( au post ) i become location and you veer towards me.

[calltoaction]

( through darkness,
through silence,
a vector,
a violence.

i labor,
i lumber,
i fumble forward
through the valley
as winter. )

Comments

the hand sings weapon.

[calltoaction]

[ Bad op. Bad intel. The building they'd been told to target was just a ploy. It wasn't the first time that he and Frank had been tossed into the shit together. Maybe this was the worst time though. Sure, Frank had a reputation and Matt had seen what the man was willing to do to those that deserved the shit, but he hadn't expected this---whatever the hell it was. They'd been long separated from their element, shitty radios and eardrums blown half to hell like the rest of the both of them.

They'd managed to hunker down in this old, partially burned out building, and there'd been nothing but barrels upon barrels of hazardous looking shit. His voice was a low whisper, and he kept close to the ground, away from the windows. ]

Fuck. Christ, Castle, what the hell is this? [ Not their target is the obvious and simple answer. Matt could taste dust and gunpowder in his mouth. The shots had seemed to taper off once they found cover, but he didn't trust it. Something wasn't right, not at all. ]

Have I told you lately that I fucking hate you?

[crimewar]

[Marines make do. Everyone knows it, Frank's known it since he'd been sent to Iraq back in 2003 and spent the better part of his bank account fixing his shitty humvee. From then on, he's gotten nothing but the shit end of the stick, as his clearance level's gotten higher and higher.

Murdock joined in on it a little while ago and it took surprisingly quick for Frank to get accustomed to his new comrade. But he wishes he was a little more desensitized to Marines getting the shit end of the stick because really, really, he talks too much and complains too much. But everyone's talkative in comparison to Lieutenant Castle's affirmative grunts here and there, aren't they?

They're in some blown to hell city in Afghanistan called Kandahar and it's like Baghdad all over again, and there'd been nothing but hellfire around them. Outnumbered, drastically so, suspiciously so. They'd been the only two on this mission, and no matter how much of a one man arsenal he may be, no matter how agilely efficient Matt Murdock may be, they're no match for this. His lungs breathe wet by the time they reach cover, burn, and he coughs up something as he stays away from the window.]

I don't know, Red, but I don't like this. I've been in ambushes before, but this ain't an ambush. It's something else.

[He exhales, a click of his M40 as he reloads it for the last time before he's out for good. They're supposed to be here for someone linked to ISIS leadership, a rogue link, yet it seems like they're facing all of them at once instead.] Quit your bitching and stay away from that shit, Murdock.

[calltoaction]

[ If Red hadn't ended up as his nickname first, he'd probably have been called Doc instead for all the talking that he does. He's good in a pinch, patching people up when the Corpsman aren't around. Not that anyone believes that he learned it from patching up his old man when he used to come home beat to hell from the boxing ring.

There's dozens of stories circulating about him, and he's not keen on repeating the truth over and over just to get it shot down. If they want to believe it's some crazy shit that had him learning how to stitch up stuff, so be it. As for the talking, though, he talks, good at getting other people to talk, and bitches probably more than his fair share. Still, it's lightened the mood more than once when the situation has gone to hell.

Matt is breathing heavy, exertion and all his gear weighing him down and making it hard to get a deep one in. He checks his mag on his M16, a grim look passing over his face, and knows after that he's only got his glock and a couple of spares for it, too. This was supposed to be a quick snatch and grab, go in, grab the asshole, and out clean. Shit. ]

No fucking shit, Castle. [ If he could just get enough of a lull to look up, he could at least give Frank an idea of where the hell he's supposed to be aiming. Just a glance. ]

[crimewar]

[Frank, on the other hand, isn't one for much besides affirmative grunts, one word responses. Anything beyond the succinct is reserved for briefings and his family, his wife and his babies who're currently at home, safe and cool and far from all this. He's doing it for them, for them, not for him now because he shouldn't be. He shouldn't enjoy it as much as he does, killing, but his true nature is a duality that he struggles with. He feels alive in a way he never does when he kills one of the terrorists, the American men who try to take advantage of their positions too. He doesn't discriminate.

