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ways_back_room2017-12-18 06:46 pm
annalalaith) wrote in ways_back_room2017-12-18 06:46 pm
Advent Day 6!
title: Ghosts of Christmas Past
rating: PG
characters: Matt Murdock, Jack Murdock, Foggy Nelson (Netflix’s Daredevil)
summary: It's Christmas Eve, and Matt chooses to spend it alone with echoes of the past
a/n: For the Milliways Advent Event
Fogwell's gym is freezing tonight. Closed early and empty for Christmas Eve.
Matt lets himself in and, as always, doesn't bother turning on the lights. He also doesn't give any thought to turning on the heat.
The gym bag slung over his shoulder gets dropped onto a bench, and Matt sits, pulling wraps from the bag for his hands.
Outside the streets are calm, cars rolling over snowy roads, tires splashing in slush puddles. Foot traffic is minimal and Matt can hear the crunch of thick-soled boots and swish of a down jacket as some cold traveler hustles past the nearby window.
The movements of Matt's hands are methodical, and he counts each winding pass of the wrap. His father used to do this in ten, Matt goes for twelve before he's satisfied.
Stepping up to the heavy bag, Matt's first blow causes the bag to jump away on its chains. The canvas on the bag is stiff with the cold, and Matt might be a little bit, too. There's no give in the beginning, just heavy jerks as Matt lays into the bag, the sawdust within compact and unyielding.
For the first few rounds Matt works against it, it feels like striking a wall.
The musty air, the sounds of his fists thudding against canvas and the jerk and sway of the chain bring back memories of times past when it was his father set in stance before the bag, Matt on the sidelines watching.
They were here often, Matt and his old man, but as the bag finally begins to soften and sway, Matt's memories drift to one night in particular. Another Christmas Eve.
"You still with me, there, Matty?"
His dad's voice pulls Matt from the light doze he was lulled into by the steady rhythm of Jack Murdock's jabs on the heavy bag.
"Hm, yeah, I'm here." Sitting up, Matt rubs his eyes, then reaches into his dad's gym bag to draw out the man's watch, looking at the time.
"Ten-thirty, Dad, you've got forty minutes before you gotta be ringside."
"Yeah, okay." Jack gives a nod between his raised hands, then throws a series of combos at the bag while Matt watches.
The bag and Matt warm up, but the temperature in the room dips another few degrees.
Matt's breath fogs in the air, and he can feel the vapor condensing on his upper lip and in the stubble on his chin. On the bag his jabs turn into varied blows, and he ducks and weaves against an invisible opponent while throwing combos that send the bag swinging.
Outside a group of men take their carousing to the streets, caroling loudly as they shuffle along. It's an old song, about Grandma and the reindeer, and when they get to the part about licensing a man who plays with elves they break into laughter and one goes down, dragging the others with him.
Matt keeps an ear on them as they shamble off, his blows on the bag never wavering as they turn a corner; their rendition of "Here We Come a-Caroling" fading into echo.
"Keep up with me, Matty. Some drunk comes flying around that corner he'll run you over and think you were a speed-bump."
Heeding his dad's warning, Matt picks up his step, hefting the gym bag on his shoulder higher and jumping over an icy puddle to make it back safely onto the sidewalk.
The bag's a bit too heavy, the webbed strap digging into his cold-reddened hands, but Matt hangs onto it stubbornly as he tries to keep pace with his dad on the way back to their apartment.
"You think you'll win tonight, Dad?" Matt asks, eyes on the frosty path ahead.
"I think I'll win every night," Jack replies with a wise-ass smirk. "Sometimes, I just thunk it wrong."
Matt glances up at him, then looks back down and dodges a patch of ice.
"You've got a better record than Walters, though. I think you'll win."
Jack nods. "Here's hoping you're right."
"Foggy. Foggy. Foggy. Foggy-- "
In his duffle bag Matt's phone goes off, the robotic voice calling out the name of his best friend who's probably still trying to drag Matt into his family's festivities.
Matt pauses for a half a beat, but he's swinging and connecting again when the bag arcs back towards him. The phone soon gives out a new voicemail alert while Matt keeps whaling away with his fists.
