Pairing: Matt Murdock/mystery man (you'll find out eventually)

Warnings: character death, M/M romance (slash), angst

A/N: I don't own anything. Written as a prompt response for Gemenice… enjoy and of course, comments are greatly appreciated!

Nobody really expected the explosion. No scanners picked up the explosives – it was some kind of Skrull tech and Matt didn't really know how it worked or why was alien technology right there, on Earth, in New York.

Actually, all he knew when it happened was that it HURT: his head nearly blew apart and the air pressure threw him into a wall. He felt his ears pop and his ribs crack and then there was only searing white pain.

…...

He woke up in a bed – at least he thought it was a bed. It certainly felt like one, and Matt tentatively raised his hands (and wiggled his toes, just to make sure his feet were on their respective places). The motion hurt, especially around his chest, and judging by the bandages Matt could feel tightened around his ribs, he guessed he'd cracked a few bones.

There was a bandage around his head too, and his ears rang, or more like rustled, in a very, very strange way. Combined with his pounding headache, the noise was a bitch to deal with and Matt really, really regretted that whoever took him from the battlefield didn't have the sense to put him in his soundproofed tank.

Then again, it might've been difficult getting in and out of the liquid when he could hardly move without wincing.

That was when Matt realized that apart from the irritating background noise, he couldn't hear anything else.

He was going to find whoever planted that bomb and kill the motherfucker.

"Fuck," he groaned, at least he thought he had: he could feel the vibrations of his own voice, ragged and strained, but he could not hear the sound. It was much like going blind all over again, this time without the magical discovery of new sensations.

Fuck indeed.

He jerked away in surprise when someone touched his arm: it has been years, decades even, since someone managed to sneak up on him, and Matt immediately decided that he hated the feeling.

"Who the fuck-" he started, but a violent coughing fit prevented him from finishing the fundamental question: was he with friends or foes?

Then again, the enemies probably wouldn't have taken much interest in his wounds.

When he managed to overcome the coughing that hurt his entire chest, the hand on his shoulder pushed him down – gently, but resolutely, and Matt did not have it in him to fight. He did need to rest, he knew that: while it was quite irritating to be blind AND deaf, it was still a lot better than dying of lung puncture. And having a lung punctured with his own rib due to his own stupidity was so lame that Matt couldn't even think about it properly.

The hand retreated and Matt waited for a sedative injection or something that would make him sleep (because it would probably be damn difficult to get to sleep with that ringing in his ears) – he wasn't sure how long it took, but when the hand returned, it was not for sedation. It touched Matt's shoulder with gentleness and Matt decided to ignore the sense of pity he felt, because that might have been just his hurt pride acting up.

The man – because with the size of that hand, it would've had to be the Hulk's sister to be female – slid his hand slowly, carefully to Matt's and placed a piece of paper between Matt's fingers. At first, Matt very much wanted to be nasty and tell the idiot that he had not magically recovered sight and thus could NOT read: but insulting someone required talking out loud and that risked another coughing fit.

He raised the paper over his chest to hold it in both hands, with all the mind to crumple it and throw it in the direction of the idiot who'd just attempted to communicate with a newly-deaf, still BLIND man with a note on paper… and that was when he felt it.

Puncture marks.

Raising an eyebrow at that, he tentatively ran two fingers over the paper. Could it be…

Feeling over the protrusions, he couldn't believe his luck that someone would actually use their brain to tell him what was wrong.

Now… B… the next one… S…T… was that I…? And what the hell was that…? J or O, maybe…? F…? Another I?

With a frown, Matt did his best to make sense out of that, but he couldn't.

He already half-opened his mouth to really insult the intelligence of whoever was in the room with him, when it occurred to his whistling, rustling mind that maybe, HOPEFULLY, he had it backwards. He flipped the paper to the other side and tried to feel for the little holes. It was a bit more difficult, with his whole body still sore, his fingers included, but he managed in the end.

YOURRIBSCRACKEDREST, the message said, and Matt felt the urge to strangle the idiot who handed him the paper. His ribs were cracked? No shit.

