Summary: Matt tries to rebuild with those he pushed the furthest away.

A/N: I wanted to explore writing from Matt's point of view; it was quite the challenge.

A big thank you to Amanda for her wonderful beta skills. You rock.

Electricity hummed throughout buildings, TVs blared, hundreds of phones rang and vibrated with text messages, and beneath the collective ebb and flow of thousands of lives was the insistent chatter of people.

"Damn it! Where did you put the scissors? We have to wrap your parents' gifts and we're already late for-"

"How about Lloyd's for dinner? I don't really feel like cooking tonight."

A car horn blared across the street. "Que deminos!"

Three blocks away two German Sheppards barked while the owner tugged hard on their leashes.

If left unchecked, the world became one beating mass of chaos and noise.

"Watch where you're going lady! Why didn't you pay the cable bill? Oh, come on Mary, that's not fair. Hey, man did you hear that new NewTone jam? I'm going to the market; do you need me to grab anything? Damn it Carl, can't you hear the baby crying? Why is it every time I turn around you're- Jesus, you startled me. Where were you? I've been waiting here for an hour. You didn't leave a note or—I wasn't planning on going anywhere—I left the house in a hurry. I… um… my mother…I don't understand .God, I'm sorry. That's why—"

Stimuli constantly pinged off everything in 360 degrees of sound, odor, and the physical feeling of objects and living things: signals that Matt's brain had learned to interpret into its own language, one he'd learned how to filter.

Forthreehoursyou'vebeenbuyinflowers?AndthenIdrovearound.I' ' . ' ' ?I'vehadaterrible—"

No shouts for help, or incoming threats. With no danger in a half-mile radius, the muscles in his jaw relaxed minutely. Common, everyday words and normal tones of voice were simply white noise to ignore.

Wskhdaldjiuealxnaojdhtbagstdfhyehdjaocdbwafcyrjfjsgdteialncdmdwodmadshenekljsjdim.

Matt took a breath and slowly exhaled, the world fading back to the flicking sound of the large neon sign outside his window. Leaning his cane against the wall, he removed his glasses and laid them on top of his coffee table and eased himself down to his sofa.

Standing outside his shower stall, he turned the old metallic facet, the pipes banging from the rush of water and air through the opening valve. Matt waited until the water temperature increased from eighty to a hundred and two degrees before stepping under the spray, his toes flinching as they touched the chilled ceramic floor. Bracing both hands against the front wall, he bowed his head and allowed thousands of drops to trickle down his body.

Every day Matt regulated volumes of frequency waves: sounds forming three-dimensional shapes and lines inside his brain. Controlling his hearing acuity had taken years of practice, filtering out his own breathing and heartbeat, reducing all other sounds to a normal level. But sometimes it was easier going inside a 32 by 32 enclosed space to dull everything around him enough for him to think.

His body ached; the joints in his hips protested one too many flips and hard landings. Supporting your weight on two feet all day was hard enough, let alone going a few rounds every night on the streets. Heat slowed down the pain signals from nerves and stimulated circulation and blood flow. Matt sighed at how good it felt.

Fumbling for the bar of unscented soap, he scrubbed at skin irritated by airborne metal particles and the heavy stench of carbon monoxide and cigarette smoke.

The muscles along the flat blade of his scapula and down the length of his back began to loosen as his body surrendered to warmth and moisture.

In the morning he'd take a cold shower to increase his heart rate and overall oxygen intake and reduce any lingering soreness. But for now, Matt allowed himself this one small pleasure, his eyes falling closed; the running water a wall of white noise against a barrage of daily stimuli.

With a towel wrapped around his waist, Matt walked into his bedroom and opened the closet door. He ran his fingers over the Braille tags of his clothes: white dress shirt- looks great with your glasses, grey dress shirt -client meeting type of stuff, blue dress shirt -power courtroom presence. He still smirked at all of Foggy's notes, buying the Braille label maker had been one of his best purchases in college.

He settled for a nicer sweater, an expensive name brand, a wool black one -definably styling, dude. Matt's smile faded along with the sound of Foggy's voice inside his head.

One step at a time.

He pulled the sweater over his head, the heavy knitting soft against his ribs and down his sides as he tugged it didn't take long to grab some jeans from the bottom drawer and slip them on as he prepared to go out for the night—his brain telling him that he was in the wrong clothes, that he needed to go up the stairs leading to the rooftop.

Fingers twitching, he consciously resisted the urge to put on his suit and forced himself to leave his apartment not as Daredevil, but as Matt Murdock. Slipping on his glasses, he headed outside to try to reclaim the shreds of his life that had been sacrificed in his pursuits of justice.

He huddled inside his Navy pea coat; a line of dense air pushed through from the east and displaced the warmer waves from the sidewalks, the falling barometric pressure causing a headache at his temples. It would snow tonight.

Matt tapped his cane down the familiar street until he arrived at a café. He entered inside and was hit by vapors and gases – hundreds of organic compounds – released from the grinding of coffee beans. Over the aroma of sixty varieties of gourmet espresso and lattes, and the chatter of sixteen people, he detected Karen's heartbeat in the corner.

"Matt," she called out. "I'm at the last table on the right. Tenth from the door."

Matt maneuvered the narrow space between tables and took a seat on the vintage loveseat: velvet, at least twenty years old.

Karen's hair was recently washed with tea tree oil shampoo and blown-dry. Her coat was a blend of wool and cashmere and still had that fresh store-bought scent. He was glad The Bulletin was able to pay her better. It was times like this when he wondered if her sweater was earth toned or bright colored, if it complimented what he imagined her eyes looked like.

"Hi," he said, folding up his cane and putting it on top of the table.

"Thanks for meeting me," she said.

It was the third time in the last few weeks, each one a little less awkward as they navigated back onto a path of friendship.

Matt smiled. "I've enjoyed our recent get togethers."

"I'm glad; I know how difficult your schedule can be in the evenings."

"Is that why you asked me here at this time?" Matt asked, instinctively defensive. "To see what I'd choose?"

Her pulse increased. "To tell you the truth, yeah, I did."

"You're important to me, Karen. And I appreciate the steps we've been taking together to rebuild things…."

"But?"

"This is who I am." It had taken Matt forever to come to terms an internal tug-of-war over his identity. "Every facet and imperfection is a package deal. And you're the only person I've told willingly."

Karen released a huff of air through her nostrils. "You mean before I figured it out on my own."

He grit his teeth, trying to avoid the same argument from the time of his confession. But she wasn't wrong.

"You'd told me once that you'd be there when I was ready to tell you the truth. It may have not been on your timeline, but…it took me a while because I only had come to terms with it myself."

Elektra had taught him a hard lesson. She'd encouraged his inner darkness. Karen had only seen what Matt had wanted to show her: the man seeking fairness and justice in the world. But it had been a lie; he tried to serve God while harboring the Devil. There were two sides of him and he'd never been able to share both with anyone before.

