~PROMPT~

Until you stumbled into my life, all I could see was death and hell. Then you came in like a whirlwind, twisting and twirling and dashing colour back into my world.

Matt Murdock quietly shut his office door behind him with a hushed click of the lock slinking into place. Shuffling over to his desk, laying his walking aid against the wall to his right, he edged around his desk as he undid his coat buttons and unwrapping the thick scarf from around his neck. Sliding into his seat, he had to fight back from sinking into his chair, sighing heavily and rolling his neck to ease the tension that seemed to be permanently seizing his shoulder muscles these days. It had been a long road to where he was now, and he wasn't just thinking about this office to the small and unknown law firm him and his long term friend Foggy Nelson ran, or even his small and often more empty than not apartment in Hells kitchen, or even spending yet another winter in the same city he had been born in, doing the same thing he had been doing since the purchase of this office.

This winter was bad, one of the worst Hells kitchen had been through in many a year. Howling winds, torrents of snow, icy roads and lip chapping and sharp intakes of breathes. Unfortunately, it reminded Matt of one winter in particular, the very same winter he had lost his father so long ago. That was the winter he had learned of loss, of grief and madness that could only come from the devastation of a loved one's passing, your only loved one. That was the winter that had shaped him into the man he was now, for better or for worse, some days being harder to distinguish which one he was anymore.

Would, if he was still around, his father proud of him? Or would he be shaking his head in disappointment? Did it matter? No. He was on this path now and had been since that fateful day. Maybe it was fate, maybe he was always meant for this path of life he had stumbled on. He was the way he was and there was nothing he could do about it, no matter how many times he prayed in the dark hours of the night to a god who did not answer him. In all honesty, if only to admit it to himself, he wasn't sure he would choose any other way of life if he was given the option. What he did, what he wanted to do, it was ingrained in him, in his soul, in his DNA.

Still, looking back, thinking of the boy he used to be, so full of hope and curiosity and zest for life, it was odd and disorientating to try and link that child to the man he had become. His hope was like a candle trapped under a glass bowl, slowly flickering in and out of focus, one minute flaring to life, the next gone to nothing but a cindering wick. His curiosity had been replaced with disheartening knowledge.

Knowledge of the men and women who actually did exist in the world, killers, slavers, beaters, liars, cheaters. The list was endless and still, despite all this, every time he ran into another one in his... Extracurricular duties, it still hurt to see it, to know these people lived and breathed in the same city he did, that children and innocent people did. They had no worries, no problems, no conscious with what they were doing to others and the world around them.

His zest for life had been exchanged for the addictive adrenaline pump that thrummed through his veins and muscles when he fought, when he chased down another criminal, when his fists went flying and the passing thought that this could be it for him fluttered across his mind. How had that happy boy, so full and thirsting for life turn into this shaded and depressed man who sat at his desk now? Life. Life had done this and like everything else, in reality, it was a double sided blade that swooped fast and cut deep.

Hells kitchen, New York, America, damn, the entire world had stopped running on hope, revolution and innovation years ago. Now it ran on poisonous hatred, avarice, and injustice. Injustice... The one thing that kept him climbing out of bed in the morning and slipping into the night when the sun sank, the thing that kept him going against all odds. If he didn't do anything, if he didn't stand up and take action, who would? As long as he could, as long as hatred and injustice and every putrid fraction of humanity climbed into Hells kitchen streets like a sewage break, he would carry on, he would fight. He had to.

For the few ones who were good, for his friends, for himself, because he wasn't sure what he would do without the fight any longer, who he would be and that frightened him the most. Be careful of the Murdock boys, they got the devil in 'em. And maybe he did and maybe he didn't, but if he did, if that dark part of him that enjoyed the things he did for another reason but the satisfaction of helping, then surely it was there for a reason, for this reason. To aim it at something that could do good, would do good. He had to believe that. The alternative did not bode well for him, because devils only belong in one place... Hell, and funny enough, that was where he lived. Life and all its fucking irony.

