Daredevil/Fantastic Four fic: "Whisper Your Name Into the Sky" (Matt Murdock and Ben Grimm, PG-13)
Title: Whisper Your Name Into the Sky
Fandoms: Daredevil and Fantastic Four, vaguely movieverse with a touch of comics canon (namely, that the F4 are clients of Nelson & Murdock) thrown in.
Characters: Matt Murdock and Ben Grimm (Background Ben/Alicia.)
Rating: PG-13 for language
Word count: 3,600
Summary: The Thing and Daredevil walk into a bar...
Author's notes: Title and cut-tag text are from "As I Lay Me Down" by Sophie B. Hawkins. This fic takes place in roughly the same continuity as my Daredevil fic "Never Rained Like It Has Tonight."
Matt's got a strange relationship with the Fantastic Four. In costume, they pretty much stay out of each other's way. They handle the high-profile stuff, explosions and accidents and bomb threats, and get all the glory, keys to the city, ceremonies with the mayor, that sort of thing. He stays in the Kitchen, deals with muggings and drug dealers and the Kingpin, and what little press he gets ranges between slander and just plain untrue. But he doesn't care. If he had his way, there wouldn't be any press at all.
Out of costume--or as out of costume as they ever get--they're a pretty good bunch. Good clients, definitely. He doesn't know Sue well, but she seems nice. The kind of lady you'd want for your sister. Reed is...well, Reed. Johnny's just a punk kid. But Ben...Ben reminds him of his dad. All rough edges and warm, beery breath; sandpaper voice, broad shoulders, heavy fists. He's a literal mountain of a man, the way Battlin' Jack was when Matt was a kid. Still is, in his memories.
Matt makes his way through the crowded bar, drawn towards the weird, dry smell that is uniquely Ben Grimm. Like a quarry on a scorching day, not just any rocks, but fresh ones, raw bones of the earth. Dusty warm skin in the sunshine, sweat, baked blue jeans and yellow plastic construction hats. That's Ben.
Ben's heartbeat is a bass drum, church bell, velvet mallet boom, dark and bone-deep. Illuminating the world, and Matt smiles a little at the sound of it, stowing his folded cane in the pocket of his coat. He doesn't need it, even as little as he ever does. Not here, this close.
***
It started back when Matt thought Reed was the only one of them who knew, or suspected, when the Fantastic Four were just clients and he was just their lawyer. Right around when Reed's habitual, pointed, "And, erm, if there's anything you ever need from us, Matthew," speech at the end of every meeting was getting awkward. Ben hung back one afternoon while the rest of them were piling into the Fantasticar, not moving from the corner of Matt's office where he'd been looming.
"You got a minute, Murdock?"
"Sure." He figured it was something about a will, something else private, and waited until the others left. Gestured. "Have a seat?"
"Can't. Those fancy chairs of yours got matchstick legs."
Right. "Sorry."
"You didn't build 'em."
He debated standing, offering coffee; then thought about shattered mugs and didn't. "What can I do for you, Ben?"
Massive shoulders hunched in a shrug, and rock rasped as he spread his hands. "It's kinda personal. I just started to date a blind chick."
Matt had to scramble, for a second, shifting gears. Not a will. Okay. He leaned forward slightly, relaxing a little. "Oh. Well, congratulations."
Ben barked a laugh. "Yeah, it's perfect, right? A girl who can't see me."
"That's not--I meant about dating," he replied, trying not to wince. "It's tough, finding somebody."
"I bet it's hard for you. Only, what, five dates a week?"
"It's not like that. You'd be surprised."
Ben gave that laugh again, rough and bitter. "Yeah. I bet."
He thought about snapping something, then shook his head and sighed. Truth was, it wasn't the same, and he knew it. Couldn't even imagine it. Being...rock. Smelling like rock. Looking like that, what he could only imagine, filling in the blanks of that hulking silhouette. "So," he said, lifting a hand, "I'm guessing you're not here for lessons in reading Braille?"
"I need advice. You seemed like a good guy to ask."
"I need a beer," Matt replied, surprising himself. Or maybe not so surprising, with dust-dry heat in his nose, on the back of his tongue. With his voice slipping into a rhythm he didn't know he remembered. "You wanna grab a cold one?"
He'd meant Dougal's, down on the corner, but they ended up at some bar & grill Ben knew, where he was pretty sure they wouldn't have any trouble. It threw Matt, some. He wasn't used to anticipating trouble like that, not unless he was hustling pool or something. Then again, he wasn't sure if "trouble" meant "getting stared at," and didn't want to ask.
They spent the first drink making small talk. Painful small talk, since Matt had his guard up, and Ben...was Ben. When the conversation stalled after touching on Reed, Sue, Johnny, the weather, and the Mets, Matt sighed and pushed his dark glasses up the bridge of his nose. "You wanted advice?"