Foggy and the Nelson clan do Christmas big, and loud. With banquets of food and raucous laughter, and gifts that no amount of insisting against will stop. Matt promised he'd drop by tomorrow in the evening for dinner, but Foggy's hellbent on keeping Matt from spending Christmas Eve alone
They turn the last corner that puts them on their block, and soon Jack is opening the door as Matt climbs the stairs behind him.
"Why don't you get some shut-eye, huh?" Jack says, stepping aside to let his son pass, taking the bag away from him in the doorway. "Don't be waiting up for me, alright?"
Matt forestalls a yawn and nods, waiting for his dad to go so that he can shut and lock the door.
Jack lingers a moment, wetting his cold-chapped lips before saying something.
"Listen, I-- I know it's Christmas Eve and all. I got you something, but I want you to know if I win tonight-- when I win tonight, I'll get you something better, okay?"
Digging into his coat pocket, Jack pulls out a small gift wrapped in the funnies section from the newspaper.
"You can open now, if you want," Jack says, turning the package over to Matt.
Matt smiles and peels back the paper, revealing a small, dark brown bound notebook.
"I thought you could keep your notes in it," Jack explains, "For school, or whatever. It's not real leather, but it looks nice. Professional. Almost."
Matt runs his hand over the cover and smiles.
"Thanks, Dad."
"You're welcome," Jack says, then adds, "but like I said, things go well tonight I'll get you somethin' else, too. And hey, maybe we can get breakfast somewhere tomorrow. Christmas pancake feast, that sound alright?"
"Yeah, that sounds great."
Jack nods, smiling at his boy, then steps back.
"Alright. I gotta go. Lock the door, I'll see you in the morning."
His dad didn't win that fight.
In fact, they were evicted in January and spent a couple nights here in the gym before his dad was able to get them settled somewhere else.
The sweat on Matt's t-shirt is stiff, frosting as the temperature keeps falling.
The heavy bag continues to tremble and shake on its chains, and Matt uses the drum of his own heartbeat in his ears to pace his punches. The scent and taste of sweat partially clouds his senses, the rhythm of his workout turning into mechanical repetition as his thoughts drift back to his father.
That wasn't the first lean Christmas, nor the last, but even if Jack Murdock didn't deliver on the fight or presents, he made true on the pancakes. From scratch in their own kitchen, they were terrible, but laughing about the disaster was probably the best part of the memory.
Matt spares a smirk for the thought of them playing frisbee with their botched breakfast when the outside world suddenly crashes in and yanks Matt out of reverie.
Down the street a woman screams and Matt's hands snap out, forcing the bag still as his head cants and he listens to the cry.
His heart jumps into double-time, and every muscle in his body is coiled with tension, ready for him to run out, to stop whatever--
A dog. Just a dog that got away into the street and somehow, even with the snow still coming down, the driver was able to stop in time.
Matt listens as a car door opens and two people rush to grab the yapping animal. The woman gushes at the man as they meet in the middle of the road, taking her ecstatic dog back as he apologies profusely for an accident that wouldn't have been his fault if it'd happened.
While they exchange Merry Christmases Matt's heart's still pounding, adrenaline burning in his veins.
He'd been ready to jump into action, and has the momentary thought of going home to retrieve the black outfit and mask sitting in the green trunk in his living room. The same trunk with the leftover memories of his dad tucked away inside.
But, as Matt steps away from the bag and starts peeling off the wraps from his hands, his senses reach out to take in the neighborhood around him, searching for any other signs of trouble he may have missed here in the cold dark.
Nothing.
After the commotion with the dog, Hell's Kitchen has gone quiet. Silent night. Holy night. The professed peace on earth seeming to have found its way here.
For a moment Matt considers going out anyways, just to check things over, but in that moment his phone goes off again.
"Foggy. Foggy. Foggy. Foggy-- "
Matt flexes his hands, freed from the wraps, joints cracking, knuckles stiff. Before the voicemail can take over again, Matt drops the wraps into his bag and pulls his cell out and answers it.
"Hello?"