In a way, he lived for it, the fight, the heart pounding momentum of pure action and bloody knuckles, the blows, the bruises, the split lips and busted noses. It made him feel... Alive. Yes, that was the right word. Alive, when he fought, when he saved people, not only did he get that weight lifted from his shoulders from actually helping someone, he felt alive in the glowing moments that followed. His breathing seemed harsher, fresher. His heart, he could feel it as much as he could hear it ring in his ear drums, singing a tune of life only he could hear. His body ached in that oh-so-good way, the way that only two things could accomplish. He idly wondered if that was what his father felt when he stepped out of the ring, or if he was so dysfunctional that this feeling only crashed upon him like a tidal wave, and him alone in the world.

But in that glow, in that tiny piece of heavenly light that shined down upon him in those nanoseconds, it always disintegrated around him like glitter when he realized how very, very alone he was. Maybe there was no fresh breath, no frantically pumping heart, no glorious ache, no heaven light that brushed across his skin like silk. Maybe he was just mad, down right insane and scrambling for any answer that validated what he did in the twilight as the stars and moon as his only witnesses.

He was as bound as much as the many people he had left outside the police station, bleeding and unconscious, to get arrested and placed in jail where they belonged. Even now, in this office, in his suit and surrounded by a familiarity of routine and work, real lawful work, he could feel the chains encased around his neck, tightening and threatening to strangle him, the iron ball at his feet, making his footsteps drag.

Justice was his addiction, the law and his mask his enslavers. It was a thin line to tread, a fifty-foot drop to cement if he faltered in a singular step of the dance he was swaying to. One law, one break in the chain, one slip and he would be no better than the people he hunted. In fact, he might have been worse, there was nothing quite like hypocrisy after all. How could he fight for justice, for the right way, for people who had no voice when he was going out there doing as much damage as the criminals did, if he lied, fought, taunted or killed like they did? He couldn't. So he would dance, he would walk that tightrope and he would pray, by god would he pray, that he never fell.

He could almost laugh at himself. Almost. He was such a strange man, divided, a coin with two sides. One side was Matt, the geeky law student that worked with his best friend, paid his bills on time, lived alone, drank at the local dive that was dubiously still in business, the blind man people bumped into, half yelling before apologizing profusely when they finally clocked onto his dark glasses and walking stick. Safe, predictable, warm and friendly Matt. Scoffing to himself, Matt reached up and snatched his glasses off, flinging them onto the table to rub tiredly at his eyes, not caring where they landed. There first appointment of the day wasn't for another hour.

On the other side was Murdock, the fighter, the bloody bared teeth of a half-mad dog that couldn't stop snarling, couldn't stop running, couldn't stop hunting. Murdock had no one, he had no friends, no one knew what he did in the dead of the night, they never could know, and so he was left to walk this dark path alone. Murdock didn't drink, he sent his fists sailing and his legs swooping into a kick. People didn't apologize to Murdock, they shot their guns, they strangled, they bit and they tried to put him down and out for good. Murdock was dangerous, isolated and so full of anger. And yet, the real punch line to the joke of his entire life, Matt and Murdock was one and the same, he felt all they did, he did all they did, he enjoyed all they did, because they were him, they were just the two very different, very abstract lives he was balancing and living on a needle's edge.

The truth, that bitter pill to swallow, that itch in the back of your throat, that thing you refused to see no matter how much it was shoved into your face, the truth that Matt knew better than many others was the world was burning long, long, long before he lost his sight and could only see the world in those horrendous flickers and licks of hellish flames in red and orange he did see. The world was on fire, it was burning to a crisp and turning to ashes on their tongues and no one, but him, seemed to be trying to stop it, to right it, to fix the problems they had caused.

And as this happened, as the world crumbled, where the hell was god? Why wasn't he doing anything? Why did he not answer? Matt had always had problems with his faith, in keeping and following it throughout his whole life, but now... Now he wasn't so sure god even existed. How could he when the world was so fucked? He had seen too many things, done too many things, felt too many things and made people feel too many things to put his faith, his soul blindly into some unseen force. Yet, he still went to church, he still confessed, he still prayed. As he had said, he was a strange man indeed, a tangle of thorns that didn't want to be untangled, or shouldn't be tried at least without the right safety equipment present. Faith, his faith, gnawed at him as much as what he did in the night chewed on his core.