Stories have circulated about him, horror stories, rumors no one can prove. His nickname of The Punisher is accurate, and he thinks he's killed one American allied man too many, maybe. Maybe that's why they're in this shithole because he's sabotaged too many missions, killed someone important. He doesn't know if Matt knows, but doesn't appreciate Matt being endangered because of it.]

You're hyperventilating, Murdock. [Castle's calm as ever, muzzle of his gun pointed into a crevasse of the cement that holds the warehouse together, eye pressed into the scope.]Breathe three times, slow, mouth and nose. You're no use to me when you're freaking out like this.

[calltoaction]

Right, yeah. [ He focuses on Frank's voice. He's right. Yeah, they've been in bad spots before, and maybe not this bad. His battle buddy needs him with his head screwed on right, not wigging like some dumbass kid that put his hand up without realizing just what in the hell he was getting into. Not like all those washouts that snapped when shit finally hit them in boot. He had his moments, sure, most kids do.

Walk in thinking you're a badass and learn real quick that you know all of jack. Out here none of it matters. They might be fucked now cause Frank took out one too many "friendly" but Matt knew what he was getting into with the other guy early on. Breathe in. He thinks about something far away from here and now. His dad. Breathe out. Thinks about the trunk he keeps his old boxing outfit in that he'd picked out for him when he was nine. Breathe in. Come on, Matty. Out. In. Out again. Get to work. ] I'm good. I'm good.

I need a look. Cover me.

[crimewar]

Good. I got you.

[He's not good at talking but he's good at this, a quick hand on Matt's shoulder and a squeeze too because he's doing good, he's good. They're not that far apart in age and he thinks of Matt as his equal in every way but this is part of Lieutenant Castle's nature too.

It's right after his hand falls and Frank's in position that it starts. Hellfire, raining down on them, and there's too many for Frank to get at once. There's sizzling sounds of the chemicals opening in their big compressed cans, and the smell of them even burns. Frank's shooting, shooting at those aiming toward them fast and quick, hoping to all the voices in his head and the god his papa and mamma believed in that he's getting them all. The bullets stop slowly as he gets them, gets to them all, and he's screaming now over the sound of them, voice like shattered glass.]

Red! Murdock! Are you alright? Talk to me!

[calltoaction]

[ Another curt nod before he's peering up and over the crumbling mortar of the window in the half blown to hell warehouse they are in. He manages to call a couple of shots, too few in the scheme of things, before he can't just call them. He's good at it, no doubt, but he's also good at killing. He doesn't always need a weapon to do it.

Sometimes his fists do just fine. More than once he's had to use them after running out, knife wrenched away from him too, and all he had left were his fists and determination.

Here, he's picking his shots as carefully as he can. They don't have the ammo to spare for missed ones. He can smell the chemicals opening up in the small space they are in, and coughs, trying not to breathe in too deep. One shot. One kill. He drags the bandanna he keeps tied around his neck up around his mouth to try and stave off the acrid scent, but he still feels sick at the cloying aftertaste left in his mouth from the air. Another shot and he's empty with his rifle.

Dammit. God damn it. ]

Rifles out. Fran---[ He's reaching for .45's holster when he catches the glint of something else. Through the chemicals making the air around them sting his eyes and throat, he manages to---shit. He shifts before he finishes explaining a damn thing to Frank, moves before really processing anything else. He hears the sound of the rpg going off when he's already tackling his friend to the ground.

The assholes firing it might have had shitty aim enough to where it didn't hit them dead on, or send the roof collapsing onto the both of them. But it was enough that they probably think some other asshole is smiling down on them for it. It hits just outside the window they are near, hearing going to nothing, shrill ringing, and muffled shouts that sound vaguely familiar. It takes him too long to realize that he's not holding onto Frank anymore.

No, he's on his back. Yeah, that's what. His equilibrium is off, and it's twisting him up. He's having trouble breathing again, but this time it's from the wind getting knocked out of him. He starts trying to pat himself down, realizing his helmet must have gotten dislodged somehow. He coughs, and drags a ragged breath in. ]

I---Castle? What---what happened?

war makes you a man / war makes you dead

[crimewar]

[He still smells the faint urine and cigarette smoke and metal from the carousel when he wakes up, and he takes a long moment after Matt's reassurance to force himself back here. This isn't Maria Castle waking him up after seeing the gaping holes in all the faces of all the bullets he's shot. It's Matt, with his stupid silk sheets and the neon sign outside of the window beside the bed.

