you're a one man shift in the weather

The bed is cold and Zeus is whimpering.

I try to stay asleep, denial of the inevitable a powerful motivator. As long as I don’t wake up, I can convince myself this is just a dream. Ellen is awake in the next room, feeding the baby. Zeus is upset because she closed the door behind her, trapping him inside with me. The comfort of dreaming makes the lie sound too much like the truth. My heart doesn’t even skip a beat, it’s so convincing.

But then Alex starts to cry — starts to shriek — for his mother, and the illusion is shattered within the space of two breaths.

I ought to be angry. I ought to shout and scream and try to find someone to hit, because there’s always someone to hit. Instead I swallow down all the hurt and fear, and get out of bed to take care of a screaming infant.

I get Alex through the usual morning routine, the dog glued to my side all the while. I don’t have the heart to push him away. I’m numb, body on autopilot while my mind checks out, and as long as he’s not under my feet, he can stay there.

She left me with our six-month-old son and her damn dog. She just left. The idea strikes me as absurd hours later, and I start to laugh, a big, belly laugh that bounces off the walls, filling my ears with incredulity, and I’m still laughing when there’s a knock at the door.

The ceremony itself is small and quick. The paperwork (what little of it there is) was filed earlier in the day, so by the time Ellen and I meet our officiant, the venerable Jamie Madrox, at the local church, there's not much left but to say our vows. Madrox wouldn't have been my first choice, but he's the only man I know to have a religious background, making the list of options fairly low. Regardless, the moment is sweet and understated, free of the drama my love life has historically entailed, and I let out a happy sigh of relief as I kiss Ellen for the first time as husband and wife.

The reception is a little more lively. With Thanksgiving right around the corner, it made sense to extend the invitation to anyone who wanted to drop by. There are tables and decorations (lost on me, but surely nice for the guests) set outside our newly renovated house, food and drink (plenty of water and juice for the bride), and enough wedding cake to go around. As long as I ignore Zeus chasing my heels, it's the perfect afternoon. A few friends, some good food, and the exciting promise of a good life?

For once it feels like I have plenty to be thankful for.

Open to all friends of Ellen and Matt, including students and any and all Marvels. Will be linked before the end of November.

Ever since learning Ellen was carrying our child, I've spent more nights at her place than my own, despite my admitted annoyance towards her dog. Some might call this hovering or being overtly concerned, but most don't live subject to the whims of a magical island. Sleeping by her side gives me a false peace of mind, and given that rest will be in short supply once the baby comes, getting as much of it as I can in the meantime strikes me only as forward thinking.

A light sleeper by nature, something as simple as a shift in her weight is enough to ease me awake. I noise a grunt in the back of my throat as my eyes flutter open, still close enough to dreaming that I don't notice anything's off.

"Ellen?"

In a word, I wake up violently.

I can't pull in enough air, can't breathe, each inhale a gasp. My throat feels like sandpaper when I dare to swallow. Limbs tangled in my sheets, I roll from the bed onto the ground with a dull thud -- only to realize everything's dulled. My ears are stuffed with cotton and my hands are bone dry, the world around me dark and flat.

It was all a dream. The Hand, Bullseye, Foggy... All of it. It never happened. We never even left the room. My God, the baby-- Is Ellen even--?

The world tilts. I spit out a sound that's part sob, part yell, and punch the floor, once, with everything I'm worth.

It's not enough.

I tell Ellen to close her eyes.

I don't take the most direct of routes. Part of it, of course, is to shake anyone who might be following us. Our escape wasn't a subtle one by any means, and while the rooftops offer some advantage, we're still getting out of this by the skin of our teeth.

But I'd be lying if I said part of it wasn't just because I missed this. When my hearing finally clears up, it's like all the cotton's been pulled out of my ears. I'm back in surround sound. Above the pounding of my own heart, the blood rushing through my veins, the air moving heavy through my lungs, the sirens still in the distance, I can hear the city. Snippets of a million conversations. Noisy television sets. Radios blaring. Broadway shows and concerts. I hear an old man with a whooping cough on the other end of downtown and a dog taking a leak at the corner of the street. It's a beautiful cacophony, overwhelming in its complexity, and I missed it.

I swing around my block three times before I decide it's safe to make an approach. I bring us to the roof of my brownstone, an old entrance that only I know about. I set Ellen down, keeping an arm around her to steady her while I open the door.

"That wasn't so bad, right?"

I can actually read the label.

It takes a moment or two to find, granted. Initially, I'm too distracted by the fact that there's a large, leather trunk sitting outside my front door to even think there might be a label. But then, sure enough, my fingers brush up against a small piece of heavy parchment, and the braille reads as plain as day.

To Matt Murdock.

I suppose it is that time of year, isn't it?

Curious as to what's inside -- and fairly confident it isn't a guide dog to go with the laser cane I rarely use -- I slide my thumbs along the seam in search of a latch, coming across a cool brass keyhole with a key stuck inside. Slipping the key into my trouser pocket, I push open the trunk right out on the front porch, and stick my hand in.

Is that--?

"Silk."

A tie. No, wait-- A labelled tie. A small metal tab's been sewn into the back.

Blue, white stripes.

Could it be the Island's actually given me something useful?

Politics are uncharted territory, but the boxing ring is like coming home. I don't come here half as often as I'd like, the space occupied six times out of seven, but today, the air is quiet of muffled blows when I make my traditional afternoon inquiry. Not a soul save my own.