"MATT! My fellow avocado!" Foggy's voice is bright and merry, and a little drunk. "Listen, I know you said you'd be here tomorrow, but my mom's insisting. You gotta come, man, please. If you don't, mom says I can't have any more peppermint fudge, and you know I love peppermint fudge. So c'mon, please, help a chocoholic out."
In the background Matt can hear the music and the laughing. Forks pinging on plates, glasses tinking together, one of the many cousins belting out "Deck the Halls."
Matt is standing in front of the heavy bag again and considers the empty gym, the cold creeping into his motionless body, and the quiet streets outside.
Brushing the palm of his hand over the surface of the bag, Matt nods to himself.
"Give me half an hour, and I'll be there."
"You've got twenty minutes. Your 'nog awaits!" Foggy prevents any argument by hanging up, and Matt stands with his phone in his hand alone; shaking his head at himself and his friend.
Tucking his phone back into his bag, Matt zips it up then shoulders it.
On his way out, Matt trails his fingertips across the ragged edges of a poster on the wall: Battlin' Jack Murdock versus Carl "Crusher" Creel.
Snowflakes swirl around him as Matt locks up, and continue to fall as he heads down the sidewalk, leaving Fogwell's behind.
rating: PG
characters: Matt Murdock, Jack Murdock, Foggy Nelson (Netflix’s Daredevil)
summary: It's Christmas Eve, and Matt chooses to spend it alone with echoes of the past
a/n: For the Milliways Advent Event
Fogwell's gym is freezing tonight. Closed early and empty for Christmas Eve.
Matt lets himself in and, as always, doesn't bother turning on the lights. He also doesn't give any thought to turning on the heat.
The gym bag slung over his shoulder gets dropped onto a bench, and Matt sits, pulling wraps from the bag for his hands.
Outside the streets are calm, cars rolling over snowy roads, tires splashing in slush puddles. Foot traffic is minimal and Matt can hear the crunch of thick-soled boots and swish of a down jacket as some cold traveler hustles past the nearby window.
The movements of Matt's hands are methodical, and he counts each winding pass of the wrap. His father used to do this in ten, Matt goes for twelve before he's satisfied.
Stepping up to the heavy bag, Matt's first blow causes the bag to jump away on its chains. The canvas on the bag is stiff with the cold, and Matt might be a little bit, too. There's no give in the beginning, just heavy jerks as Matt lays into the bag, the sawdust within compact and unyielding.
For the first few rounds Matt works against it, it feels like striking a wall.
The musty air, the sounds of his fists thudding against canvas and the jerk and sway of the chain bring back memories of times past when it was his father set in stance before the bag, Matt on the sidelines watching.
They were here often, Matt and his old man, but as the bag finally begins to soften and sway, Matt's memories drift to one night in particular. Another Christmas Eve.
"You still with me, there, Matty?"
His dad's voice pulls Matt from the light doze he was lulled into by the steady rhythm of Jack Murdock's jabs on the heavy bag.
"Hm, yeah, I'm here." Sitting up, Matt rubs his eyes, then reaches into his dad's gym bag to draw out the man's watch, looking at the time.
"Ten-thirty, Dad, you've got forty minutes before you gotta be ringside."
"Yeah, okay." Jack gives a nod between his raised hands, then throws a series of combos at the bag while Matt watches.
The bag and Matt warm up, but the temperature in the room dips another few degrees.
Matt's breath fogs in the air, and he can feel the vapor condensing on his upper lip and in the stubble on his chin. On the bag his jabs turn into varied blows, and he ducks and weaves against an invisible opponent while throwing combos that send the bag swinging.
Outside a group of men take their carousing to the streets, caroling loudly as they shuffle along. It's an old song, about Grandma and the reindeer, and when they get to the part about licensing a man who plays with elves they break into laughter and one goes down, dragging the others with him.
Matt keeps an ear on them as they shamble off, his blows on the bag never wavering as they turn a corner; their rendition of "Here We Come a-Caroling" fading into echo.
"Keep up with me, Matty. Some drunk comes flying around that corner he'll run you over and think you were a speed-bump."