"I'm gonna get us another beer."
God, he was easy to track. Like he was the only person in the place. Boom. When he came back, the floor shook, and the wooden booth groaned as he sat with a small earthquake of weight that was probably gingerly, for him. His forearm against the table was sandpaper; rough fingertips and palm rasped even against the glass. So much noise. Weird, wrong noise. And yet. It was all such heavy, slow and steady noise, and under it all, that deep, rhythmic boom. It should have given Matt a migraine, but instead, he felt his neck unknotting a little as he took the glass, and smiled. "So. What do you want to know?"
To be honest, from the little he knew Ben Grimm, he expected crass. "She's blind; how do I fuck her?" Maybe not that crass, in all fairness, but something close. What he didn't expect was Ben hunching up; sighing from the center of the earth.
"You think I'm taking advantage of her?"
Matt picked up his glass, just to check. Still heavy, almost full. Not remotely drunk, so he had every reason to be so confused. "What? Why?"
Ben took a deep swig. Sighed again. "C'mon, Murdock. You might be blind, but you got a pretty good idea how I look, don't ya?"
He shook his head. "Not really. I mean, I've heard rumors, stuff on the TV, but..."
"No. I said," Ben said, leaning forward and lowering his voice to a deeper, very meaningful rumble, "I don't know how, but you've got a pretty good idea, right? But if I dared to guess..."
Jesus. Apparently it wasn't just Reed, and it wasn't just speculation. Matt resisted the temptation to bury his head in his hands or walk out, and instead took a slow drink, letting the bitter coldness effervesce against the roof of his mouth before he swallowed. It was good beer, really good, and the glassware was clean. Nice bar Ben had picked, and he wasn't sure why that reassured him, some, but it did. He let out a breath and looked across the table, unsure whether to be pissed or relieved. "Subtle as a ton of bricks, huh."
Ben laughed. "If the shoe fits..."
"I've got an idea," Matt admitted, slowly, trying to figure out how to phrase it. "A general idea. Outline. The details are all non-visual: scent, sound. That sort of thing. It's really not enough for a clear picture."
"Would she get that?" Ben asked, and Matt didn't know him well enough to tell if that was hope in his tone or not. "I've heard your other senses--"
"No. At least, not like this." And it was truly weird to have to think about this. Uncomfortable, having to think about what being blind would be like, but of course Ben couldn't know that. "Your voice is a little different than normal human. And it's easy to tell that you're big. Heavy. And your hands, when you touch something. She probably wouldn't hear rough, not on most surfaces, but she would hear hard. Like on glass." He tilted his head slightly, curious. "Haven't you told her what you look like?"
"She figured that out on her own. Came right up and touched me." His voice dropped, softer. "But there's knowing, and there's knowing, ya know? I haven't come out and told her. She's never asked."
"So, what's the problem?"
Ben took a long swig from his metal ice bucket, then shrugged, sand on wood. "I don't want her to be in this if she doesn't know what she's gettin' into. I wanna be sure she knows what I am. Really knows."
"And you think she'd have to see you to really know who you are?" Matt asked.
"Aw, don't give me that crap. 'It's what's on the inside; you've got a big heart; beauty's only skin deep,' whatever. It's all a bunch of fairydust and lollipops bullshit, and we both know it."
"I don't."
"Bullshit," Ben said again, draining his beer and punctuating it with a belch. "Nice shades, by the way."
"What, you think I wear these because--" Except he did. Because he was self-conscious about that. Slowly, deliberately, he pulled them off. Folded them into a precise, flat bundle, set them on the tabletop, and tried his best to meet Ben's gaze. "Fine. This better?"
"I wasn't asking--" Ben started to growl, but then Matt heard the smile and surprise in his voice. "Hey. You got a good face."
"Thanks."
"So," Ben said, a minute later, "will you take a look at me? See if it feels as bad as we both know it is?"
"Ben--"
"I'm asking you a favor, Murdock."
Matt sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. There was not enough beer in the bar to make this seem like a good idea. Very possibly, not enough beer in the world. "Just to get this straight, you're asking me to feel you--because I'm blind--to see if you feel more attractive than you look. Because you think I know how you look. And you think your blind girlfriend will care."
"You got a problem with that?" Ben asked. "It's not like it's hard."
Matt spread his hands. "Just wanted to make sure we're on the same page." His lips quirked. "The same weird, vaguely inappropriate, apparently Braille page, at that."
"Would you quit bustin' my nuts? This is important," Ben said, softer, lower. Hurt. "Wouldn't've asked if it wasn't."
The side of Matt's glass was cool beneath his palm, wet with condensation, like rain against a window. His smile faded as he remembered another night, a long time ago, his dark glasses folded on a dorm room nightstand and his hand on Foggy's cheek. And, yeah, Ben might have been overreacting, but it was important. Matt got that.