The tension in Karen's shoulders eased and she opened her mouth to speak when the waiter came over to take their order.

"I could read all the options to you," Karen offered. "It's a limited menu."

"I trust your judgment."

Karen ordered them both turkey clubs; Matt grinned when she verified with the server that everything on the sandwich was organic.

"Hey, what's with all the smirking over there? I picked this place for a reason; at least now I realize you weren't just being a picky eater when we went out." She took a sip of her water and leaned back against her seat. "I'm curious why you're not a vegetarian given, you know..."

"I enjoy eating; I just like some things more than others."

Artificial flavorings, synthesized compounds, thousands of chemicals to enhance food created a battleground with his taste buds. He'd considered one of those raw diets once, but kept to either bland food or overly spicy to cover-up everything else.

"I've made a mental note never to offer you anything from the court vending machines again," Karen said with a teasing smile in her voice. But she wanted to talk more, her hands fidgety, her lips pursed in thought.

She sat tapping her fingers lightly against the table.

"What is it?" he asked.

"I…."

"Ask whatever you want to know." He owed her that at least.

"I understand the concept of enhanced hearing and smell." She brushed back strands of her hair and tucked them behind her ear. Karen always vibrated with energy, enthusiasm, an untapped well of curiosity that made her a great investigator. "But what does an enhanced sense of touch mean exactly?"

"The touch and pressure sensors beneath my skin are heightened, making me more sensitive to things like texture and temperature." He splayed his hand on the surface of the table. "Lay your hand next to mine."

Karen rested her palm, the edge of their fingers touching.

"Now close your eyes and tell me what you feel," he instructed.

"Um, a wooden table?"

"You've know it's made of wood because you've already seen it." Matt slid his fingers across the middle. "I feel the low thermal conductivity of a smooth, two inch surface." His fingers brushed over several deformities, feeling the texture of other objects "This has an acrylic resin coating to cover up coins and other trinkets used as décor underneath."

He took her fingers and moved them an inch to the left, across the residue of something evaporating. "This is a drop of diluted degreaser; I can feel the alcohol pushing the molecules of oxygen out of the water. It's environmentally friendly, Simple Green. The staff missed a spot though; they accidently left eleven grains of salt."

Karen traced her fingers across the remains of the cleaner before wiping them off with a napkin. Her hearted pounded in excitement, not fear.

"Do you need Braille to read?"

"Braille's much easier to use, but if I focus…not always." He picked up the paper menu and ran his fingers across the surface. "New printers barely leave enough of a raised typeface; but this used an Epson laser, the ink is four millimeters thick. The sheet is a mix of pine and fir-pressed pulp, the fibers…kind of feels like a honeycomb."

"I guess you hate plastic menus."

"I typically don't read them in public, but the worst ones are those digital displays in chain restaurants. While most people love all the newest high tech gadgets, I'm not the biggest fan of modern technology."

"I bet." She rested her hand on top of his; her respiration increased, sweat formed beneath her palms. "And what about other things…?"

His eyebrows rose in reaction to her embarrassment. "You mean like sex?"

A rush of blood went through the blood vessels of her cheeks. "No, I mean." She pulled her hand away and cleared her throat. "How is it…how's it not overwhelming?"

Matt remembered the time when Stick took him to a busy terminal at an airport and left him there to find his way back home alone. It was like being physically pummeled by stimuli until he'd stopped focusing on the noise and scents that wouldn't help him, voices of travelers and intercom announcements, to the things that would, following the source of fresh air and car horns outside. He'd learned how to develop and hone his radar-sense to higher skill set that day.

"I'm sorry," Karen said. "I didn't mean to…."

"It's okay."

The first time Matt had been intimate, he'd been so focused on what turned on his partner—latching on their pulse, breath, heart rate, muscle tremors, skin temperature—that he'd tuned out his own body's reactions. He bit down on the embarrassing memory.

"It's about focus. Filtering out unnecessary stimuli, kind of like turning a dial higher or lower." Matt could feel her eyes on him, interested and engaged at what he was saying. "I have increased tactile spatial awareness, but the sense of touch is not just external, it's internal too. I can control certain things to a greater degree than most people…nerves and muscles, reflexes…."

Learning how to manipulate his body and use it to his advantage, increasing his agility and strength to peak levels was an ongoing learning process. One he'd been meditating upon and utilizing to more effectiveness when he fought.

"So you don't just have ninja skills you have super ninja skills?"

Matt laughed. "Kind of."

"And when you get hurt?"

"I can dull the pain receptors; focus on other things until later."

"But you can't heal yourself?"

"I don't have powers, Karen."

Matt pushed up on his glasses when he felt her intensity directed at him, her body heat spiking. It didn't take his abilities to figure out that Karen was upset, angry, because she cared.

He'd never promise that he'd always be okay, but he could practice the honesty she wanted from him. "I have these gifts and I…I would never forgive myself if I could have prevented someone from getting hurt by not using them."

"Damn it, I know that. I'm alive because of Daredevil." She lowered her voice and leaned forward over the table, her heart racing. "The city's safer because what you do. The streets are filled with evil people, those who murder with impunity like Fisk. Who operate above the law—but you strike fear in their hearts. You make them think twice about hurting another person."

Moisture formed in her tear ducts, a drop running down her left cheek. "But that doesn't mean you have to go out there night after night—"

"Karen…."

"What's the end goal, Matt? When there are no more criminals or when you're crippled or drop dead from one too many bullet holes?"

"People die if I don't –"

"And what about your life? Doesn't it count? You may have little self worth, but did you ever think about those who care about you?"

The woman sitting across from them looked in their direction, the muscles in her earlobes twitching.

Karen lowered her head, her voice a strained whisper. "You're not alone; stop pushing your friends away."

Matt opened his mouth, but even after anticipating this conversation, he didn't know what to say. He braced for an angry outburst in response to his silence, instead Karen sighed and rested a hand on top of his, squeezing it.

"I hope you brought a heavy coat, because I think it's going to snow later," she said, looking out the window.

He rubbed at the building tension in his temple and nodded. "Yeah, probably right."

It was snowing, thousands of particles like grainy filters skewing the world. Matt cocked his head to one side to compensate, but it only fell harder, flakes melting on the lens of his glasses. This new front had swept in unexpectedly in the last few hours. His feet sank several inches into the snow, slush melting against his pant legs. He imagined it was like trudging through sand.

He knew the area by heart, how many steps it took to travel one block, even if the sidewalk was covered by swatches of fuzziness, the cement underneath a set of hard lines. There was nothing to tap his cane against, so he held it out in front of him, using buildings like sign posts as he navigated his way home.

"Matt!"

Matt snapped his head in the direction of the voice, recognizing Foggy's heartbeat a second later. Damn, he should have detected him sooner.