And his head fucking hurts, brings him back even more. Frank grunts, forces his breathing to go even as he lies back, body in too much pain and head throbbing too much to even disentangle himself from the sheets. The sweat lacing his body shines in the neon glow but Matt can't see it, won't see it, and that jars him a little still, even now.

Frank looks at him, angry with himself because he doesn't remember and wishes he could go back to sleep to chase the memory the bullet in his head took with it.]

Good thing, then. This is why I told you I need the couch.

[calltoaction]

[ Matt waits, not relaxing more until he hears Frank's breathing slow and even out. He's tense from pain, he thinks, but he can't be sure. He may not be able to see the sweat covering Frank's body in a light sheen, but he can feel it. The clamminess against the silk sheets.

He doesn't realize that somewhere in all of what is happening, that he's gone into Frank's thought processes as anything more than a nuisance. ]

You got a real funny way of showing gratitude. [ Nothing new with that, really. It's always been his way. ] Too bad. You'll have to make due with fancy sheets.

[ He reaches out to skate a hand up the other man's bicep and squeeze at his shoulder. ] I'll get you some water.

[crimewar]

[He tenses at the contact but shivers at it, a tremble up his body. Immediately, his thoughts go to Maria, her painted nails trailing up his biceps, raking at his shoulders--and he stops that quickly, licks his lips and looks resolutely away.]

Stubborn ass.

[Frank doesn't know how to feel about this. He appreciates it, knows he needs it so he can do what he needs to and he trusts Matt Murdock more than anyone in the world now, but he doesn't want to be attached to anyone, not after Maria and the babies. He doesn't want it. He gets sick at the idea of it and he feels too nauseous to do anything other than offer an affirmative nod and a tight smile at the mention of water.] Thanks, Matty.

[calltoaction]

[ There's a lot that Matt's learned since he lost the ability to see like a regular person. He's learned that there are other ways to see. That there's more information to be had in the sensory world than he could have possibly dreamed before. He knows something isn't quite right, but he isn't sure what. ]

Which means nothings changed, really.

[ Except virtually everything has for the both of them. Matt's buried his pain in ways that keep him moving. His guilt and anger twist together into a monster he's slowly learning to carry inside of him. It's a kind of monster he lets out at night against those that took all the rest of what he had.

He gets up, heading into the kitchen to get the glass of water, and makes his way back. He settles on the edge of the bed, but doesn't do more than offer the glass out. ] 'Course.

[crimewar]

[He reaches out slowly, a little strain because his head really fucking hurts and throbs at every move he makes, grabs the glass. His fingers slide haphazardly against Matt's, probably a little too long, and he sits back and nods despite himself, drinks it down in almost one big gulp. A lot of it gets on his chin, really, but he lets out a savage sigh of pleasure when he's done. There's a clink when it's set on the beside table. He'll get the motor skills back, all of it back, soon, soon.]

Thanks, Matty. You've been good to me.

[Frank's getting used to everything new about him, too--his healing from being shot, his anger, his guilt. The fact that he can't close his eyes without seeing them but their memory fading as quick as sand in his fingers. He's groaning, breathing hard as he tries to lie back down, get comfortable despite being so stiff and pained, and convinces himself he's going to live through this. He's gotta, to do what he must.]

Woke you up, didn't I?

[calltoaction]

Somebody's gotta watch your back. [ He feels like he's constantly hovering somewhere between helping and not helping too much with Frank. He needs to heal, Matt knows he needs to, for more reasons other than the fact that he's got to live. He's got reasons, but none of them are that polite shit they like to talk about with cute little positivity seminars.

He's got to live cause he's got his own hell to rain down on the criminals that did this to him and his. He's got his own peace to find.

Matt shrugs a little at the question. ] It isn't like it's a hard thing to do these days. Better you than the asshole upstairs.

[crimewar]

Well, are you gonna come back to bed, asshole, or what?

[He sounds like his old lady, really he does, but he already abhors even the idea of driving Matt out of his own silk sheet clad bed. He’s good with even the floor, though Matt won’t let him do such a thing. He’s always been good, always. He’s always had his back like that.