"Yeah, Ben. I'll do it," he said at last, and finished his beer. "But not here. My place?"
"You got roommates?"
Matt's eyebrows rose. "Are you kidding? No."
"Then yeah, your place. I don't want to explain this to Reed."
They decided to walk, since it was a nice night. And it was different, weird and wonderful, with Ben stomping along beside him, that bass drum outlining the world. Overwhelming the world. Like he could see forever, without the constant scatter-scrape noise on top.
"So. Why me?" Matt asked after a few blocks. He sensed Ben turning to him and shrugged, moving his cane out of habit rather than necessity. "Why not Reed?"
Ben snorted. "Reed strike you as a guy who needs another reason to get himself all tied up? He feels responsible anyway," he added, one hand crunching into the other. "He don't need to know how fucked-up I am about it."
"He's one of the biggest brains on the planet," Matt replied. "You think he doesn't already?"
"You're blind; he's not." And Matt was just going to point out that it didn't take an actual rocket scientist to figure out how to approximately simulate the experience when Ben heaved a sigh. "I don't want him lookin' at me when he says it, all right? When he does give me that flowery la-di-da crap about how I've got a great personality and I'm still the same ol' Ben."
His hearbeat said he was telling the truth, but Matt wondered if it was simpler than that. If Ben just didn't want Reed looking at him. Seeing, sure, but not truly looking. Maybe that was part of the appeal. "Yeah," he agreed at last, when Ben seemed to be expecting him to say something. "You're right. He's not blind. It makes sense."
When Matt unlocked his door the normal way for him, he couldn't suppress a satisfied smile at Ben's huff of surprise. Maybe all this would help convince Reed that Daredevil was more than borderline competent. His smile widened when they stepped inside and he flipped the lights.
"Whoa, nice place," Ben said, following him down the stairs. His voice echoed; pebbles falling on stone. "Quiet."
In here, the boom was in Matt's bones, wiping out everything. The refrigerator hum. The lightbulb buzz. The distant neighbors. All of it. Just. Gone. Muted in dark gong velvet, this amazing, heavy relief. Deafening, yeah, but it was the quietest his head had been in years.
"Soundproofed," he said at last, trying not to laugh, and gestured toward the sofa. "Have a seat. It's sturdy. And I need a new one anyway," he added, earning a chuckle from Ben.
"Couches are fine. It's just chairs. And glass. And elevators," Ben replied as he sat. "Shoes, but I got a new pair on special order."
Matt nodded, hanging up his jacket. He pulled off his glasses again and set them on the table, next to his cane, then headed for the kitchenette. "Want something to drink? Or food? I've got...well. Not much. Sandwich stuff. Leftover Chinese. And a frozen pizza, I think."
"Nah. I'm good. But don't let me stop you." He sounded awkward all of a sudden, hoarser, uptight and unsure, and Matt shook his head about the food as he joined him on the couch. Ben was sitting with his hands between his knees, shoulders slumped, and Matt settled back against the cushions in the corner and intentionally looked over his head instead of directly at him.
"So," he said, casually, "this girl. What's her name?"
Ben turned, surprised, before relaxing a little. "Alicia. Alicia Masters."
"She pretty?"
"Oh, yeah," he said warmly. "Gorgeous. She's black, with real pretty curly hair and these big brown eyes, an' this smile that just lights up the room. Great laugh, too. She's always laughin'. And she's smart. Laid-back..."
Matt smiled. "She sounds perfect."
"Yeah. She's an artist," Ben added, after a minute. "Professional, I mean. Does these sculptures, just by touch. They're real good."
Matt had to rub a hand across his mouth to keep from laughing. "She's an artist who works by touch," he managed, "and you don't trust her to know what you look like?"
Ben let out a slow breath. "A lot of things probably feel fine that're ugly as sin," he replied at last. "Like this couch, for example. Man."
"I've never seen it. Got it my first year of law school." He smiled again, rubbing his palm across the top of the armrest, feeling the tiny fibers smooth like a cat's coat beneath his touch. It was a great couch. Soft as an old sweater. Deep cushions. Great smell, which had partly been why he was drawn to it at the secondhand shop. Faint pipe tobacco, fireplace, whiskey. Cheap cologne. Pencil shavings. Dried ketchup. Dust. It smelled like home. "Foggy gives me hell about it, though. Green and brown plaid, right?"
"Yeah, but it's, like, olive green and that institutional pea green, with dark brown and kind of a puke-colored tan. And these little purple and red lines running through it. Ugliest couch I've ever seen." Ben laughed, and that bitter note was back. "But if you can't see it, it's great, right?"
Matt shook his head. "I can't see it, so I don't care," he said, leaning forward and gesturing for emphasis. "Are you deliberately not getting this?"