Packed ice crystals crunched under Foggy's boots, his body bright and vibrant against a fuzzy background. "What the hell are you doing out here?"

"I got caught up in a case and lost track of time."

Foggy panted from his trek, his stomach rumbling from eating a tuna fish sandwich on rye too fast. "A real case or a nocturnal one?"

"An actual case." His job providing legal aid at the community center always kept him busy. "I got sucked into the basement level of the library searching records for a client."

"Oh, wow. That's dedication. That floor smells like my Aunt Angus's dirty sock drawer."

Matt's smiled despite wanting to forget the hours spent trying to find property records in nothing but disorganized metal filing cabinets. "It definably had a moth-ball problem." And thankfully lazy employees who didn't check to see if he needed assistance.

With the wind gusts he almost missed the change of air when Foggy offered Matt his elbow. "Thanks," Matt said, accepting it in pleasant surprise. "And why are you out in the middle of a blizzard?"

"My taxi got stuck a few blocks away and all the other cars got called back because of the storm. I was headed toward the subway when I spotted your cane."

"You noticed my cane?"

"No, I noticed some guy walking in the opposite direction of a warm, safe, subway station and wondered if he was drunk or lost, then I noticed the red tip of his mobility device."

Matt chuckled. "Well, I'm neither, and my place is only six blocks from here."

"Might as well be six miles."

Foggy started guiding him in the opposite direction, but Matt didn't budge. "The subway's too noisy and it'll be crowded like crazy with everyone headed there at the same time." And after the day he'd had, he really didn't want to navigate through such chaotic conditions.

There was only a moment's hesitation before Foggy turned around and began walking them towards Matt's apartment. "Then I guess we're going on a snow-trekking adventure."

Guilt pressed in on Matt. The stitches holding their friendship together was still very new and frayed around the edges; it'd taken a few hard-fought months before they'd started hanging out again. "Foggy…."

"No, no buts. We're New Yorkers! Assertive, head-strong, and–"

"Opinionated."

"That too," Foggy said, pointing a leather-gloved finger at him. "So, let's mush as we conquer this frigid urban wilderness and maybe on our way home we'll come across a Saint Bernard with one of those liquor barrels."

Matt walked at Foggy's side, hand gripping his elbow as snowflakes pelted his nose and cheeks. "I think those contained brandy wine."

"I'd prefer a shot of whiskey, but beggars can't be choosers."

The wind shifted, blowing the snow sideways, flakes lurching and springing at him. It wasn't like Matt could close his eyes; the snow was constant movement, varying intensity, affecting his concentration.

Flicker

Flicker

Flicker

"I don't know about you, but I'm feeling very Call of the Wild right now."

Matt honed in on the blocky outline of the insurance building on the right, the heavy scent of petroleum from the gas station across the street, the hum of generators and heating vents.

Flicker

Flicker

Flicker

"Hey buddy? What's going on?"

Foggy pulled his elbow away from Matt's hand and turned around to squeeze Matt's arm through his coat, his worry a kick drum emanating from his chest. "Matt?"

"It's like a visual white noise," Matt said, unable to turn-off the world around him. "Reminds me when I used to watch my dad's busted TV in the living room. It didn't have cable and the signal faded in and out, in and out. Kind of like now…."

Foggy moved closer, his head sweating under his fleece and wool hat, his cheeks and nose flushed red from the cutting wind and dropping temperature.

"Come on." Matt reach back over and tugged at Foggy's elbow, leading him around the next corner, the snow thick and heavy over his shoes. "We'll cut across this parking lot, it leads behind my building."

"We need a dogsled team to trek across that, buddy."

Matt had missed this, camaraderie and easy banter, going off on random adventures—the ones that didn't involve fists and lethal weapons. At least during a snow storm people weren't shouting in terror for help.

"Seriously, dude, we need a set of skis," Foggy said as he brushed away the snow accumulating over his shoulders. "And honestly, the least you could do is appear cold."

Matt scrunched up his face in confusion at him until he realized all of Foggy's blood vessels had constricted and his muscles shook uncontrollably so his body generated heat. As soon as Matt had stepped outside into the storm, his nervous system responded, using up more carbohydrates and generating lactic acid. His heart pumped faster, increasing blood circulation to keep him going.

He was cold, but Matt could remain outside for a while and be fine. "It's only a hundred and ten steps to my place."

"Yeah, and?"

"And I have beer."

"Any food?"

"Does frozen pizza count?"

"Are you kidding? The beer better be good. I'm talking craft or the very least imported."

"It's whatever was on the middle shelf in the left cooler of the grocery store." Foggy groaned and Matt shook his head. "Hey, don't trust a blind man to buy good alcohol."

"Can't you smell the quality or something?"

Matt coughed.

"Arrrgh, you're such a cheapskate." Foggy sighed for dramatic effect. "All right we shall cross the rolling tundra where few men venture and even fewer survive to tell the tale."

The wind shifted and the snow blew diagonal like a meteor shower of starbursts, the back of his building a looming mosaic of red and orange.

Matt soaked in the warmth ebbing and flowing from Foggy, listened his breathing, the minor chatter of his teeth. Only one hundred and ten steps, then he could change the channel.

Flicker

Flicker

Flicker

A slight buzz was a nice thing. Matt's blood vessels expanded, allowing more blood to flow up from the center of his body to the surface of his skin, making him feel warm. The best thing was the alcohol in his brain, slowing down the transmission of impulses between nerve cells, creating a kind of fuzzy distance between him and the rest of the world. Being human radar was exhausting.

He was on his second bottle; Foggy was on his…what, third? He couldn't remember. Matt relaxed against his sofa, all loose-limbed, listening to Foggy talk about the client from hell.

"And then she filed ten separate motions. Ten of them!" Foggy punctuated each word with a wave of his hands. "Can you believe that?"

Foggy's body temperature inched up a degree from the alcohol; he perspired under his clothing, a less-watery sweat than from working out, his skin bacteria going crazy for the fats and proteins released in the mix.

Matt's fingers barely curled around his beer bottle as it threatened to slip from his grip. This was nice, he could chill out a little, take a breather. He rolled his neck, cracking the third and fourth vertebrae.

"I miss you by the way."

Matt lifted up his head in surprise at Foggy's quiet admission. "I miss you too, buddy."

"We spent years studying in the same classrooms, eating grilled cheese sandwiches in the dorm, even interning together in an office the size of a broom closet." Foggy's sugar and cortisol levels rose above the lingering scent of alcohol in the air. "I feel like I'm going through separation anxiety."

It took Matt by complete surprise to hear the sadness in Foggy's voice, how he still struggled with their fractured friendship even as they worked to repair it.