In a world that consistently said yes, to greed, to wrath, to pride, to murder, to everything and anything that would garner more power your way, in a world that the powerful sucked out life and fed upon the poor and weak like the leeches they were, Matt felt like he was the only one willing to stand up and shout out no. And with that shout, with that war cry of strong morals, Matt was sure one day, maybe tomorrow, maybe in years to come, he would have to pay the price for that with his life. Weirdly, he was okay with that, if it meant that he was one of the few who had done something with his life, had done good things for people who deserved it. He would rather die young, alone and bloodily than old, wealthy and thin-lipped if it gave him that at least.

If he could do that, then maybe when he got to the golden gates he could look upon them and not feel like a complete bastard and useless stain on the world. If only heaven would be so kind, if it was anything like the waking world, he wouldn't put it past god to make him blind even in death. Would he see heaven through blazing flames? He hoped not, if he ever got there that was.

He wasn't an aberration, but there was no running from the fact that he was abnormal. He enjoyed plenty of mundane things that he was sure many other citizens of Hells kitchen enjoyed. He liked lazy days in bed, he liked the feel of freshly washed linen against his skin, he liked the smell of honey and lilacs, he liked hanging out with his friends, laughing and joking as they swigged back beer the barmaid had eerily not shown the bottle of, he liked red wine more than white, his favourite childhood book was treasure island and sometimes, very rarely and as much as he would deny it to anyone who asked, he would listen to a Dr. Phil episode or two.

He just simultaneously enjoyed things that were not quite so normal. Like trying to trap and stop the slaving market down at the shipping bay. Matt groaned at this thought and did sink further into his chair this time. He had been trying to put a stop to that for nearly six months now. But no matter how many goons he had taken out, more would crop up, doubling like microbes. Goons, that was who they were, the lap dogs that did the bigger man's dirty work. If he was ever going to put a final end to it, he would need to know who these men answered to, who pulled their strings.

Yet, he could get none of them to talk so far, or if they did, they only led him on a goose chase or worse, a trap. No, whoever was doing this liked to be kept in the shadows, the faceless man that no one spoke of. Still, he went down there every night, he fought and he interrogated. It was all very reminiscent of Hansel and Gretel with their bread crumbs, but with guns, shipping crates and splatters of blood. Only there was no gingerbread house to find, no wicked witch, just smoke and mirrors and dead fucking ends. It was enough to give him a headache just thinking about it.

But that could all come later when he could afford to think about it when he was in the security of his own home and not at work. There was a time for action and then there was a time for drink, and god did he want a drink right now. He had barely gotten three hours of sleep last night, and even less the night before that. He was running on zero and that wasn't going to change anytime soon. Sleep refused to stay in his iron grip for long, leaving him to wake up more often than not in sweats and jittering jerks, as if ready for a blow heading his way.

He never remembered his dreams, always just a blank abyss that seemed to swallow him when his eyes did shut, giving him the peace and rest he could not find when he was awake. However, he almost envied other people, those fantastic dreams of imagination and want. He wondered if he did dream, or if he already did and could remember it, when he blinked awake, what would be housed in his subconscious? Better yet, it might be best he didn't know that, half afraid of what the answers would be to that loaded question. Sometimes it was better not to know.

If he could dream, would he dream in colour, the same multi-shades he had taken away from him after his loss of sight? That would be... Nice. More than nice. He missed a lot of things, but colours, those vibrant flashes of life, was what he missed. And among that tirade of colours, he missed green the most. The dark moss of the woods, the hazy green of the grass to the park his father used to take him to, the yellow-tinted green of the sunlight filtering through the top foliage of trees. Green in all its magnificence. If colours meant and reflected feelings and powers, if red was hell and anger and pain, then green, to Matt, was life in hailstorm and movement and peace. He really did miss that colour, and over time his memory had dulled and failed him and he could no longer bring that image up quite like he had used to. But he would never see it again, he would never be able to view it one last time, he would never get a refresher of it. Life was a heartless bitch in some aspects. No. In most aspects.

It was easier to find contentedness and happiness in ignorance and misery than it was in anything else. For once, for one little thing, Matt wanted to take the easier route and be okay with it. So, he would do just that. Paint on a smile, carry on walking tall, work and relax and hope beyond hope no one looked too closely at him and saw the cracks in his meticulously constructed façade he painted on every day. God knows what blackness they would see laying underneath the slithers if they did. For Matthew Murdock, it was easier pretending to be happy then it was to actually be such.