Heeding his dad's warning, Matt picks up his step, hefting the gym bag on his shoulder higher and jumping over an icy puddle to make it back safely onto the sidewalk.
The bag's a bit too heavy, the webbed strap digging into his cold-reddened hands, but Matt hangs onto it stubbornly as he tries to keep pace with his dad on the way back to their apartment.
"You think you'll win tonight, Dad?" Matt asks, eyes on the frosty path ahead.
"I think I'll win every night," Jack replies with a wise-ass smirk. "Sometimes, I just thunk it wrong."
Matt glances up at him, then looks back down and dodges a patch of ice.
"You've got a better record than Walters, though. I think you'll win."
Jack nods. "Here's hoping you're right."
"Foggy. Foggy. Foggy. Foggy-- "
In his duffle bag Matt's phone goes off, the robotic voice calling out the name of his best friend who's probably still trying to drag Matt into his family's festivities.
Matt pauses for a half a beat, but he's swinging and connecting again when the bag arcs back towards him. The phone soon gives out a new voicemail alert while Matt keeps whaling away with his fists.
Foggy and the Nelson clan do Christmas big, and loud. With banquets of food and raucous laughter, and gifts that no amount of insisting against will stop. Matt promised he'd drop by tomorrow in the evening for dinner, but Foggy's hellbent on keeping Matt from spending Christmas Eve alone
They turn the last corner that puts them on their block, and soon Jack is opening the door as Matt climbs the stairs behind him.
"Why don't you get some shut-eye, huh?" Jack says, stepping aside to let his son pass, taking the bag away from him in the doorway. "Don't be waiting up for me, alright?"
Matt forestalls a yawn and nods, waiting for his dad to go so that he can shut and lock the door.
Jack lingers a moment, wetting his cold-chapped lips before saying something.
"Listen, I-- I know it's Christmas Eve and all. I got you something, but I want you to know if I win tonight-- when I win tonight, I'll get you something better, okay?"
Digging into his coat pocket, Jack pulls out a small gift wrapped in the funnies section from the newspaper.
"You can open now, if you want," Jack says, turning the package over to Matt.
Matt smiles and peels back the paper, revealing a small, dark brown bound notebook.
"I thought you could keep your notes in it," Jack explains, "For school, or whatever. It's not real leather, but it looks nice. Professional. Almost."
Matt runs his hand over the cover and smiles.
"Thanks, Dad."
"You're welcome," Jack says, then adds, "but like I said, things go well tonight I'll get you somethin' else, too. And hey, maybe we can get breakfast somewhere tomorrow. Christmas pancake feast, that sound alright?"
"Yeah, that sounds great."
Jack nods, smiling at his boy, then steps back.
"Alright. I gotta go. Lock the door, I'll see you in the morning."
His dad didn't win that fight.
In fact, they were evicted in January and spent a couple nights here in the gym before his dad was able to get them settled somewhere else.
The sweat on Matt's t-shirt is stiff, frosting as the temperature keeps falling.
The heavy bag continues to tremble and shake on its chains, and Matt uses the drum of his own heartbeat in his ears to pace his punches. The scent and taste of sweat partially clouds his senses, the rhythm of his workout turning into mechanical repetition as his thoughts drift back to his father.
That wasn't the first lean Christmas, nor the last, but even if Jack Murdock didn't deliver on the fight or presents, he made true on the pancakes. From scratch in their own kitchen, they were terrible, but laughing about the disaster was probably the best part of the memory.
Matt spares a smirk for the thought of them playing frisbee with their botched breakfast when the outside world suddenly crashes in and yanks Matt out of reverie.
Down the street a woman screams and Matt's hands snap out, forcing the bag still as his head cants and he listens to the cry.
His heart jumps into double-time, and every muscle in his body is coiled with tension, ready for him to run out, to stop whatever--
A dog. Just a dog that got away into the street and somehow, even with the snow still coming down, the driver was able to stop in time.
Matt listens as a car door opens and two people rush to grab the yapping animal. The woman gushes at the man as they meet in the middle of the road, taking her ecstatic dog back as he apologies profusely for an accident that wouldn't have been his fault if it'd happened.