Matt's entire life had been one fight or another-to rise above poverty, to gain an education, to harness his senses and obey God while fighting evil. To be on the offensive because the moment he appeared weak was the moment he'd get knocked back down again. But he couldn't handle Foggy's sorrow, a grief that Matt could feel and smell and hear in every octave of Foggy's words.

And what killed him the most was that Foggy's care was genuine, a love and affection without hidden agendas. And Matt would do anything to make things right, except for the one thing Foggy really wanted.

"I'm sorry, Foggy."

"I don't want your apologies; I want my friend back."

But there was no going back to those days; they weren't the same two people who'd graduated magna cumlaude and summa cumlaude side by side on stage. They weren't even the same people who rented office space on one day and took on their first client six hours later.

"Foggy…."

"I know, Matt. I'm not going to argue the finer points of one's life's pursuits vs. morality and religion, or even some of the volumes of Psychology Today I've taken up reading in a quest to crawl inside your damn head. I just…," Foggy finished his third beer, his head downcast. "I just want to…."

"Want to what?" Matt prompted when Foggy lapsed into silence.

Foggy raised his head, releasing a grunt of laughter under his breath. "Do you remember when we'd play Trivial Pursuit?"

It took Matt a moment to follow the change in subject. "You mean the drinking version?"

Foggy popped open his fourth bottle, releasing another wave of malt and hops into the air. "If you still have the board game, then I'd say we have all our bases covered."

"If I recall correctly you used to cheat when you started losing."

"Not true, you were just very unlucky."

Matt snorted at the ease in which Foggy deflected. "I think it was statistically impossible for me to land on Geology that often."

"Prove it, Counselor. How did I deceive you when we used an audio version of the game? Not to mention the dice had raised dots."

"The dots were actually recessed and that's not the point. I landed on blue too often to be mathematically correct."

"All circumstantial evidence, but we don't have to worry about that now."

Matt pulled the game from his shelf and almost reminded Foggy that he couldn't see the colors, but decided against ruining the current mood. He had the pattern of the board game memorized – even during college. He'd still needed his laptop for the questions since the trivia cards had a plastic coating over them.

"What were the rules again?" Matt set the game down on top of the coffee table, thankful for the distraction. "Take a drink every time the other person misses a question?"

Foggy started unfolding the board. "And a shot every time we complete a game."

"Then I guess we're getting drunk tonight," Matt said with a grin.

The stench of beer sat heavy in the air. Malts reacted in the oxygen and water content evaporated, leaving only the residue of hops and sugars behind. It smelled like decayed fruit.

As a rule, Matt hated strong ale; it left a burnt-rubber taste in his mouth, the yeast extract overpowering.

Foggy reeked of beer, alcohol coursed through his body, seeping out through his pores; it was a distinct, somewhat sweet odor. It mixed with the smell of the room, making Matt slightly nauseous.

Matt could feel the beer in his bloodstream, carrying alcohol to nearly every organ in his body. It was in his heart, reducing the force inside the muscles, lowering his blood pressure, leaving through the pulmonary vein of his lungs. He exhaled slow and heavy, breathing out a tiny bit of alcohol, his breath stinking of liquor.

It entered his brain now, relaxing his thoughts….

"I was wondering, have you ever considered you might be addicted?"

Matt lifted his head up from where it rested against his sofa and stared at Foggy who sat slumped in the loveseat across from him. "Addicted to what?"

"To being Daredevil."

"That's ridiculous, Foggy."

"Is it? You might be helping people, but how much of it is for them, and how much is to unleash an incredible amount of repressed anger?"

Matt slumped into his cushions. "You've been reading too many magazine articles."

"Matt–"

"I'm not addicted to being Daredevil."

"But you like putting fear into people. You enjoy–"

"We're not talking about this right now," Matt growled, then took a deep breath and lowered his voice. "I just want to finish that bottle of whiskey on the table next to you."

"And I'll help you with that endeavor. But this topic is up for a continuance later."

Matt closed his eyes, focusing on the flood of endorphins in his veins, on Foggy's sigh, on a few more hours of contentment with being trapped inside his apartment with his best friend.

Winter storms could paralyze a city, even one as prepared as New York. Matt's apartment didn't lose power although other areas weren't as lucky. Hundreds of cars had been left abandoned in the streets, businesses remained closed while the plows struggled to catch up.

After spending one night, Foggy had gone home two days ago despite still sporting a wicked hangover.

Matt couldn't work on his case until he met with his client, and while there was a pending lawsuit to prep for, all the case notes were at his office.

He started pacing; it'd been two days since he'd been out on patrol.

Walking past his bookshelf, Matt ran his fingers over the spines of various books, pausing at a familiar edition; his copy of The Morality of Freedom smelled like the backroom of the used bookstore a few blocks from his apartment.

He flipped the worn pages and breathed in the old book smell, the deterioration of compounds within the paper: lignin from a hundred year-old tree, binding adhesive and old ink. It would have been easier to grab something in Braille, but the words weren't important, only the familiarity of losing himself in that hard-fought concentration required of feeling each letter's faint impression.

Because if he focused hard enough, he could tune out the lub lub lub of his heart over the screeching tires outside, the pelting of thousands of snowflakes against his windows, the creaking staircase from Mr. Sanchez taking out the thrash – a heaping bag filled with rotting food from his refrigerator.

He flipped over to the next page, the pads of his fingers brushing over the lines. Human beings are governed by their senses. We like pleasure and dislike and wish to avoid pain. The feelings of pleasure and pain are our "sovereign masters": they govern everything that we do and determine what we ought to do.

He skimmed over the next few paragraphs, the ink too faded to make out the type, his fingers ghosting over the pages until the words were more raised.

The principle of utility is the only starting point for a moral argument: when deciding what to do in a morally relevant situation, we should choose that action that will result in the most good for the most people.

A siren echoed off in the distance. He cocked his head, listening to the fading whine speeding toward 10th Street before turning on Elm.

If he suited up now, he'd reach the source of the disturbance in time to provide back-up.

Hell's Kitchen was ten blocks of varied ethnicity and every walk of life. Matt could never leave it behind, something he'd considered only a few months ago, his priorities pulled in too many directions. The city had given birth to Daredevil and he would always protect it.

It was his duty. His penance.

Matt went out at night, rooftop to rooftop, dropping down three stories to one apartment building, and then scaling up the fire escapes of the next.

He listened for the shouts for help and followed the scent of adrenaline and hormones of panic. Seeking out criminals made his heart pound and fill his veins with a rush of dopamine and serotonin.

He really did live for this.

Last week Foggy had called him three times; Karen, four. They both wanted to meet with him: for dinner, drinks, even a night of cards—their tones giving away some type of deception over the phone. Karen always breathed faster; Foggy's voice rose a few octaves. They weren't hiding devastating news; it was more like they were trying to set him up on a date or spring a surprise party. Neither of which seemed plausible.