And really how was that a problem? They all put on their masks to the world, didn't they? From mothers to paramedics, they always construed a falsehood to the world, a mirage of the perfect life because god forbid anyone is truly honest and show the shadier sides of their lives to anyone but themselves. Every single one of them was simply golden plated, hiding the poor and soggy clay underneath, showing what they were really made of. It's just how things worked when you reached adulthood, inhibitions set in like fungus and your own ego took a hold like stone walls. Really, one of the worst things to themselves, what everyone believed, was someone else viewing you as weak.

Maybe it was a remnant from evolution, a little tick in their DNA from the days they were nothing but animals in the woods. Only the strongest survived, and the strongest in this day and age would and is the person with the picture perfect life. They were the thing of envy, of cross-eyed bewilderment that others wanted to covet, only there was no such thing as the perfect life. Matt knew that better than most.

Look at his life, for example, the one no one saw. He had too many war wounds, both physically littering his scarred body and the worse kind, the ones you couldn't see, the ones marring his psyche and emotional stability. And what did he have to count for it, to prove it had all been worth it in the end? Nothing. He had no won wars to hold under his belt, no settled scores from grudges long past due. Nothing at all to show for what he had done, what he would continue to do, because if he did stop now, then that really did mean it was all for nothing.

But he could see the end he was working towards, Hells kitchen in glorious equality. Where mothers wouldn't be afraid to take their children out, even during the day, where shops didn't get broken into on a daily basis, running people out of their livelihoods, where there was no influx and crowded hospitals of injured residents, where the old didn't lock themselves away in fear of being mugged. That was the true seed that kept him going, the goal he needed to get to. Matt had ambition, stubbornness and a hardy resolve few could match, but most of all, despite the lack of real sight most had, he had something better, more important, rarer. Matt Murdock had vision. The vision of what Hells kitchen could be given the right guidance. And that was worth more than any scar, both mentally and physically, he could ever attain.

And if he couldn't sleep, when he tossed and turned in bed in restlessness, and if he had trouble waking in the morning from lack of drive, then that was the smallest price he was willing to pay the pied piper. His sleep was nothing but a blip on the radar in the grand scheme of things, something easily sacrificed and brushed off. Criminals and injustice didn't sleep, and so it would be, by the tango he was dancing with the former two, neither would he. Rest could come later, if later ever came and he didn't die in this fight he was currently partaking in.

Perhaps it was best he couldn't sleep well, that he held himself back from the throws of reflection and relaxation. Relaxed people, content people became complacent, they grew unaware and un-phased of the blaring signs that herald an oncoming problem. What was it that nun had told him back in the orphanage? Tough winds made tough men with tuneful souls. Matt could have laughed heartily, by now, after everything and still feeling like he was just beginning, that he was on the precipice of his journey through life, he was sure his soul could sing with the best of the churches choirs.

Still, if he could give up his 'tuneful' soul, give up this quest he was on, this life he led, he was sure there was only one thing he would swap it all for. One more day with his family, with his breathing and pink-faced father, sitting around that old rickety table in their cramped kitchen, munching on yesterday's leftovers and having the small T.V rattling on about the latest boxing match for background noise as his father helped him with his homework. It was sad really, how ready he would be to make that deal if it was ever handed to him, how he would give up all could be's, what if's and maybes for one singular, spectacular and lovely mundane and monotonous yesterday, if only to see his father's face one last time instead of the bruised and bloody mess of his dead body that his mind threw to the forefront when his father did cross his mind.

Jack Murdock, son, father, boxer, friend, fraud and everything in between. Even dead, he had a lot to answer for. He was Matt's biggest betrayer, leaving him, dying on him, forcing him to be alone as he grew up in an orphanage with no family, no friends, no connection. Despite everything, Matt did hate his father a little bit for dying the way he had, he couldn't help not to, but he kept that part locked down and away tightly, never to see the light of day or to grace his mind. As much as he was his greatest hurt, his father, he was also his greatest light. Jack Murdock had shown him what it meant to be a good person, to never stray from your morals, to never give up or give in even if the crowds were cheering against you and the ref was counting down to a K.O. Maybe being a complicated man, having a duality to them was a Murdock thing as much as the darkness that was housed inside them.