"Hey. You're the one who's not gettin' it," Ben rasped, grinding his knuckles against his other palm. One of them popped like a gunshot. "Other people can see...the couch, you know? Other people can come in here and wonder what you were thinkin' when you bought it. Feel sorry for you because you can't see it. Probably think you deserve better. And maybe you do."
"Better than an ugly couch." He felt the weight of Ben's dirty look and sighed. "Goddammit, Ben. What do you want me to say? That I think it's shitty of you to date a blind woman when you look the way you do? Because I don't," he said. "I'd think it was shitty if you'd gone out looking for a blind woman because you felt like sighted ones were out of your league and were settling, or something, but that's not what this is. I think you're a good guy, from what I've seen. I think being concerned about this stuff says a lot. But honestly, I think you're making too much out of it."
Ben was quiet, just breathing. Turned toward Matt, but whether he was studying him or incredulous or with his face clouding-over pissed, Matt couldn't say. Ben didn't smell like other people. Apparently didn't sweat like other people. Hard to read, but not in a bad way. Just strange, realizing he'd forgotten what normal felt like. "Guess I would take another beer," Ben said at last. "If you've got it. Or coffee's fine."
"Sure." Matt got as far as taking two out of the fridge before he paused with the necks hooked in his fingers. "It's in bottles. If that's not okay, I've got a metal thermos in the cupboard."
"That'd probably be a good idea," Ben said, sounding surprised. "Thanks," he added, a minute later, when Matt held it out. It was old, his dad's, dented, scarred metal with a screw-on cap. There used to be a red plastic lid that doubled as a little cup, but it had gotten lost somewhere over the years. "Thanks for askin', too. Most people wouldn't."
Matt snorted softly before taking a drink. "Most people aren't used to making adjustments," he pointed out. "You and Alicia have that in common."
"We've got a lot in common." Ben sighed, leaning forward to set the thermos on the coffee table. He remained hunched over, elbows resting on his thighs. "But about that. You think it's wrong of me to like it that she can't see me?"
Matt raked his fingers through his hair, then took another drink. Slowly. Giving himself a little time. "I think," he said, finally, "that you're shortchanging her if you don't think she knows what you look like, Ben. She may not know what color your eyes are unless you tell her, may not have the whole weird picture that I do, but she's not stupid. She probably thinks you're a hero, like everyone else in the city does, and a good guy, and she probably just likes you."
"You didn't answer my question."
"Do I think it's wrong?" He shook his head. "Christ, no. Nobody likes being stared at because they're different, especially if it's something they're self-conscious about. This is new to you, right? Why would it be wrong for you to like being with Alicia? It makes sense for you to feel comfortable around her. And me, for that matter," he added.
"I don't--" Ben began, but then he chuckled and took a big swig from the thermos. "It's not why I asked you. But, yeah, it's kinda nice."
Matt felt his lips curve in a reluctant half-smile. "As long as we're confessing, I have to admit, it's nice being around you, too."
"Oh, yeah?"
"Your heartbeat," Matt explained, gesturing vaguely with the bottle. "It's so loud it drowns out all the ambient noise, all the stuff I normally have to filter out. It's a relief. In a weird way, it makes the world seem quiet."
"Huh." Ben settled back onto the couch, making the frame groan softly. "Well. If you ever, you know, need that, you can give me a call."
"Yeah? Thanks." Matt shifted, too, getting more comfortable. Between the couch and the beers and the warmth radiating from Ben's skin, it was the most relaxed he'd been in a long time. "You too, you know," he said. "If you ever--"
"Yeah," Ben said, nodding. "Thanks."
***
He puts a hand on Ben's bare shoulder, hot dry rock grit solid beneath his palm. Like an anchor, island, with that boom a beacon. Lets out a breath he didn't know he was holding in, and feels something loosen in his chest. "Hey."
"Matty!" Ben reaches up to pat his hand, surprisingly gentle from that huge paw, then gestures across the booth. "'Bout time you showed up. I ordered your drink half an hour ago."
"Thanks. I could use one." His fingertips skate over the glossy tabletop until he finds the glass, in its tiny puddle of condensation. It's still pretty cold when he takes a swallow, and he exhales, satisfied.
"Long day?"
"Yeah. Just the usual, though." Just another bad night and not enough sleep, Foggy clucking and bitching about his bruises and another day the system didn't work. Another headache. The usual.
"Yeah? Me too."
Matt thinks about his dad a lot, evenings like this, when they do this. Heading to the local watering hole after work, back when he worked construction, washing down the taste of hot stone dust with a cold one. Sitting at some barstool, getting some rest and relief away from it all, just shooting the shit with some of the guys.
It's hard not to think about his dad, nights like this, when they do this. Battlin' Jack's heartbeat used to light up the world. Used to be the only sound in the world; felt like it was beating in his chest alongside his own. Just like Ben's.
