#heartofthepractice

love this disaster! accepting.

D A R E D E V I L defies death once more by a hair’s breadth. the martyr lives to endure another punishment, the crusader heads home, broken and traumatised, by the grace of god. it was a trap made of sheer numbers, and he only managed to flee by virtue of darkness - his true advantage. the escape attempt was messy yet successful as he methodically smashed all the lights in the passageways snaking below the warehouse, which had given him just enough edge to barrel out of sight, like a stray cat scampering in the moving shadows.and now, crouched pathetically behind a heap of trash in one of the city’s forgotten alleys, he clutches his burner phone close to his ear, slippery from the blood pouring out from a gash across his temple, panting heavily as his lungs struggle to supply him with enough oxygen. the list of people both matthew and the devil can trust is slim, and foggy features at the very top; and while he doesn’t want to drag him into the life threatening dangers he willingly throws himself into on a nightly basis, he’s agreed to compromise in exchange for his partner’s cherished forgiveness for being a shitty friend. foggy in fact claims that if he has to worry about his dumb ass regardless, he will live better knowing which dumpster matt is bleeding behind so he can at least do something about it; and there is a certain strength, a comforting determination in his partner’s directive that keeps him from regretting his choice. his consciousness wavers dangerously, and it’s not like he can move much in this state, as he’d spent the last of his remaining strength getting to relative safety. and when he murmurs a defeated “I’m sorry…” and before he can ask him to bring a change of clothes, it’s already too late; foggy’s hung up, and on his way to pick up his roadkill of a best friend off the street, just as promised.

catch matt rubbing one off! accepting.

get your smooches from matt! accepting.

2. … goodnight.there were brief, rare moments when matt forgot himself and let his guard down. times when the emotional turmoil within bled out and into his collected and impeccably suited persona, and others when he simply relaxed from the cast-iron hold he had on himself and tried a new thing called living. closing a case with a smashing victory, devastating their stomachs at a local eatery before throwing back a few well-earned drinks and trading rounds of slurry banter at josie’s until they were all giggles and brief touches and sharp intakes of breath. it was the balmy and nostalgic familiarity of it all that pushed him into a false sense of security. it felt like one of those perfect moments, crystallised in time and hidden from the eyes of the watchers who would have him cursed before he could take any shred of solace for himself; it was an illusion of course, for there was no such blessing for the murdock boys. but somehow it felt as if the pleasantries of the evening had slowly and inevitably built up to that culmination upon the threadbare steps to foggy’s apartment, and matt felt a strange kind of warmth blossom across his chest, rising to his collar and dusting his cheeks with a renewed shade of pink that was even lovelier than that which had painted them after a few drinks. it was the ebb and flow of an old comfort merging with a novel form of trepidation. they’d fallen uncharacteristically quiet, and it wasn’t one of their usual comfortable silences - it was rife with anticipation. he felt the unmistakable fluttering in his stomach, the pleasant tingling at the back of his knees, and heard the loud thumping in the cage of foggy’s ribs. he was an open book, and matt hated himself for skimming through the pages of such an intimate diary, like he didn’t have a choice. but he read the signs, he always did. and he knew– he knew, and was helplessly deaf to it: it was a siren’s call that he couldn’t heed, a quiet yearning he had to ignore. and while true ignorance would have been bliss, this was the kind that fuelled the gut consuming guilt of prying into his best and oldest friend’s most intimate secrets. it was life ultimate’s slap in the face: to have nothing if not foggy’s tell-tale heart and the song of his lungs, to be unable to read and address the nervous anticipation in his face or the glistening hope in his eyes.  he didn’t know how to stay the tender yet visceral instinct that came over him as he leaned in to kiss the damp side of foggy’s open mouth. it was not long enough to catch the bated breath between foggy’s lips, but it was enough to remember himself before he could slip into a long forbidden comfort and do some irreparable damage to the only relationship he ever managed to hold onto. he drew back quickly and offered a wanly placid smile, as if nothing happened, emotion once more tucked quietly behind red shades and a practiced façade. behind him, a street lamp flickered and gave way to darkness.in another life, perhaps …“goodnight, foggy.” 

“kiiiIIIYAAAH!” Like a cat that had had a bucket of water thrown on it, Foggy leapt and made the kind of embarrassing noise he’d later deny any and all knowledge of. —- and that was before he even laid eyes on the at-large criminal casually waiting on him around the corner from the Nelson and Murdock offices. It’s a face that’s been on the news for a while now, albeit without the scars and haircut, bt Billy Russo of Anvil fame is still plenty recognizable.

“Office hours are from nine-to-five??” So brave he tries to be, but the statement still emerges as a question instead of the firm-toned answer he’d attempted.

“Nine-to-five, huh?” Not sounding even a little put out by this information, he turns to lean against the brick of the building they stand beside, eyes still level with his feet for the time being. As if they hid the tight set of his mouth, or the swirling black of fathomless eyes. “Was it office hours when you came to Frank? Threatening him with your baseball bat?”