Pushing up from his chair, tired and weary of the track his own swirling thoughts was dragging him down, Matt straightened out his tie and fixed his suit jackets buttons, running the pads of his fingertips across the fabric to make sure it was not wrinkled or crumpled in any way. Nothing gave tiredness away than haggard clothing, and he could really do without the questions Foggy would through his way. His troubled thoughts matched with his dismal self-esteem, what a catch of a crippled man he made. As if he didn't already have enough stacked against him in the romantic department already, though, it wasn't like he was actually willing or fully looking for one. No, he was best on his own. He had long accepted that fact.

Pocketing his glasses in the inside pocket of his blazer, seeing no point in wearing them when only Foggy would be haunting the office for another fifteen minutes before their first client came in, Matt made his way to the wall, plucking up his stick and made his way to the door, sighing heavily and rolling his shoulders, steeling himself before he reached out and snapped the door open, pushing everything away and getting ready for a day of work.

Today would be busy, not with the numbers of people who visited them, who he could count on one hand, but the kind that came with the stories they sprouted. The stories of unemployment, bad luck, even worse treatment, and severe weather. Foggy had been dubious of taking these people on, but helping was helping no matter how small and Matt had won the argument in the end like he so often did. So help they did, and as the days passed, word began to spread and their little start-up law firm began to take shape, as slow as business was, it was still a start.

Coming into the waiting area, or the space him and Foggy had designated as the waiting area but was really the room that split their offices, a quick but steady procession of raps against their door startled him slightly. Which was odd in itself, if the person had come up the hallway, he should have heard them before they even came close to the door. It wasn't often someone got the jump on him, so rare it was hard to remember the last time it had happened, but Matt shook it off as being lost in his own world. Their heartbeat was steady and strong, even but faster than most, likely someone small. A woman he would hazard a guess.

"Hey man, what are you doing lurking in here? We have a busy day ahead, this was your idea after all. Are you going to answer the door or not... Wait, never mind. I've got this Matt, you may as well head back to your office... And lock yourself in."

Ah. The first client. That explained it. The woman, a Harriet Potter, or Harry as Foggy Called her, had come in on one of the rare days Matt had been off. From what Foggy had told him, she didn't need much help, just with settling her estates back in England and moving her accounts over to America for her big and permanent move over to Hells kitchen. Foggy had told him he could handle all the transactions and had been for the month she had been their client. By the minute pick up in Foggy's own heartbeat, the smell of salt from slight perspiration tickling Matt's nose, he knew why now. Harriet was pretty, or a total hotty as Foggy would say. This time, Matt did laugh. Some things never changed, for which he was thankful.

Foggy tried to usher him along, but Matt refused, fighting back with taps of his stick on Foggy's legs. Finally, the shorter man gave up, muttered something about Matt's 'goddess radar' and dragged himself to the door with exaggerated movements that spoke more of playful banter than actual exasperation, to which Matt chuckled. The fact of the matter was Matt was bored, and left alone in his office with nothing but his mind to keep him company seemed to be the worst option he could take, knowing his thoughts would turn dark. So stay he would, and who knows? Maybe he could get a good laugh or two from embarrassing Foggy in front of this woman he obviously found attractive. A win-win situation.

Matt heard the brass crank on brass as Foggy turned the door nob, the squeak of wood sliding on linoleum as the door swung open, the woman's heartbeat growing a fraction louder now she was closer, and the smell of... Lilacs and honey to flutter against Matt's senses as the small breeze slipped into the room from the open door. The smell was delicate, strong but soft at the same time, not a perfume or body wash or deodorant, no, even in them Matt could still smell the chemicals even if they claimed to be a hundred percent naturally resourced. This smell was natural, a pure aroma that came off the woman's skin and blood, who he subsequently couldn't see, or more accurately, get a better grasp of with his other four senses, for Foggy was in the way.

"Hey Harry, you're early aren't you? I thought you were only going to quickly pop in to see if everything was in order. There isn't something I missed is there? I tell you if it's that... G.G bank again who write letters, I mean who writes letters by hand anymore? Anyway, if it's them I'm really going to put them in their place this time."