Fandoms: Daredevil and Fantastic Four, vaguely movieverse with a touch of comics canon (namely, that the F4 are clients of Nelson & Murdock) thrown in.
Characters: Matt Murdock and Ben Grimm (Background Ben/Alicia.)
Rating: PG-13 for language
Word count: 3,600
Summary: The Thing and Daredevil walk into a bar...
Author's notes: Title and cut-tag text are from "As I Lay Me Down" by Sophie B. Hawkins. This fic takes place in roughly the same continuity as my Daredevil fic "Never Rained Like It Has Tonight."
Matt's got a strange relationship with the Fantastic Four. In costume, they pretty much stay out of each other's way. They handle the high-profile stuff, explosions and accidents and bomb threats, and get all the glory, keys to the city, ceremonies with the mayor, that sort of thing. He stays in the Kitchen, deals with muggings and drug dealers and the Kingpin, and what little press he gets ranges between slander and just plain untrue. But he doesn't care. If he had his way, there wouldn't be any press at all.
Out of costume--or as out of costume as they ever get--they're a pretty good bunch. Good clients, definitely. He doesn't know Sue well, but she seems nice. The kind of lady you'd want for your sister. Reed is...well, Reed. Johnny's just a punk kid. But Ben...Ben reminds him of his dad. All rough edges and warm, beery breath; sandpaper voice, broad shoulders, heavy fists. He's a literal mountain of a man, the way Battlin' Jack was when Matt was a kid. Still is, in his memories.
Matt makes his way through the crowded bar, drawn towards the weird, dry smell that is uniquely Ben Grimm. Like a quarry on a scorching day, not just any rocks, but fresh ones, raw bones of the earth. Dusty warm skin in the sunshine, sweat, baked blue jeans and yellow plastic construction hats. That's Ben.
Ben's heartbeat is a bass drum, church bell, velvet mallet boom, dark and bone-deep. Illuminating the world, and Matt smiles a little at the sound of it, stowing his folded cane in the pocket of his coat. He doesn't need it, even as little as he ever does. Not here, this close.
***
It started back when Matt thought Reed was the only one of them who knew, or suspected, when the Fantastic Four were just clients and he was just their lawyer. Right around when Reed's habitual, pointed, "And, erm, if there's anything you ever need from us, Matthew," speech at the end of every meeting was getting awkward. Ben hung back one afternoon while the rest of them were piling into the Fantasticar, not moving from the corner of Matt's office where he'd been looming.
"You got a minute, Murdock?"
"Sure." He figured it was something about a will, something else private, and waited until the others left. Gestured. "Have a seat?"
"Can't. Those fancy chairs of yours got matchstick legs."
Right. "Sorry."
"You didn't build 'em."
He debated standing, offering coffee; then thought about shattered mugs and didn't. "What can I do for you, Ben?"
Massive shoulders hunched in a shrug, and rock rasped as he spread his hands. "It's kinda personal. I just started to date a blind chick."
Matt had to scramble, for a second, shifting gears. Not a will. Okay. He leaned forward slightly, relaxing a little. "Oh. Well, congratulations."
Ben barked a laugh. "Yeah, it's perfect, right? A girl who can't see me."
"That's not--I meant about dating," he replied, trying not to wince. "It's tough, finding somebody."
"I bet it's hard for you. Only, what, five dates a week?"
"It's not like that. You'd be surprised."
Ben gave that laugh again, rough and bitter. "Yeah. I bet."
He thought about snapping something, then shook his head and sighed. Truth was, it wasn't the same, and he knew it. Couldn't even imagine it. Being...rock. Smelling like rock. Looking like that, what he could only imagine, filling in the blanks of that hulking silhouette. "So," he said, lifting a hand, "I'm guessing you're not here for lessons in reading Braille?"
"I need advice. You seemed like a good guy to ask."
"I need a beer," Matt replied, surprising himself. Or maybe not so surprising, with dust-dry heat in his nose, on the back of his tongue. With his voice slipping into a rhythm he didn't know he remembered. "You wanna grab a cold one?"
He'd meant Dougal's, down on the corner, but they ended up at some bar & grill Ben knew, where he was pretty sure they wouldn't have any trouble. It threw Matt, some. He wasn't used to anticipating trouble like that, not unless he was hustling pool or something. Then again, he wasn't sure if "trouble" meant "getting stared at," and didn't want to ask.
They spent the first drink making small talk. Painful small talk, since Matt had his guard up, and Ben...was Ben. When the conversation stalled after touching on Reed, Sue, Johnny, the weather, and the Mets, Matt sighed and pushed his dark glasses up the bridge of his nose. "You wanted advice?"
"I'm gonna get us another beer."