Frank stares at him expectantly, knows Matt can’t see him but knows he can feel him, somehow, by now, as his breath finally evens out.] You still haven’t told me everything, Matty.

this darkness is the light.

[crimewar]

[ He hates this. He hates feeling so dependent on another person, but he's so tired all the time, feels so raw too. When Matt leaves to do whatever he does, Frank's asleep until he's not, clawing at his skin until he's bleeding from the wrists and can't see Lisa, Maria, Frankie anymore.

He doesn't realize he's crying, gasping for breath and there's some snot too, until the door opens and Matt's coming around the couch. Matt. It's Matt. He's trying to even out his breathing, wheezing for breath like a man possessed with his hands reaching out like he's the blind one. Matt's solid, breathing, his heart thumping steady under his palm. ] Maria.

[ No. He tries not to let anymore tears flow at that but it's not like he can control them lately. ] No. Mo. Matt. We're in your apartment, right? Fuck. Fuck.

[calltoaction]

[ Matt would stay all day and night if it would do more to help. He stays in a lot as it is, but he can't always. Like tonight. Tonight he'd had to go out to try and gather some information on some players that might have to do with what happened to both himself and Castle.

It doesn't mean he doesn't lose his focus, though. It doesn't mean he can block each noise from his apartment. He tries. He manages to interrogate a handful of worthless people, doing little more than bruising his knuckles, and catching a hit or two himself. It's enough to start to bruise his mouth, but not break skin.

He can only stay away so long when he realizes how bad of a night it is for Frank, and he's taking back to the rooftops to get back as quickly as he can. He's inside, heading down the stairs at the top of the apartment, and to the couch, still in his black suit. He pushes the mask up from where it's covering his eyes, and kneels down, letting Frank take hold of him, and reaching out to brace hands on his forearms in turn. ]

That's right. [ He ignores him saying the wrong name, and how it makes his heart clench in his chest. He'd give anything to give what he lost back to him, but that isn't something that's in his power. There are days, he doubts, it's even in God's. Father Lantom would be disappointed to hear, but he can't remember the last time he went to confession. ] It's me. We're in my apartment. Just breathe.

[ He shifts, letting go with one hand to find the tissues on the coffee table, and brings it over to the couch. ]

[crimewar]

[He’s still breathing heavy and wet when Matt hands him the box of tissues, grabbing a few to make a haphazard attempt at wiping off his face. Pathetic. He’s not sure if it’s the tremor in his hands or his shitty motor skills of late that make it a strain, but he eventually manages, tosses it with his free hand into the trash nearby as he tries to calm himself with steady breaths and the sound of Matt’s breath, too.

His hands grip Matt’s arms, probably a little too tight, and he takes him in. The bruised mouth, dark clothes. It’s an attempt to divert, but his fingers travel up to the bruised skin around his mouth, not touching his lip but coming close.] Are—you okay, Red?

[calltoaction]

[ Matt can hear how his breathing pushes out and catches, wet and caught somewhere deep in his chest. He doesn't try to help, at least not until he's asked, and when Frank doesn't, he fails to push.

He let's the other man grip at his arms, and nods, turning his face a little at the touch to his cheek. His mouth stings, but it isn't bleeding. ]

I'm okay. I was just out. I heard---I heard you. I'm here now.

[crimewar]

You didn't need to do that, Matty. [He sounds exasperated but it's at himself more than Matt, not at Matt. His hand moves Matt's face, side to side, as if examining him. The urge to press his forehead against Matt's eats at him but he doesn't, simply sits still.]

Yeah--yeah. You're here now.

[calltoaction]

No, but I wanted to. [ He says it, earnestness in his tone. He lets Frank move his face, check him over, and he's glad that it isn't a worse night. When the other man doesn't move, Matt does, and carefully finds his forehead with his own as he leans down. ]

What do you need? [ It sounds stupid out loud, of course Matt knows what he needs. To wake up and not be in Matt's living room. To be in his own bed with Maria smiling at him or the kids piling in to say good morning. Matt can't give him that. If he could, he would. The question is related to himself, because he is all that he has to offer. ] Tell me what I can do.