So, after they literally ganged up on him with one voicemail after another, Matt agreed to meet at Josie's. When they insisted on a late time of night—he had a suspicion about the topic of discussion.

There were thirty people squeezed inside the bar. Matt adjusted the strap to the duffel bag over his shoulder, swinging his cane in short arcs across the floor. Most of the patrons were regulars and gave him enough of a berth to navigate around them.

Bruce Springsteen blared from the jukebox, one of the patrons singing along off-key while Foggy danced in the corner. Even with the swell of noise, he could hear Karen's laughter at Foggy's exploits.

"Sounds like someone's showing off their impressive skills," Matt said, smiling over the hustle and bustle inside the bar.

"You have no idea how awesome I am," Foggy yelled over the music. He placed a hand on Matt's shoulder, the friendly gesture indicative of the beer he'd consumed. "I keep telling you man, we'd rule down at Club 1150."

"Is that the place where the music blares at over a hundred and fifty beats per minute?" Matt asked. He'd rather deal with the cacophony of noise of the subway than the pounding techno of a dance floor stuffed with sweat drenched people.

"I have no idea," Foggy said, "but it sounds like a challenge."

Karen snorted. "More like an invitation to end up in traction."

Foggy threw up his arms, almost knocking over his glass of beer sitting at the edge of the table. "I am surrounded by people with no sense of style."

Matt shook his head in humor and Karen took a sip of her drink. But it only took a few minutes before the up-beat mood faded and Karen and Foggy exchanged looks with each other that Matt couldn't see. But he could guess their meaning.

"Are we going to discuss why you guys wanted to meet or do we need another round first?" Matt didn't feel like beating around the bush.

"What's the rush?" Foggy asked guarded. "Do you have somewhere to be?"

Matt frowned at him.

Karen cleared her throat. "I thought we talked about this. Nice and easy, remember?"

It took Matt a second to realize Karen was speaking to Foggy.

"If there's one thing I've learned over the years, is that it's best to cut to the chase with Matt."

"Um, Matt is right here," he said annoyed.

But something else caught his attention, a rumble beneath his feet. He cocked his head to the side, but it was impossible to hear anything over the voices and noise of the bar.

"Matt? See this is what I'm talking about, he's already tuning us out."

"Matt," Karen said, touching his arm. "What is it?"

Matt ignored anything at the pitch level of the human voice then disregarded the music that used a higher sound level of hertz. He focused on lower decibels and pressure levels.

There.

Matt heard another rumble followed by a vibration under his feet ten seconds level. If he waited for the next one, he could calculate the distance the disturbance was coming from.

"Seriously man, ignoring us is not cool," Foggy complained. But a spike in his heartbeat indicated he knew something was wrong.

"I think there's been an explosion, maybe more than one," Matt said, turning around to leave.

Standing outside, Matt breathed in the faintest hint of hydrocarbon vapor and sulfide in the air, barely more than a few parts per million.

"What do you see?" Karen asked. "I mean, what do you…?"

"I think there's been two explosions. Based on wind direction, they occurred on the south side, right off the interstate."

Another disturbance rumbled beneath the ground again, but this time it was followed by the sound of rapid gunfire.

Foggy shuddered in the cold, he wasn't wearing a jacket. "Are those firecrackers?"

Matt listened for things at the higher sound pressure levels, hearing a familiar noise at 160 decibels. "No, those were automatic weapons. The police are returning fire, but they're only using their side arms…no wait, now their using MP4's."

"Sounds like a war," Karen said her teeth chattering.

Foggy wrapped his arms around himself, his posture stiff in defiance. "A war we should stay far away from."

Matt shook his head at the lack of counter-fire. "There's something wrong, they're not putting up enough resistance. The cops are outgunned."

"Matt." Foggy grabbed his arm. "Please. Don't."

"I have to."

"But you can't, not like this." Foggy dug his fingers deeper into Matt's bicep. "Not without you know, your suit," he whispered the last two words.

Matt adjusted the strap of his duffle bag over his shoulder.

"You brought it with you?" Foggy released his grip on Matt's arm, stepping back in disbelief. "You carry it around now?"

Matt didn't want this, not now. "Foggy…."

"This is what I'm talking about, Matt! This is why Karen and I wanted to meet with you. You can't even leave your house without the ability to go out and be him."

"So what was this whole thing? An intervention?" Matt growled, angry.

"No, Matt." Karen's voice shook with frustration and fear. "We're just worried. We don't –"

"We don't want to go through the pain of rebuilding things between us if –"

But Foggy's interruption was cut off by thesirens from multiple patrol cars as they echoed through the streets. Matt looked up when he heard a helicopter circling overhead. The gunfire in the distance grew closer, and this time, he counted five different shooters.

"Who's ever out there, they're destroying the city," Matt hissed.

"Hey! Nelson. Murdock!" Matt recognized Detective Brett Mahoney's voice as he ran over. "You guys need to take cover back in that bar and remain inside until I tell you the coast is clear."

"What's going on, Brett?" Foggy asked.

"What the hell did I just tell you to do?" Brett snapped.

"Please Detective, we just what to know what's happening," Matt said, keeping his voice even.

"Some assholes wearing body armor I've never seen before decided to blow up a federal bank and getting into a firefight with the units who responded."

"New body armor?" Matt inquired. "As in military grade?"

"I don't know." Brett breathed heavily, his heart settling down with each intake of air. "But it's got to be some new type of tech. It looks like it's made of ugly green rubber or somethin'. But not a single bullet did any damage." He shook his head in frustration. "They looked like a bunch of damn Iron Man reject wannabes."

Another round of gunfire erupted from only a few blocks away.

"Come on, move it." Brett started ushering them. "Get back inside or I'll arrest all three of you for obstruction and idiocy."

Karen placed a hand on Matt's back and Matt took Foggy's elbow for show. Brett followed behind inside until he reached the front of the bar and started shouting over the music for people to seek cover and shelter in place.

Matt continued walking toward the back exit while everyone was distracted – everyone except his friends.

"Matt," Foggy hissed.

But Matt ignored him, ensuring that no one was in the back alley before he started pulling out the suit from his duffel bag.

"Didn't you hear, Brett?" Foggy growled. "These guys have Iron Man suits."

Matt started taking off his coat and shirt. "Rubber ones."

Foggy stalked away.

Karen was scared, the blood flow to her heart and brain increasing in volume. But when she spoke, her voice was steadfast and collected. "Matt, are you sure this is something you can handle?"

"I'm sure I'm the only one who can keep more people from getting hurt."

Karen inhaled, clenching her jaw. Then she squared her shoulders and helped him put on the upper torso piece of his suit. "Just make sure you don't get hurt, either."

Her words hit him hard; Matt still wasn't used to people caring about his well-being. The compassion made him feel wanted—vulnerable.

Matt paused long enough to look in her direction. "I can't guarantee that Karen, but I do have these…gifts. And I'm pretty good at using them."

