or overheard on somebody's TV. With his head reeling and without the cues from his other senses, he couldn't place her.

“Murdock?” she asked again, something like trepidation bleeding into her voice. The people in his safehouse hung up, and Matt let out a slow breath, trying to focus. It must have been somebody Frank trusted, if they had the number and knew Matt would be on the other end, and they said they were en route- to the safehouse, he could only guess, if they knew where the phone would be where Matt was meant to be.

“Think we can track the number from that?” one of the people above him said, “Clearly Murdock was here if he's getting calls. Let's check upstairs, and get someone to stakeout in here in case he comes back.”

Matt couldn't go back inside. But he couldn't leave either, not when Frank's ally was on her way- she'd said we're en route, so she couldn't be alone, either- with no idea that it was a trap.

But he couldn't just stay here in the alley either, less than ten feet away from the idling car. Most of Fisk's psuedo-soldiers were in the building, he couldn't get a sense of how many, but there had to be at least five sets of footsteps sweeping the apartment, and if he strained his ears he could pick up another two heartbeats waiting in the car.

At least seven people, then. Knowing Fisk's vendetta against him, he'd probably sent more. And they'd pounce the moment they realized who he was.

Then again... there was no telling that they would realize who he was.

An idea struck him abruptly. It was a Hail Mary, but it would have to work.

If this thing has your logo on it, I will strangle you in your sleep he had said, all those days ago, but... the carefully curated Matthew Murdock he had become over the worst year of his life wouldn't be caught dead wearing the Punisher's skull symbol, and as he peeled off Karen's sweatshirt he could only hope that his threat hadn't been unmerited, that Frank's borrowed shirt really did have his logo embossed on it.

Matt paused with the sweatshirt in hand, gently rubbing his fingers against the well-worn fabric. The cut on his hand was bleeding onto the material, and he paused before flipping it over to the clean side and dipping his middle finger into the wound with a wince. He drew a haphazard cross with two quick strokes. It would have to be enough.

He wasn't sure he'd able to live with himself if it wasn't.

Another moment of stillness as he listened- the group inside were heading down now, and he'd have to pass between the building and the AVTF vehicle to get where he was going, would have to keep his eyes focused ahead, because being visibly blind would only draw more eyes to him, had to hope that the task force hadn't looked too closely at the photos of him they'd surely been given.

Matt moved.

He prayed to become just another face in the crowd as he stepped out onto the street behind a pair of teenagers who were playfully arguing about god-knows-what.

His steps were quick and sharp to cover the ache from his fall, his chin held level, eyes cast straight forward and jaw set as he casually tossed the sweatshirt sideways onto the building's front stoop as he passed without slowing.

Nobody spared him a second glance, Frank's logo on his chest like a brand saying I'm not Daredevil.

The thought was absurd enough that he almost laughed as he walked as fast as he dared to avoid drawing attention, but the twisted humor of his situation died as he paused in front of his destination.

He'd never been to this particular area before the last week, but the church still felt familiar. Old stone walls and heavy wooden doors propped open, inviting, the scent of wood and incense wafting out, that comfortable weight that he'd always been drawn to.

Matt stepped inside.

He was laying on a pew near the front when they found him, arms folded comfortably over his stomach. At first he had sat up, hands clasped in a facsimile of prayer, but Matt was tired. It was that bone-deep kind of fatigue that he was achingly familiar with, the kind that made him want to curl up on his side on the pew and nap like a little kid, head on his father's shoulder and eyes half-lidded during a sermon.

The door creaked open, and his proverbial hackles shot up for the moment before he recognized her.

Her voice had been unrecognizable on the phone, but in the flesh the mystery woman was unmistakable, all leather and whiskey and combat boots rough on old wood flooring, heartbeat always beating just a little bit too fast.

Matt smiled despite himself.

“Jessica Jones,” he said, directing his words toward the arched ceiling and not bothering to sit up. “I'd say you're a sight for sore eyes, but...”

Jessica clearly hadn't been expecting him. Her boots scuffed on the ground as she let out a startled laugh. “Jesus Christ, Murdock.” she scoffed- grab me like that again, I'll punch you so hard you'll see- but her offense was obviously feigned, an undercurrent of relief laying just beneath the surface of her words as she turned to call over her shoulder, “Get in here, Page, I found him.”

Matt did sit up this time, because there lingering just outside the church doors was-

“Karen,” he breathed as she stepped inside, her heartbeat as familiar as his own.