The two must have gotten along, for the shuffle of cotton and the breezy air bending around them could let Matt tell, and see the way he saw, Foggy bend down and hug the smaller woman, a hug she returned as she chuckled before she pulled back, Still not letting Matt get a hold on the basic print of what she looked like.

"No, no nothing like that Foggy. I just came over to say thank you, I'm not even here to check things over, I'm sure you've done a fantastic job. Oh, that reminds me... Erm, do you mind If I come in for a minute or two?"

"Oh, sure! Come on in."

And then Foggy stepped aside and with a sweeping gesture of his arm, beckoned her in, and as Matt turned his head in the direction of the woman, to Harry, for the first time, letting his senses splinter out, his breath caught in his throat as his eyes landed on her. Time seemed to freeze, his blood stilled, his mind came to a stumbling halt and all he could do was look.

Her clothes were still that horrid flame and flutter he always saw, or pictured, everything around her the same, Foggy the same, nothing had changed. But she was different. God... She was different. He could see her in the darkness, in the mists of fire. He. Could. See. Her. She was young, barely twenty-two by the look of it, but it didn't matter, he could see. He could see the pale snow ivory of her skin. Her face and neck, stopping when her shirt covered the rest, her bare hands with long and delicate piano fingers, the same colouring as her face and neck. He could see the flush on her cheeks, petal soft and hazy at the apples and sharp swerve of her cheek bones. The rosy pink of her bitten lips, full and upturned in a dimpled and impish grin as she smiled widely at Foggy, teeth straight and white. Round silver glasses perched on her slightly upturned and button nose. He could see the shine and deep blue haze of her ebony hair, a mass of curls that danced down and fluttered in a wild mane to her waist.

He could see her eyes. Green, so very, very green. Green in every shade he had missed and never seen before, so bright and alive with vivacious fire they glimmered. He could see her, true and real and god, he hadn't taken a breath in what felt like a lifetime. She was the embodiment of everything he had missed, everything he didn't know he had missed, of untold beauty in wild abandonment. How... How? How could he see her?

He was trapped in his sense of sight, something that hadn't happened since before he had lost it. So focused on that sense that his others, while still being as strong as they always had been since the accident, got pushed to the back, to nothing but background noise as he stood there and stared, not moving, not breathing, not thinking, just looking. Like a moth to a flame, trapped in its fixation, he was just as helpless as that poor moth before it got burnt. He couldn't turn away. He didn't want to turn away. He was seeing, he was seeing her and he didn't want to move his gaze in fear that he would look back and this had all been his imagination. Was he still in bed back at home? Was this what a dream was? It felt real, it had to be real, he didn't have the imagination to think of this.

"Oh, hello. I didn't know Foggy had company. I'm Harry, Harry Potter."

Matt didn't answer, just stared, even with knowing the woman was speaking to him. Instead, he smiled broadly, half bewildered and half-crazed broken laughter coming and bubbling up his throat. He could hear the scuffle as Foggy turned to him, both waiting, and all he could do was laugh, nearly on the verge of crying in truth, the stinging in his eyes giving that away, despite knowing no tears would fall.

"You'll have to excuse him, Harry. He doesn't mean to stare, he's blind. Matt, Jesus, say something, don't just laugh. Honestly, this is why I deal with the clients and lock him in his office. Matt? You in there buddy?"

Matt jolted out of his stupor, wringing his hands around his walking stick as he clasped it tightly to his front, hoping the rod could ground him to the earth, because he could swear here was no ground beneath his feet. He began stuttering as he stumbled forward, grimacing when his leg knocked into a chair he would have normally sensed, making him force himself to turn away from the first person he had seen in over two decades, grappling with his stick to try and balance himself as he shuffled around the chair and made his way to Foggy's side.

"Matt. Matt Murdock. Sorry... I just... Late night last night and early morning, they're not the best for my manners or, as it seems, my verbal communication skills."

Matt swallowed deeply as he came to a stop beside Foggy, forcing his stare to just filter to her face and not meet her eyes, not to take in the green he so wanted to. He down right refused to put his glasses on, his red tinged glasses which would obscure the colours and face that he could see. This woman, this Harriet Potter... This miracle that would barely reach his shoulder if he stood by her, had done the impossible. Like a whirlwind she had danced in with no warning and graced him with sight, with colours, with a piece of himself he never thought he would get back. And while it was only her he could see, he couldn't and wouldn't bring himself to complain at the view.