God, he was easy to track. Like he was the only person in the place. Boom. When he came back, the floor shook, and the wooden booth groaned as he sat with a small earthquake of weight that was probably gingerly, for him. His forearm against the table was sandpaper; rough fingertips and palm rasped even against the glass. So much noise. Weird, wrong noise. And yet. It was all such heavy, slow and steady noise, and under it all, that deep, rhythmic boom. It should have given Matt a migraine, but instead, he felt his neck unknotting a little as he took the glass, and smiled. "So. What do you want to know?"
To be honest, from the little he knew Ben Grimm, he expected crass. "She's blind; how do I fuck her?" Maybe not that crass, in all fairness, but something close. What he didn't expect was Ben hunching up; sighing from the center of the earth.
"You think I'm taking advantage of her?"
Matt picked up his glass, just to check. Still heavy, almost full. Not remotely drunk, so he had every reason to be so confused. "What? Why?"
Ben took a deep swig. Sighed again. "C'mon, Murdock. You might be blind, but you got a pretty good idea how I look, don't ya?"
He shook his head. "Not really. I mean, I've heard rumors, stuff on the TV, but..."
"No. I said," Ben said, leaning forward and lowering his voice to a deeper, very meaningful rumble, "I don't know how, but you've got a pretty good idea, right? But if I dared to guess..."
Jesus. Apparently it wasn't just Reed, and it wasn't just speculation. Matt resisted the temptation to bury his head in his hands or walk out, and instead took a slow drink, letting the bitter coldness effervesce against the roof of his mouth before he swallowed. It was good beer, really good, and the glassware was clean. Nice bar Ben had picked, and he wasn't sure why that reassured him, some, but it did. He let out a breath and looked across the table, unsure whether to be pissed or relieved. "Subtle as a ton of bricks, huh."
Ben laughed. "If the shoe fits..."
"I've got an idea," Matt admitted, slowly, trying to figure out how to phrase it. "A general idea. Outline. The details are all non-visual: scent, sound. That sort of thing. It's really not enough for a clear picture."
"Would she get that?" Ben asked, and Matt didn't know him well enough to tell if that was hope in his tone or not. "I've heard your other senses--"
"No. At least, not like this." And it was truly weird to have to think about this. Uncomfortable, having to think about what being blind would be like, but of course Ben couldn't know that. "Your voice is a little different than normal human. And it's easy to tell that you're big. Heavy. And your hands, when you touch something. She probably wouldn't hear rough, not on most surfaces, but she would hear hard. Like on glass." He tilted his head slightly, curious. "Haven't you told her what you look like?"
"She figured that out on her own. Came right up and touched me." His voice dropped, softer. "But there's knowing, and there's knowing, ya know? I haven't come out and told her. She's never asked."
"So, what's the problem?"
Ben took a long swig from his metal ice bucket, then shrugged, sand on wood. "I don't want her to be in this if she doesn't know what she's gettin' into. I wanna be sure she knows what I am. Really knows."
"And you think she'd have to see you to really know who you are?" Matt asked.
"Aw, don't give me that crap. 'It's what's on the inside; you've got a big heart; beauty's only skin deep,' whatever. It's all a bunch of fairydust and lollipops bullshit, and we both know it."
"I don't."
"Bullshit," Ben said again, draining his beer and punctuating it with a belch. "Nice shades, by the way."
"What, you think I wear these because--" Except he did. Because he was self-conscious about that. Slowly, deliberately, he pulled them off. Folded them into a precise, flat bundle, set them on the tabletop, and tried his best to meet Ben's gaze. "Fine. This better?"
"I wasn't asking--" Ben started to growl, but then Matt heard the smile and surprise in his voice. "Hey. You got a good face."
"Thanks."
"So," Ben said, a minute later, "will you take a look at me? See if it feels as bad as we both know it is?"
"Ben--"
"I'm asking you a favor, Murdock."
Matt sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. There was not enough beer in the bar to make this seem like a good idea. Very possibly, not enough beer in the world. "Just to get this straight, you're asking me to feel you--because I'm blind--to see if you feel more attractive than you look. Because you think I know how you look. And you think your blind girlfriend will care."
"You got a problem with that?" Ben asked. "It's not like it's hard."
Matt spread his hands. "Just wanted to make sure we're on the same page." His lips quirked. "The same weird, vaguely inappropriate, apparently Braille page, at that."
"Would you quit bustin' my nuts? This is important," Ben said, softer, lower. Hurt. "Wouldn't've asked if it wasn't."
The side of Matt's glass was cool beneath his palm, wet with condensation, like rain against a window. His smile faded as he remembered another night, a long time ago, his dark glasses folded on a dorm room nightstand and his hand on Foggy's cheek. And, yeah, Ben might have been overreacting, but it was important. Matt got that.