The canvas floor sighs under my weight as I step through the ropes, the smell of sweat and blood assaulting my nose for those moments I linger near the ground before straightening. I wrap both hands in lengths of thin, soft cloth, my actions practiced and quick, since I don't know how long it is until I find an audience (or an audience finds me).

As it turns out, however, it's far too soon. I barely get my hands on the bag before I hear the tell-tale fall of footsteps behind me, light but plainly audible. I'm a difficult man to sneak up on. I sigh with something like relief when I realize I won't have to lie about why I'm here; his gait is no less recognizable than his heartbeat.

"Steve."

Since that first time I stumbled across the boxing ring, I've become careful about when I stop by for a visit. There's always the danger of being found. Of needing to make explanations for why a blind lawyer would be such a skilled pugilist. And while that is one of the few dangers left to me in this place, I am selective about when I indulge in it. About when I throw caution to the wind and simply enjoy the steady thump-thump rhythm of wrapped hands against a heavy bag.

Nighttime is the obvious choice. There are fewer who walk around when the air turns cool and it's easier to pass by unnoticed. (After all, I don't rely on the light of day to get around.) This is the only pattern I hold to. Day of the week, hour of the evening, duration of the stay... Those all vary. Tonight, the sun's only just gone down as I arrive, the sounds of the jungle only just beginning to shift.

I pull the hood of my sleeveless sweatshirt over my head upon entering the ring, fingers skirting around the stitches from my adventures in home improvement earlier in the week. (My hair's grown long these past few months and my bangs cover what's sure to be my newest scar.) Sense-memory takes me to the now-familiar bag. I place my hands flat against the material to situate myself, inhaling deeply. Sweat. Salt. Oiled leather and canvas. The perfume of flowers whose names I've learned (and some I've haven't).

I'm about to take a swing. To expend some of the restless energy that's built up deep in my bones while others have found more interesting avenues, when I hear something. Someone. Quiet. Were I anyone else, I might not have noticed them at all.

But since I'm not, I let out the breath I've been holding and I wait.

I keep an ear to the ground, though my hearing isn't what it used to be. Rumors spread like wildfire wherever there are voices to speak them and people to listen, and Tabula Rasa is no different. For the most part, the information is both trivial and of little interest to me, but then there are the times where I hear the whisper of the word Rapture, and I go running towards it like the moth to the flame.

I would know the path to Natasha's place in my sleep, but I keep up appearances for eyes other than mine, making use of the cane even after all this time though the terrain renders it impractical. I've been the subject of too many rumors myself to not know any better. (I haven't been as careful as I could be, even here. Call it living up to a name I'd rather most here never hear.)

Heading up to her door, I do her a favor that few in our community possess the courtesy to perform.

I knock and wait for her to answer.

From my sodden jacket, I retrieve my billy club. Running my fingers along the familiar aluminum, I briefly fumble with the mechanism that converts a weapon into a blind man's cane -- something harmless. The motions are instinctive, though, and I find the switch quickly enough. I've spent most of the last year denying my life as Daredevil to anyone who would listen (and more than a few who wouldn't), but now it would seem my favorite lie has a grain of truth.

My name is Matt Murdock. I was blinded by radiation. My remaining senses function with superhuman sharpness... Or they did up until a few seconds ago, when the rain slicked streets of Hell's Kitchen gave away to a world as unfamiliar as it was sudden. Hence the cane. Generally speaking, it's just a prop. I don't need it to get around, but it sells a story. My story. That the whole notion of a blind defense attorney moonlighting as a vigilante is an absurd hoax cooked up by the tabloids. It isn't, but you'll never hear me say it. I just told a room full of people why there's a guy dressed like the devil running around at night, and not once did I utter the words, 'I am Daredevil.'

'Skeevy, shyster lawyer $%#@!,' Luke would call it. Maybe he's right, but it keeps me out of jail. And as long as I'm out of jail, I can keep trying to build something in place of Wilson Fisk that we can actually in live in. Well. That was the plan, at least. Crucial to that plan was being in New York. And wherever I am now... It isn't New York.

The downpour's stopped. Wet, unforgiving pavement is replaced with the bone dry scrape of dead wood. The temperature's jumped a good twenty degrees. The heavy, cloying smell of humidity assaults my nose and coats my mouth. It's like breathing soup instead of air, but it's nothing compared to how disorienting it should be. I strain my ears to catch the sound of heartbeats I already know won't be there. Not only do I doubt that whatever's spirited me away would have brought the feds who've been tailing me along for the ride, but even if it did, I wouldn't be able to hear them anyway. Because something's hit mute on my senses. All I hear is the twittering of birdsong. The whoosh of wind blowing through trees. The distant, rhythmic crashing of water. The buzzing of insects. The creaking beneath my feet as I take a few steps forward to get my bearings, tapping my cane against the ground to get an idea of what I'm working with -- wooden planks, apparently. (A boardwalk? I'm outside, obviously, and alone. That much is clear. Not much else is. The darkness lacks its usual dimension.)

My own heart pounds in my ears as a surge of adrenaline puts my every nerve on edge, but I don't let myself succumb to panic. I've been at this long enough to know there's an explanation waiting for me somewhere, provided I keep my head until I find it. And so, in spite of the overwhelming uncertainty that serves nothing but to clog my senses further, I keep putting one foot ahead of the other. It's the only thing I know how to do.