After fastening on the upper half of his suit, Matt reached inside his duffle to search for his helmet when he realized Foggy had dug it out and was now holding it.

His Adam's apple bobbing, Foggy took a shuddering breath. "Don't take this as my endorsement of what you do, but for the love of God, please be as good at kicking ass of crazy people as you are at opening arguments."

Matt removed his glasses and handed them to Foggy. "I'll do my best."

Running across various rooftops, Matt followed the crack-bangs of automatic gunfire. The sound of footsteps running in the alley several blocks away made him stop, the crackle of a police radio bouncing off the bricks.

"This is Officer Davis. The hostiles….they're going down Sixth Street. They're firing at officers and civilians…destroying property. We need SWAT immediately! I repeat we need SWAT immediately, or the National Guard, or someone! We have multiple officers and civilians down. Over!"

Matt filled his lungs with more air, oxygenating his blood, and ran faster.

A strong scent of burnt oil and smoke lead him to a van that had crashed into the side of a building. The engine was on fire, the hood and windshield riddled with bullet holes. The men driving it were on foot, but that didn't deter their rampage.

Matt stood perched on a fourth story fire escape of a textile factory above his targets. Five men marched down the street, yelling and firing their weapons in the sky and at random windows. Their body temps were high; Matt could smell their perspiration, their heart rates at dangerous levels. They were jacked-up on something.

Their armor…was strange. The composition bended around their bodies like hundreds of layers of fabric with super-thin metal mesh inside, each layer couldn't be thicker than a sheet of aluminum foil. It was Next-Gen stuff. They even wore helmets with face shields.

But there was someone else near-by, watching from behind a dumpster across the street. What were they doing?

Before Matt could identify the mystery subject, one of the men walked over and open-fired into a Laundromat, blowing out the windows. His buddies shouted and joined in. They were only six blocks from Josie's.

Matt leaped from the fire escape onto the power line that ran between the buildings. Keeping perfect balance was second nature to him, even on the most narrow of surfaces. Matt swung his billy club, the steel cable shooting out, and the attached metal piece striking his first target on the back of his helmet. The guy stumbled around dazed, but doggedly remained on his feet.

Matt continued running along the power line. The other four men turned around and aimed their weapons at him. Matt heard the millisecond they each started squeezing the triggers. Matt leaped onto the roof of the Laundromat and rolled out their lines of sight.

"Where did he go?" one of them shouted.

"Fan out!"

Matt headed toward the roof of the warehouse behind the Laundromat, but he stopped mid-run when he noticed the body heat of some of the homeless who had slipped inside to get away from the cold. He turned around, intent on slipping down the eastern fire escape when he heard the echo of footsteps in the alley on each side of the building.

And then he was taking fire from all sides.

Matt went to his hands and knees. Although the physics prevented him from being hit, hundreds of bullets ricocheted off the sides of the building. Anyone walking within five hundred yards in any direction could be injured.

Studying the power line Matt knew exactly how to flick his wrist to get the steel cable of his baton to wrap itself around it enough to hold his weight. He focused on the shooter standing under the utility line, honing onto his respiration rate, the noise of ammo expelling from the chamber - until the last brass shell bounced off the pavement, and the guy changed clips.

Matt leaped, the cable from his club wrapping around the power line as gravity took over. He controlled his fall and aimed his boots at the chest of the man trying to reload his weapon.

Bam. Matt landed on his target, rolling off him and onto his feet. The strength of the impact alone should have rendered the shooter unconscious, but the spongy armor had lessened the kinetic force.

The man lay sprawled on his back, wheezing. "Animal!"

Reaching down, Matt undid the strap of the man's helmet and ripped it away, punching him until his body went limp.

Matt heard the pounding footsteps of the other three running toward his position. Given their heavy firepower and experimental armor, he needed to get back into a high position for an advantage.

Matt started scaling the metal ladder of the fire escape to the textile factory when he heard a low chuckle. One of the gunmen had stopped moving, his breath sounds decreasing, like he was focusing to keep calm.

The man made an exploding noise under his breath. These guys had blown up a federal bank; they had other types of artillery. He was a sitting duck.

Turning his body, Matt jumped from the tenth rung of the ladder toward the ground as the charge of an RPG went off.

The rocket propelled grenade hit the front of the textile factory, the exploding shockwave throwing Matt onto the ground. He landed on his chest, one of his ribs cracking upon impact. All the air was knocked out of his lungs and a pain shot though his side as he struggled to breathe. Rolling onto his back, Matt heard the crunching of boots of the men surrounding him.

Off in the distance, he heard the thudding heart beat of someone terrified.

"Well, well. Looks like we got us Daredevil, the savior of Hell's Kitchen."

"Animal, man. Blitz wasn't clear of the building when you fired; you killed him in the explosion."

They all used call signs. Were they ex-military?

"Then he should have taken cover," Animal grunted, his voice guttural. He was a heavy-set guy.

"Come on," one of them growled in a Brooklyn accent. He was skittish and paced around. "Put a bullet in him and let's go!"

"I dunno, Mislav. I kind of like his suit. Maybe we should test how well it does at close range."

Matt honed in on the three men. The ultra light armor practically covered them from head to toe, except where the chest piece ended, leaving an exposed area of the throat and the jaw. The guy to his left favored the right side of his mouth; Matt's radar sense could see the difference in the density of a filling in the lower molar.

Animal pointed his M6 at Matt's chest.

Matt grabbed the barrel, stripping it out of the man's grasp and shoving the stock into the middle of his face shield. The polycarbonate material split with a cracking noise. Matt swung the end of the weapon into the mouth of the man with the bad molar, causing him to scream.

The skittish guy standing off to the side was caught off guard by everything. "Sonofabitch!" Mislav cursed, his hands shaking as he aimed his weapon at Matt.

Matt rolled hard to the left, bullets digging into the pavement where he was seconds earlier. Matt pushed up into a backward handstand, striking out with his right leg, his boot connecting with Mislav's hands, knocking away his rifle.

The moment Matt got to his feet, Mislav threw a punch. Matt ducked out of the way and bobbed under another clumsy swing. Mislav was a tall, lanky thing who telegraphed his moves a mile away.

So did the big guy trying to sneak up behind him—Matt felt the displacement of Animal's body heat against the cold air.

Matt tried to elbow Animal in the sternum, but it bounced off his armor. Animal grabbed Matt from behind and wrapped his meaty arms around Matt's biceps and chest. No wonder he had that nickname, he was massive, weighing almost three hundred pounds.

The man with the bad molar was sweating through his clothes, aggression rolling off him in waves. He popped three pills from a prescription bottle and dry swallowed them. Based on his posture, he was glaring at Matt.

Animal snorted. "Bust him up, Skull."

"Hold him still!"