"Yeah, Ben. I'll do it," he said at last, and finished his beer. "But not here. My place?"
"You got roommates?"
Matt's eyebrows rose. "Are you kidding? No."
"Then yeah, your place. I don't want to explain this to Reed."
They decided to walk, since it was a nice night. And it was different, weird and wonderful, with Ben stomping along beside him, that bass drum outlining the world. Overwhelming the world. Like he could see forever, without the constant scatter-scrape noise on top.
"So. Why me?" Matt asked after a few blocks. He sensed Ben turning to him and shrugged, moving his cane out of habit rather than necessity. "Why not Reed?"
Ben snorted. "Reed strike you as a guy who needs another reason to get himself all tied up? He feels responsible anyway," he added, one hand crunching into the other. "He don't need to know how fucked-up I am about it."
"He's one of the biggest brains on the planet," Matt replied. "You think he doesn't already?"
"You're blind; he's not." And Matt was just going to point out that it didn't take an actual rocket scientist to figure out how to approximately simulate the experience when Ben heaved a sigh. "I don't want him lookin' at me when he says it, all right? When he does give me that flowery la-di-da crap about how I've got a great personality and I'm still the same ol' Ben."
His hearbeat said he was telling the truth, but Matt wondered if it was simpler than that. If Ben just didn't want Reed looking at him. Seeing, sure, but not truly looking. Maybe that was part of the appeal. "Yeah," he agreed at last, when Ben seemed to be expecting him to say something. "You're right. He's not blind. It makes sense."
When Matt unlocked his door the normal way for him, he couldn't suppress a satisfied smile at Ben's huff of surprise. Maybe all this would help convince Reed that Daredevil was more than borderline competent. His smile widened when they stepped inside and he flipped the lights.
"Whoa, nice place," Ben said, following him down the stairs. His voice echoed; pebbles falling on stone. "Quiet."
In here, the boom was in Matt's bones, wiping out everything. The refrigerator hum. The lightbulb buzz. The distant neighbors. All of it. Just. Gone. Muted in dark gong velvet, this amazing, heavy relief. Deafening, yeah, but it was the quietest his head had been in years.
"Soundproofed," he said at last, trying not to laugh, and gestured toward the sofa. "Have a seat. It's sturdy. And I need a new one anyway," he added, earning a chuckle from Ben.
"Couches are fine. It's just chairs. And glass. And elevators," Ben replied as he sat. "Shoes, but I got a new pair on special order."
Matt nodded, hanging up his jacket. He pulled off his glasses again and set them on the table, next to his cane, then headed for the kitchenette. "Want something to drink? Or food? I've got...well. Not much. Sandwich stuff. Leftover Chinese. And a frozen pizza, I think."
"Nah. I'm good. But don't let me stop you." He sounded awkward all of a sudden, hoarser, uptight and unsure, and Matt shook his head about the food as he joined him on the couch. Ben was sitting with his hands between his knees, shoulders slumped, and Matt settled back against the cushions in the corner and intentionally looked over his head instead of directly at him.
"So," he said, casually, "this girl. What's her name?"
Ben turned, surprised, before relaxing a little. "Alicia. Alicia Masters."
"She pretty?"
"Oh, yeah," he said warmly. "Gorgeous. She's black, with real pretty curly hair and these big brown eyes, an' this smile that just lights up the room. Great laugh, too. She's always laughin'. And she's smart. Laid-back..."
Matt smiled. "She sounds perfect."
"Yeah. She's an artist," Ben added, after a minute. "Professional, I mean. Does these sculptures, just by touch. They're real good."
Matt had to rub a hand across his mouth to keep from laughing. "She's an artist who works by touch," he managed, "and you don't trust her to know what you look like?"
Ben let out a slow breath. "A lot of things probably feel fine that're ugly as sin," he replied at last. "Like this couch, for example. Man."
"I've never seen it. Got it my first year of law school." He smiled again, rubbing his palm across the top of the armrest, feeling the tiny fibers smooth like a cat's coat beneath his touch. It was a great couch. Soft as an old sweater. Deep cushions. Great smell, which had partly been why he was drawn to it at the secondhand shop. Faint pipe tobacco, fireplace, whiskey. Cheap cologne. Pencil shavings. Dried ketchup. Dust. It smelled like home. "Foggy gives me hell about it, though. Green and brown plaid, right?"
"Yeah, but it's, like, olive green and that institutional pea green, with dark brown and kind of a puke-colored tan. And these little purple and red lines running through it. Ugliest couch I've ever seen." Ben laughed, and that bitter note was back. "But if you can't see it, it's great, right?"
Matt shook his head. "I can't see it, so I don't care," he said, leaning forward and gesturing for emphasis. "Are you deliberately not getting this?"