"No need to apologize, if I wake in the morning without a good ol' cup of tea to greet me, well, there's hell to pay for the rest of the day. Oh right, the reason I came! Well, here."

Harry delved into her jacket's inner pocket, he could see her hand disappear into the flames and hear leather crinkle as she wiggled the appendage around, bringing out two slips of paper by the slight rustle that followed, handing only one over to Foggy. However, he couldn't stop himself from looking at the scar on her forehead, the lone freckle on her left cheek, or trying to count her eyelashes. She looked so dignified, small but proud.

But she felt so raw, so irrevocably changing and powerful like a hurricane twirling around the room, the flames around her, the red seemingly dancing around her like a torrent of wind and she was the source, something he could see now that he was closer. See. God, that was a funny thing to think after so long. How long had he hoped for this moment, prayed when he was a kid? And even though it was all focused in on this little woman who smiled so brightly, he thought she might blind him... Again, he felt giddy. Breathing had not been this hard since that thug had broken four of his ribs and he had to bind them himself in the security and secrecy of his own home.

"This... Harry, this is not the price I stated! This is way, way, way too much!"

Harry, this marvellous and magnificent wonder of a phenomenon gave a floral-esque chuckle at Foggy's indignation. If you could count a chuckle as anything floral like, it would have been this woman's laughter.

"Don't be stupid Foggy. That isn't the check for my own bill. That's... Well, an old lady down at the apartment complex I live by, she was going to be evicted and the roof had been causing her trouble by leaking all over her flat, sorry, forgot you're American, apartment. Anyway, long story short, she told me what you guys did for her, and without payment and well... See that check as an investment. A business like this, one that helps the little folk and doesn't ask for anything in return, I see that as something I want to invest in. Here's the check for my bill. Don't worry, it's not like it was hard earned money, just cash passed down from an old family member and if you don't want it, I could always take it back."

Harry handed over the other check to Foggy but held her hand out for the other check he was still staring at. Foggy didn't waste time as he shoved both checks into his pocket and laughed heartily, shaking his head, Matt could tell by the way the air whipped around him.

"Well if it comes from some dead old person, who am I to say no? I knew there was a reason I liked you. Well, welcome to being Nelsons and Murdock's first investor. Feel free to visit any time, I'm sure we'll have the water cooler running by, oh, summer next year."

Harry gave one of those laughs again, and Matt tried to memorize it, tried to imprint it in his brain along with her face, grin and colours she brought with her.

"Summer next year? Well, chop chop Mister. Nelson, that's a tight schedule you're running. Well, sorry to just drop by and leave, but I have a busy day ahead, so thank you for all your help and keep doing what you're doing."

Matt was still too busy staring, even as she smiled at both him and Foggy and turned to leave, only coming to the moment when he realized she was already halfway out the door with no signal of stopping. Before he could stop himself, or reign his tongue in, he was shouting at her back.

"Will I see you again?"

Will I see you again? What a funny set of words for a blind man to use. But with her, or more accurately, when looking at Harry, he wasn't blind, he could see her, and he didn't want that to go away, not so soon after having it given to him. Matt had half the mind of following her, never mind not knowing who she was apart from her name and not knowing where she was going, if only to find out how she had done this, what made her so different, what made her so... Special that he could see her. That a man who had been blind for twenty years could see her truly.

Had he finally lost his marbles? But by god almighty, when she turned and looked over her shoulder, hand resting on the door handle, grinning at him with that wonder-struck smile, he didn't even care to find out how or why this was happening or happened. He just wanted it to continue.

"Hells Kitchen doesn't seem the biggest of places, I'm sure I'll run into either of you sooner or later. Thanks for everything Mister. Nelson, Mister. Murdock. I hope you have a good day."

And then she was gone, closing the door behind her with an ominous click, bang and a little wave, taking the colour with her, taking the life with her. Matt could only fall back into the hellish abyss he had lived in since a child, no colour or flavour apart from those blood flames that burned around him. Once again, Matthew Murdock was left to stare into the hellish flames... Alone.