Animal squeezed harder, heavy muscle immobilizing Matt's arms, the pressure agony against his broken rib. He ignored his nerve endings as they sent out impulses of pain. Matt focused on breathing air in and out of his lungs, the pressure around his chest making it feel like one of Stick's endurance challenges.

Skull punched Matt in the jaw, his leather gloves protecting his hand from injury. Matt bit down on the groan in his throat. He needed a plan, needed to find weak points.

The guy continued striking Matt, alternating his fists, before stopping to shake the sting out of them. "I'm gonna knock out all of your teeth," Skull said between ragged breaths. "One at a time."

Skull's pulse was like a humming bird's from the drugs coursing through his veins, the capillaries in his face flushing, the injured molar now cracked and broken. Matt narrowed in on the man's rage.

"Based…on the way you punch," Matt grunted, his own jaw throbbing. "We'll be here all night."

"Maybe I should take off you mask and see whose face I'm about to destroy," Skull growled, his breath reeking of cheap whisky and dental decay.

"Says the guy still wearing his own mask. " Matt rolled his neck as if bored. "Then again, you need all the help you can get."

Mislav laughed a loud nasal snicker. It was enough to set Skull off.

Snarling, Skull pulled back his fist and took a giant swing. Matt dodged and Skull buried his fist into Animal's broken face shield.

Animal let go of Matt, stunned from the impact.

Skull stood in shock at the change of events. Matt took advantage and struck him in the middle of his vulnerable throat. Skull flailed on the ground and based on his strangled gasping noises, Matt had damaged his esophagus.

Matt turned to face Mislav whose arms shook so much that he couldn't lift up his weapon. Matt took a menacing step toward him with a crooked, bloody smile. The man cursed and took off running for his life.

But Matt didn't have time to enjoy the moment when Animal charged him. Matt tried punching him in the chest, but the force was dissipated by the body armor.

Animal growled and grabbed Matt by the shoulders and head butted him twice with his helmet, stunning him. Matt lost all sense of balance and dropped to his knees as the world spun of its axis. Dizziness assailed him, screwing up his ability to tell up from down. His hands flew out to his sides to regain stability.

Fingers wrapped around Matt's throat and started squeezing.

Shocked, Matt sucked in a strangled breath and grabbed Animal's gloved hands to pry them off. But the other man's grip was iron tight and Matt couldn't bring in oxygen into his lungs; he started to weaken.

Don't give in…fight! Matt used the position of the larger man's arms to find his equilibrium and listened to proximity of his assailant's heavy breathing to orientate spatial distance.

Animal increased the compression around Matt's trachea and the muscles around his thyroid, causing a buzzing in his ears and tingling in his fingers. But it was a messy chokehold, not applied at the right pressure points, it was just raw pressure. He'd pass out from asphyxia before the fatal impediment of blood flow.

Blood flow.

"He's a dumb beast and you're not," Stick's voice said inside his head. "You can render a man unconscious and even kill him in seconds if you hit the right spot."

Matt ignored his own speeding pulse and focused on the beating of the other man's heart muscle, at the sound of blood racing through his veins, his arteries—the carotid pulsating at the side of the throat leading into the brain.

Animal bent down to bring Matt closer to his face. "I love shooting people, but nothing beats killing someone with my bare hands."

Matt wanted to thank him for making things easier.

With the last of his energy, he gave a devastating strike to Animal's carotid artery with his hand. Animal stiffened as he went into instant shock, his body collapsing sideways onto the ground.

Matt sucked in a desperate gulp of air. His lungs seized with the rush of oxygen, and he wheezed until his breathing evened out.

He did a quick scan of the area. There was one dead bad guy, two unconscious, and two missing. With all their weapons abandoned on the ground, at least it meant their rampage was over. And based on the sirens in the distance, the remaining two would soon be hunted down by the authorities.

There was another heartbeat in the distance, the one Matt had detected off on and during the fight. Adult male, young. Teenager?

Matt started walking toward him, but he took off in the opposite direction. Matt yanked on his baton from where is still hung from the power line, retrieving it. He noted the sound of a car engine approaching, one of its cylinders rattling. It was Karen's.

How the hell did she knew where to find him?

The car pulled up beside him and Foggy opened the door and jumped out before Karen put the vehicle in park.

"Matt! Are you okay? And don't tell me you're fine, because no one can be fine after being blown up."

Foggy's concern and worry was like hitting a brick wall. His heart thudded, his breaths rapid as he inhaled through his mouth. Matt didn't know what to do with it all. "How did you know about the explosion?"

"Because someone was filming it on periscope," Karen said, standing on Matt's other side. Hovering. She kept reaching out to touch him, but kept pulling her hand back.

"On what?" Matt asked still confused.

"It's like YouTube except it's uploaded instantly," Foggy explained, badly. "But that doesn't matter because we saw the whole thing."

"Including that thing you did on the power lines," Karen added her pulse spiking. It was the same rush of excitement she'd used whenever she spoke about Daredevil—before knowing it was Matt behind the mask.

"Which was before the whole bazooka thing," Foggy said, running his hands through his hair. "I mean seriously, how does someone get blown up and still kick the ass of people in Iron Man suits?"

Matt noticed more sirens and the distance.

Foggy must have heard it too, because he craned his neck to look at something over Matt's shoulders. "That's probably Brett and the Cavalry. We might have ditched him when we decided to come out here."

"You ditched Brett?" Matt asked surprised.

"Yeah, he…," Karen hesitated searching for words. "He had us all on lock down while we watched everything."

"Then the kid stopped filming and we decided to see if you were okay." Foggy moved into Matt's personal space, his voice thick with worry. "You're okay, right? I mean, you're not seriously hurt?"

Matt didn't want to worry them, but he also knew any form of lying would destroy whatever bridges had been mended. "I'm going need a lot of ice when I get home."

"Then what are we waiting for?" Foggy ran to the passenger side door and pulled out something. "I grabbed your coat to conceal your devil gear. Figured it's be easier for you to change clothes and do triage at your place."

"I don't need triage," Matt said, taking off his helmet, the cold air felt soothing on his face. "But thank you."

Karen sucked in a breath. "Matt."

Foggy made a low noise in his throat. "You might not need triage, but I foresee a dentist in the future."

Matt frowned, the movement making his jaw hurt. Now that the fight was over, it would be harder to filter out all the pain signals from his body. His chest hurt when he breathed and his headache grew larger with every minute.

Foggy helped Matt guide his arms through the sleeves of his coat. "Come on, let's go home."

Matt felt overwhelmed at the gesture. The last two times Foggy had been with him after an injury had been filled with anger and hurt. But he didn't feel any resentment radiating from his friend, only concern.

He almost didn't know how to respond to it, so he obeyed Foggy's instructions and got into the backseat without a word.

Matt had dragged himself home dozens of times after a rough night, willpower and adrenaline the only thing to fuel his steps. Tonight he got a ride back to his apartment.