"Hey. You're the one who's not gettin' it," Ben rasped, grinding his knuckles against his other palm. One of them popped like a gunshot. "Other people can see...the couch, you know? Other people can come in here and wonder what you were thinkin' when you bought it. Feel sorry for you because you can't see it. Probably think you deserve better. And maybe you do."
"Better than an ugly couch." He felt the weight of Ben's dirty look and sighed. "Goddammit, Ben. What do you want me to say? That I think it's shitty of you to date a blind woman when you look the way you do? Because I don't," he said. "I'd think it was shitty if you'd gone out looking for a blind woman because you felt like sighted ones were out of your league and were settling, or something, but that's not what this is. I think you're a good guy, from what I've seen. I think being concerned about this stuff says a lot. But honestly, I think you're making too much out of it."
Ben was quiet, just breathing. Turned toward Matt, but whether he was studying him or incredulous or with his face clouding-over pissed, Matt couldn't say. Ben didn't smell like other people. Apparently didn't sweat like other people. Hard to read, but not in a bad way. Just strange, realizing he'd forgotten what normal felt like. "Guess I would take another beer," Ben said at last. "If you've got it. Or coffee's fine."
"Sure." Matt got as far as taking two out of the fridge before he paused with the necks hooked in his fingers. "It's in bottles. If that's not okay, I've got a metal thermos in the cupboard."
"That'd probably be a good idea," Ben said, sounding surprised. "Thanks," he added, a minute later, when Matt held it out. It was old, his dad's, dented, scarred metal with a screw-on cap. There used to be a red plastic lid that doubled as a little cup, but it had gotten lost somewhere over the years. "Thanks for askin', too. Most people wouldn't."
Matt snorted softly before taking a drink. "Most people aren't used to making adjustments," he pointed out. "You and Alicia have that in common."
"We've got a lot in common." Ben sighed, leaning forward to set the thermos on the coffee table. He remained hunched over, elbows resting on his thighs. "But about that. You think it's wrong of me to like it that she can't see me?"
Matt raked his fingers through his hair, then took another drink. Slowly. Giving himself a little time. "I think," he said, finally, "that you're shortchanging her if you don't think she knows what you look like, Ben. She may not know what color your eyes are unless you tell her, may not have the whole weird picture that I do, but she's not stupid. She probably thinks you're a hero, like everyone else in the city does, and a good guy, and she probably just likes you."
"You didn't answer my question."
"Do I think it's wrong?" He shook his head. "Christ, no. Nobody likes being stared at because they're different, especially if it's something they're self-conscious about. This is new to you, right? Why would it be wrong for you to like being with Alicia? It makes sense for you to feel comfortable around her. And me, for that matter," he added.
"I don't--" Ben began, but then he chuckled and took a big swig from the thermos. "It's not why I asked you. But, yeah, it's kinda nice."
Matt felt his lips curve in a reluctant half-smile. "As long as we're confessing, I have to admit, it's nice being around you, too."
"Oh, yeah?"
"Your heartbeat," Matt explained, gesturing vaguely with the bottle. "It's so loud it drowns out all the ambient noise, all the stuff I normally have to filter out. It's a relief. In a weird way, it makes the world seem quiet."
"Huh." Ben settled back onto the couch, making the frame groan softly. "Well. If you ever, you know, need that, you can give me a call."
"Yeah? Thanks." Matt shifted, too, getting more comfortable. Between the couch and the beers and the warmth radiating from Ben's skin, it was the most relaxed he'd been in a long time. "You too, you know," he said. "If you ever--"
"Yeah," Ben said, nodding. "Thanks."
***
He puts a hand on Ben's bare shoulder, hot dry rock grit solid beneath his palm. Like an anchor, island, with that boom a beacon. Lets out a breath he didn't know he was holding in, and feels something loosen in his chest. "Hey."
"Matty!" Ben reaches up to pat his hand, surprisingly gentle from that huge paw, then gestures across the booth. "'Bout time you showed up. I ordered your drink half an hour ago."
"Thanks. I could use one." His fingertips skate over the glossy tabletop until he finds the glass, in its tiny puddle of condensation. It's still pretty cold when he takes a swallow, and he exhales, satisfied.
"Long day?"
"Yeah. Just the usual, though." Just another bad night and not enough sleep, Foggy clucking and bitching about his bruises and another day the system didn't work. Another headache. The usual.
"Yeah? Me too."
Matt thinks about his dad a lot, evenings like this, when they do this. Heading to the local watering hole after work, back when he worked construction, washing down the taste of hot stone dust with a cold one. Sitting at some barstool, getting some rest and relief away from it all, just shooting the shit with some of the guys.
It's hard not to think about his dad, nights like this, when they do this. Battlin' Jack's heartbeat used to light up the world. Used to be the only sound in the world; felt like it was beating in his chest alongside his own. Just like Ben's.