He sort of felt like he had when he had been a little boy, losing his sight for the first time. That panic of unknown bearing down upon you, that great loss, that heartbreak of not knowing if you would ever see it, or anything again. It was hard to explain what he felt in that moment, looking blankly where Harry had been, Foggy at his side. But then again, the most sincere of feelings and emotions couldn't be dulled down to the simplicity of words. It made those feelings lose impact.

This time, however, Matt was well aware of movement to his left and didn't falter a single twitch when Foggy patted him on the shoulder, snorting slightly through his nose which indicated a smile and held back laughter. Matt was proven right when he began to speak.

"I don't know what's up with you, but you've lost your touch. Mark the day down my friend, you found the hot girl like you always do, but the hot girl didn't pounce on you."

Foggy playfully jostled his shoulder as he finally let the laugh free and Matt joined in, reaching up to pat the hand on his shoulder before walking away towards the door Harry had just left through. Reaching into his pocket, Matt slid his glasses on and as he did so, built himself back up, steeled his spine and pushed down this weird and wondrous encounter until later, when he could really ponder over it.

"Come on, we don't have another meeting until two hours from now. Why don't we head out and grab some breakfast?"

"Now this is why I agreed to be your partner in this endeavour Matt, where else would I get food breaks between every meeting? What do you feel like, Street vendor? Dennie's Diner? They do these amazing waffles with blueberries and this syrup they swear is strawberry, but I know it's not-"

And as the two left out the door, locking up behind them, chatting amicably between the two, Matt's mind was still trapped on what had just taken place in their ransack of an office. He had seen for the first time in years. And when he got home that night, broken and hurt and aching in that pleasant way after a good fight, when he had cleaned up the mess and the blood and stitched himself back together, when he collapsed back onto his large bed and oddly fell asleep without much of a fight, he dreamt.

He dreamt in vivid greens, fresh snow whites, dusky pinks and ebony blues and blacks.

A.N: Well, I'm back after a long and unexpected break. To be honest, I've just started university and it took me a while to adjust to balancing everything up. So, hopefully, and fingers crossed, no more unexpected breaks. Sorry for those I've made wait, but hopefully, this made up for that.

IMPORTANT! PLEASE READ!: This fic, if I do carry it on, is going to be a selection of prompts but linked together into a storyline format. So, if you feel like it, or want to, give us a prompt (It could be dialogue, an object, even a lyric from a song) for the following chapters in a review or P.M and I'll try my best to work it in. To be frank, I'm not sure how I really feel about this chapter, one minute I like it, the next I'm not too happy with it. However, because I've not updated for a while I thought I would give this a shot, as I had promised a Matt/Fem!Harry fic and didn't want to spend another month just procrastinating over it.

Frank Castle/Fem!Harry: This fic is in the works, but will be a lot like this one, a selection of prompts that congregate and fit together into one story. And like this one, if you want to read this fic that is, if you fancy dropping me a prompt to get my fingers typing, it would be much appreciated!

Purple Haze: Ah, for my followers who read my other fics, or are patiently waiting for Purple Haze to be updated, the wait is over... Sort of. I've fixed up my updating schedule, and after the first chapter of my Frank Castle/Fem!Harry, Purple Haze will definitely be the next thing to be updated. I'm just trying to iron out a few parts and fix a few bits of the next chapter.

Counting Cards: This is a tricky situation. I started writing this fic, a Wesley/Fem!Harry, when I got a review asking if I had ever read an Oreo crust crumbling. Because I really, really like this pairing, I checked out the fic. However, I really noticed the similarities to what I had been planning and what this brilliant fic had already done. So, I came to a bit of a stalemate, not wanting to tread on anyone else's fanfic, as I like to be original as best as I can when writing fanfiction, and simply losing inspiration to carry on my own.

But all is not lost, I will be coming up with another fic, with the same pairing, and likely in the same format as this fic and the Frank Castle one, but I need to work it out, as I've already got the first chapter prompts for both the other fics, and have none for Counting Cards. So, please drop a prompt or a request, the sooner more come in, the sooner I can get to carry on this fic, as I really don't want to ditch it fully.

Inane rambling over.

Once again, I hope you all enjoyed this, and if you could, drop a review! They feed my muse.

Until next time!- AlwaysEatTheRude21