He walked into his bedroom and changed into a fresh T-shirt and sweatpants. Matt refused any help, especially from Karen. He wasn't ready for her to witness the ramifications of being Daredevil had on his body.

Opening his bedroom door, he walked tentative into his living room. Both Karen and Foggy got up from the sofa, but he waved them back down.

"I'm good."

Matt didn't need to see to know both his friends just rolled their eyes at him. He grabbed his glasses from off the coffee table and slipped them on, then sat down on his loveseat, feeling every minute of the last couple of hours.

"I've got an icepack," Karen offered, reaching over the coffee table.

"Thanks."Matt accepted it from her hand, the cold seeping into his fingers.

Foggy sat beside her, grinding his jaw. Matt could feel them both staring at him.

"What?"

"Um, your throat…," she brushed her fingers along her own neck, biting her bottom lip.

He hated upsetting her, it was one of the reasons he'd tried keeping his distance before. "Yeah." Matt traced the area where Karen probably saw the forming bruises. "That was a challenging moment."

"Matt…." she said her voice fading.

"Every encounter is a learning experience."

"I doubt you'll run into people wearing experimental body armor very often," Karen scoffed.

"I did tonight." Matt scowled. "I'll need to be more effective in the future."

"Seriously?"

Matt looked in Foggy's direction, confused. "What?"

"This whole self-critical evaluation thing. Like somehow you were supposed to be able to beat those assholes any better than you did." Foggy stood up and waved a hand toward the window, incensed. "Those whackos blew up a federal bank. I just read on the news that they killed six people and injured over two dozen more, including several cops. The police had to retreat because bullets couldn't stop them." His chest heaved, his voice straining with stress. "But Daredevil went out there and did what no one else could. He…you saved people."

Heartbeat thumping, Foggy stormed toward the kitchen.

Matt got up from the loveseat, but Karen walked in front of Matt to keep him from following.

"After you left Josie's, we started searching social media for news about what was going on. We found amateur footage of the first shootout that began at the bank. It was…bad. Those guys were unmerciful, we saw people die, and that weird armor—they looked unstoppable. " She rested a hand on his arm. "Then Foggy and I saw that periscope footage of you fighting them, it was amazing and terrifying. When it stopped broadcasting…we were both pretty freaked."

Guilt squeezed at Matt's chest, hard and unrelenting. "I'm sorry Karen."

"Don't be sorry, Matt." Foggy walked back toward him, carrying a beer from the kitchen. "Be careful."

"I am."

"Yeah, I know." Foggy sighed, defeated. "But it'll never be enough for me. I don't want you to go out there to save the day…but I know you need to."

"Foggy…."

"My best friend also happened to be Daredevil. I don't think I'll ever be able to accept it, but…I understand why."

Matt's chest tightened even more; moisture welled up in his eyes at the pain he caused his friends. At knowing he'd keep hurting them over and over again, because of whom he was, what he had to do. Matt bowed his head in sorrow, but he felt an arm wrap around his shoulders.

"Dude, don't you know the people that piss us off the most are the people we love?" Foggy said.

Matt felt a part of him break inside, spilling out a dam of relief, remorse, and unbelievable gratitude. He hugged Foggy, gripping him tight, which his friend reciprocated—a bit too much. A sharp pain went through his side and Matt stiffened.

Foggy pulled away, alarmed. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry. What did I hurt?"

"It's okay," Matt reassured him, a little breathless. "I mean, I have a fractured rib, but I promise I heal pretty fast."

"Can you do that, too?" Foggy asked.

Matt gave a sad chuckle. If only. "No, nothing like that." But he really needed to mediate soon. It helped.

Foggy shook his head, disappointed. "If you're going to keep doing your thing, maybe it's time to ask The Avengers for some back-up every once and a while. Or I don't know; get them to give you some cool tech if you're going to keep facing super bad guys."

Matt laughed. "I don't know, man."

"I for one think it's a very good idea," Karen said walking over to where they stood.

It was Matt's turn to roll his eyes. "I think…that I need a beer."

"Then you need to buy more," Foggy said.

Matt went over and sat down on his sofa, stealing Foggy's seat. He sunk into the cushions and closed his eyes. It'd been a long few months.

Karen sat down next to him. "You left this," she said, holding up the icepack. She rested the pack against the right side of Matt's mouth. "I think that's the worst spot."

Matt took the icepack from her fingers and resumed the pressure to the side of his jaw. He smiled. "Thanks, I got it."

Karen sat back against the sofa, her voice softer. "I think you should call out from work for the next few days."

Matt had gone to the office in far worse shape, but he refrained from mentioning it. "I'll come up with a reason for the bruises."

"What about the ones around your throat, it's hard to explain those away."

"I'll wear a scarf."

"You probably have a concussion."

Matt blew out a breath; he did have an impressive headache. "You might have a point."

"I don't think people with concussions should consume alcohol," Foggy announced returning from the kitchen. He only had one bottle in his hand.

"I disagree," Matt argued.

"Yeah, well. I overrule." Foggy sat on the loveseat and made a show of drinking Matt's last beer.

Karen chuckled while Matt pouted. He wasn't going to win this argument, and for once, he was okay with it.

Matt walked for a while, following a path he knew by heart, all seven blocks like an old friend. It wasn't surprising where he ended up; maybe it was where he intended to go all along. Tapping his cane against the metal legs of the bench, he slowly sat down outside his church; resting the duffle bag he carried by his feet.

The person who had occupied the bench last just left, the scent of Marlboro cigarettes still lingered in the air, dog hair from a Golden Retriever covered the ground. Matt wondered what they'd thought about as they sat under the stars. He looked up at the night sky and saw only three dimensional lines of ambient temperature and air pressure.

Bill Murray blared from someone's living room on the corner; Matt could picture his face from childhood. His glasses felt heavy on his face.

The church was open, her doors welcoming everyone, even the guilty. Matt thought about walking inside to reflect on the last few weeks, on his need to carry his suit everywhere he went now. While a weight had been lifted from his shoulders in the last few weeks, his heart still burdened him.

Matt stood up and reached for his cane when he smelled a higher content of nitrogen oxide and carbon: soot. Taking a deeper breath, he detected other particulates, drops of condensed tar and metal oxides from fuel. When he detected heavier traces of ammonium sulfate—he knew a large fire had erupted a few blocks away.

He grabbed his duffle bag, his mind mapping out the quickest route to west side. As Matt ran toward the alleyway to change into his suit, he glanced in the direction of the church, and nodded.

Fini

A/N:
I've seen a few memes around comparing Daredevil to the other Defenders as a guy with two sticks and a lot of determination. I found them funny, but they helped inspire this fic. :) Although Matt doesn't have super-powers, his senses are pretty darn amazing and I enjoyed exploring them in this.