“Hey, Matt.” Karen said, and Matt was on his feet before his conscious mind could catch up, stepping towards her.

They met in the middle, Karen throwing her arms around his shoulders in the same moment that he wrapped his around her waist, her face buried in his shoulder as he tucked his cheek against her hair.

She was okay. Karen was okay. He hadn't lost her too. Karen was okay. Karen was okay.

He couldn't help but catalogue her injuries anyway. She had three bruised ribs and a broken one, second-degree burns on her left side and a rattle in her breath that must have been from breaking in smoke and debris after the explosion, and a fresher, still bleeding cut on her thigh that had just barely missed the artery, bandaged with the sweatshirt that had led them to him, but she was alive.

She was so, gloriously alive.

“You're okay,” he whispered into her hair, more to himself than anything, and she laughed tearfully into his chest, fingernails scraping the back of his neck as she squeezed.

“Yeah,” she agreed, relaxing her hold on him but not stepping away. “I'm okay.”

“You gonna kiss, or what?” Jessica cut in sarcastically, and Matt rolled his eyes, fixing her with his best way to ruin the moment look. He let his arms fall back to his side, taking the tiniest step back, putting a few inches between himself and Karen.

“What are you doing here, anyway?” he asked, raising an eyebrow at Jessica. “I thought you were staying out of all the-” he made air quotes for good measure- “hero shit.”

“I tried. Hero shit found me when one of my asshole clients brought Fisk's little goon squad to my door.” she scoffed. “Besides, between jail and that building falling on you, I figure I owe you one.”

The relief bubbling up in Matt's chest dropped into his stomach as a ball of guilt. “Shit,” he breathed, shaking his head. “You shouldn't have got dragged into this. Fisk's vendetta is against me, it's my fault he-”

“Nah, none of that shit.” Jessica cut him off sharply, stepping closer. “Trust me, I've dealt with enough powerful assholes in my life, I know how they work. Fisk was always gonna find an excuse, whether it was you or me or the spider guy.” she paused, and her wry smile was audible in her next words. “I know you're a Catholic, so this is gonna be hard to hear, but sometimes things aren't your fault.”

Her words hit home and Matt cursed under his breath, turning away to hide how he was rapidly blinking back tears. They'd both seen him in far worse states than crying, of course, but this was the last thing they needed right now.

“So, where do we go from here?” he asked, setting his jaw, before remembering the more pressing question. “Wait, who was wearing my suit?”

Both women laughed. Karen muttered priorities into the back her hand, and he didn't need to see her to know Jessica was rolling her eyes fondly. “Luke,” she said, and Matt didn't miss the way her heart skipped a beat at his name.

“Lu- our Luke? Bulletproof Luke?” he asked, and she hummed a confirmation.

“Yep. We're getting the band back together.” she said, sprawling in the nearest pew and kicking her feet up onto the back of the row in front of her, which was probably some sort of blasphemy but Matt couldn't find it within himself to care in the moment. “Luke might have split a seam or two getting into that suit, but I have to say... skintight armor isn't a bad look on him.”

“Wait, how do you guys know each other?” Karen cut in from where she had also taken a seat, and Matt paused, leaning back against the nearest pew, considering whether it was worth trying to summarize that particular adventure when they had other things to deal with. Jessica, apparently, had no such hesitations.

“He got me out of jail and then we fought an army of immortal ninjas and his dead ex-girlfriend together with Luke and a magic guy with a glowy hand. Long story.”

Yeah, that just about summed it up.

“Damn,” Karen muttered, “And I thought the way we met was weird.”

Matt wasn't sure if we meant himself and Karen, or Karen and Jessica, but the long pause indicated it could have been either. He'd have to inquire more later, but an engine outside revved and all three of them flinched.

“Right, we gotta hit the road.” Jessica said, pushing herself to her feet. “We're regrouping at Claire's apartment once Luke and Castle wrap up at the hospital, and it's on the other side of the Kitchen.” she paused, patting her pockets. “Either of you got cash?”

“My wallet blew up.” Matt deadpanned in the same instant that Karen said “I think my wallet fell off the hospital roof.”

He grinned at her, heard her soft laugh in return, and-

Matt's life was a mess. It had been blown apart twice in the last year alone, and he was standing in a church for the first time since losing Foggy, bantering with two of his oldest remaining friends, and he felt more like himself than he had in... maybe ever. Like this, he thought, maybe he could relearn how to live as himself, devil and all.