[crimewar]

[This is stupid, stupid and Frank lets out an acidic laugh, mirthless. The sound resembles sandpaper against gravel, maybe, throat sore. His eyes sting against his will but he resolutely doesn’t cry. Marines make do, Marines make do, but how can anyone make do with something like this, even a fucking Marine?

He breathes out, forcefully even, as Matt’s forehead finds his. For the first time in awhile, Frank feels lucid, lucid and aware enough to wrap his arms around Matt in a hug and not think he’s Maria or Lisa or Frankie. So he does, the embrace probably a little awkward and tense, partly because his motor skills are a funny thing still and because he really doesn’t know how to deal with this shit.

Tone quit when he speaks again, gruff as ever.] Nothing you ain’t already doing, Red.

& we only sing along to yesterday's living

[calltoaction]

[ Matt couldn't believe this. Foggy, his oldest and best friend since college, had strong-armed and guilted him into this whole thing, and now was trying to talk him out of where they were going. Well, he wasn't having it.

It didn't stop his best friend from using his leverage as his guide to try and steer them a different direction. ] Foggy, you're the one that told me I needed a dog. You insisted, actually.

[ There was a spectacular groan, but he righted their path. ] Yes, I did. But I thought you'd go to a normal place with normal people not---not this. Have you heard the stories about this guy? It's intense.

Yeah, he's a regular boogey-man. All the little Marines are scared of him. We tell new recruits about him at night. They set out a watch to make sure he's not creeping up on them.

Hilarious, Murdock, but I'm trying to be serious here.

I know you are, and so am I. I've done my research, and this guy? He's the best in town. [ Another sigh, but he relents. Finally they reach their destination, and Matt finds the door after his friend indicates distance and direction for him. There's a bell as the door opens, but surprisingly few barks.

Either the guy is fooling everybody with the dog training, or the training is that damn good. He's about to find out, he supposes. His cane sweeps out, stopping as it hits a counter, and Matt comes to a halt with it. ]

hold my hand. oh baby, it's a long way down to the bottom of the river.

[calltoaction]

[ The battle on the rooftop had taken everything Matt had in him, and it still wasn't enough. Fisk was too strong, and his spellwork was too intricate. Nevermind the protections he had in place from other high level warlocks and witches.

It had been stupid of him to go after him so soon.

Only he hadn't been the only one after him. The Witch Hunter had shown up, and sent Fisk running with his tail between his legs for the moment. Matt had laid on that rooftop, whispering incantations and protections, attempting to find the strength to move but managing nothing. Another person had swam into his senses as cold rain began to pepper the rooftop. He could sense protections, intricate and tough to break. Maybe impossible.

The voice attached to the person was garbled to his senses, and the next thing he knew---Matt woke up with a gasp, and immediately groaned in pain. He didn't recognize this place. ]

What's---? Where am I?

[crimewar]

[ Objectively, helping the Daredevil is a stupid fucking idea, was a stupid fucking idea because by the time Frank thought of it, he already had him on his cot, bleeding staved and mask removed only to get at the deep cut right under his eye. This isn't how he wanted his night to go--he wanted Fisk, dead at his feet, suffering if he could manage it. Watching him run away, scared, tail between his legs -- satisfying enough for tonight, even if it ended with a cursed cut in his arm, a few broken ribs.

Nothing Frank isn't used to. He's trying to tend to the cut in his arm, even as it keeps on bleeding, when Max tries to find his way on the guy's lap. He's always good at detecting when people are troubled or hurt, snoot stuck into his hand to get some affection. Frank whistles, insistent. ]

Max, no. Let the guy sleep.

[ The guy's awake, now, and Max whimpers from his spot on the ground beside the cot, guilty as charge. Frank sets down his supplies. ] You're in my lair, Red. You got a lot of balls, goin' against the Kingpin like that, no matter how magical you are. What business do you have with him?

[calltoaction]

[ Matt tries again to sit up, body protesting it as he does, and eventually manages to get upright, back to the wall he's next to. It helps him feel vibrations better when he can't wholly rely on his magic to guide him. To the rest of the human world, he's just a blind man.

He can smell blood, not just his own, and resists the urge to reach out at the cold snout that had just been against his palm. The other man doesn't seem to realize Matt's particular situation just yet, but he reaches up a hand to touch his face, a deep frown settling over his features. ] Does it matter?

Why did you help me?