While they exchange Merry Christmases Matt's heart's still pounding, adrenaline burning in his veins.
He'd been ready to jump into action, and has the momentary thought of going home to retrieve the black outfit and mask sitting in the green trunk in his living room. The same trunk with the leftover memories of his dad tucked away inside.
But, as Matt steps away from the bag and starts peeling off the wraps from his hands, his senses reach out to take in the neighborhood around him, searching for any other signs of trouble he may have missed here in the cold dark.
Nothing.
After the commotion with the dog, Hell's Kitchen has gone quiet. Silent night. Holy night. The professed peace on earth seeming to have found its way here.
For a moment Matt considers going out anyways, just to check things over, but in that moment his phone goes off again.
"Foggy. Foggy. Foggy. Foggy-- "
Matt flexes his hands, freed from the wraps, joints cracking, knuckles stiff. Before the voicemail can take over again, Matt drops the wraps into his bag and pulls his cell out and answers it.
"Hello?"
"MATT! My fellow avocado!" Foggy's voice is bright and merry, and a little drunk. "Listen, I know you said you'd be here tomorrow, but my mom's insisting. You gotta come, man, please. If you don't, mom says I can't have any more peppermint fudge, and you know I love peppermint fudge. So c'mon, please, help a chocoholic out."
In the background Matt can hear the music and the laughing. Forks pinging on plates, glasses tinking together, one of the many cousins belting out "Deck the Halls."
Matt is standing in front of the heavy bag again and considers the empty gym, the cold creeping into his motionless body, and the quiet streets outside.
Brushing the palm of his hand over the surface of the bag, Matt nods to himself.
"Give me half an hour, and I'll be there."
"You've got twenty minutes. Your 'nog awaits!" Foggy prevents any argument by hanging up, and Matt stands with his phone in his hand alone; shaking his head at himself and his friend.
Tucking his phone back into his bag, Matt zips it up then shoulders it.
On his way out, Matt trails his fingertips across the ragged edges of a poster on the wall: Battlin' Jack Murdock versus Carl "Crusher" Creel.
Snowflakes swirl around him as Matt locks up, and continue to fall as he heads down the sidewalk, leaving Fogwell's behind.
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Thank you for reading, and for the comments, I'm really glad you enjoyed it. *G*
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You already know that I love everything this chooses to be, but I'mma broken-record at you some more, because, augh, my heart.
Matt actively choosing solitude will, forever and always, make me sad in a manner that is both quiet and infinite. (It's an echo of his rooftop conversation with Claire in season two: "You're cutting off your own anchor.") At any point when he re-engages and actually connects — like here, picking up the damn phone and promising to head over Foggy's — I just want to freaking cheer, because he is loved and cared about so damn much, and he's so stubborn, he doesn't even see that maybe he actually deserves to have good friends. (Uh. That is not a blind joke! Except now it is, maybe. /smh)
Anyway, I just. I love this — and Jack, oh my god, Jack, and the Christmas gift wrapped in the Sunday comics. Waugh, fambly. The detail about the eviction, and spending a few nights in Fogwell's until Jack could scrape together enough money to get them another place? Oh, my heart. It makes so much sense, here, that Matt visits the gym on Christmas Eve — a nod to this touchstone, to his dad, in memoriam. <333 This final imagery, with Matt reading the faded poster with his fingertips, hits me so hard it leaves me airless and teary-eyed.
And he's going to Foggy's! (Oh, Foggy. TIPSY FOGGY IS MY FAVORITE FOREVER. MORE 'NOG, ALL THE 'NOG.) May Matt be bombarded with an unholy amount of holiday cheer, complete with ugly sweaters and drunken caroling around the piano.
Thank you for writing this, dear Bat, and for sharing it with us. ♥
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Matt, man, he just... he breaks my heart to pieces. But then here comes Foggy, so steadfast and true (and tipsy, tipsy Foggy is indeed the best), and I just love them SO DAMN MUCH.
And then there is Jack who is just, WAUGH, I don't even have the words.
Thank you for the love, I'm so glad you enjoyed. *SMISH*
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