But he guessed antagonizing the only person who was there for some information wasn't the smartest move, so he bit back the anger and took a steady, shallow breath to not irritate his lungs again.

"I know," he breathed out, "explosion," he continued, just to clarify that the guy didn't really need to break the news to him that he'd been caught in one. "Deaf…?" he finished, hoping he'd asked enough.

He wondered if they'd made a makeshift Braille printer: the punctures seemed a little irregular, unlike the normal books printed this way, and the protrusions and holes were backwards, so it must've been some self-made machine: Matt guessed Stark, and made up his mind to scold the man later about his lack of sufficient research on the subject.

Well. Maybe not. This was better than being absolutely unable to communicate, so… maybe Matt would leave the objections to himself, for now.

He would have liked to say that he stared into the ceiling until the other man's touch returned, but that would've been stretching his almost non-existent imagination to ridiculous levels. He merely… vegetated or something, unable to listen to what was happening around him and feeling so vulnerable that his bones could've broken down just out of sheer frustration. Only now, lying in bed with his own ribs his enemy and incapable of using the radar sense he'd got with his blindness, Matt realized how it felt to be truly, profoundly disabled. He'd never accepted the notion before: when he'd lost his sight, he'd been young enough to adapt pretty fast, and he'd had a whole new set of awesome skills to play with, to develop, to use instead of his eyes.

And now, that sense was gone as well and Matt didn't know how he'd be able to function as a living being. He couldn't fight like this – and screw fight, he couldn't practice law or even walk or communicate, he couldn't order a damn coffee without someone putting it right into his hand, probably… and he felt like screaming. But he wouldn't be able to hear it, and he'd cough himself to death afterwards. So… he couldn't even let out all the frustration.

He was already beginning to feel panic tighten his chest when the man's hand returned, large and warm and soothing on Matt's bare shoulder.

The paper didn't make sense the first time again: that was when Matt realized that the man must've seen his previous attempt to read the bumps instead of the holes on the opposite side of the paper. Maybe he'd been tinkering with the printer and that was what had taken him so long: nonetheless, the message was there and Matt was kinda afraid to read it, but it was better than not being sure.

SHOULDHEALFEWWEEKSREST

With a relieved sigh, he relaxed into the pillow, letting his hand with the paper drop into his lap. Good. So he'd only be useless for a few weeks.

Well. Better than eternity.

"Thanks," he mumbled before sleep overtook him despite the irritating ringing in his ears and Matt's last thought was that it had been stupid of him to expect an injection when he had an IV dripping into his vein.

…

He woke up again, but it didn't last long, and he fell asleep again, and woke up and fell asleep – he had no sense of how much time had passed. He couldn't see the light of the day or the darkness of the night, and without being able to hear the sounds of the people bustling about, Matt truly had no idea if he had been lying in that bed for a day or a month.

Sleeping became easier, a bit, because the strange sounds in his ears wasn't continuous – it appeared randomly, rustling, whistling, buzzing altering with complete silence, and Matt wasn't sure what was more irritating. He tried his best to enjoy the silence while it lasted, but it quickly became boring when he had to lie awake, unable to fall asleep again and unable to do anything to somehow pass time.

The man from the first (?) day came back, even though Matt hadn't expected him to. He touched Matt's shoulder again, inducing another startle, but one Matt could handle: he'd come to be on edge all the time, expecting movement around the needle in his arm when a nurse came to change the IV bags.

The man pushed a paper to Matt's hands, and this time it was a longer explanation of what had happened: apparently, the explosion caused Matt's eardrums to tear. It could be repaired, the surgery was a relatively easy one, with a high rate of success, and Matt healed a bit faster than a typical patient: but the torn membranes needed to heal on their own first, which would probably take up to two or three weeks.

His ribs were cracked, too, three of them, but his lungs miraculously survived almost intact, and otherwise, except for a few bruises, he was alright. That put Matt's mind to ease a little, and he ran his fingers over the paper again, glad for the familiarity of the little bumps that made him feel like a human being again, not a vegetable.

He thought about the man: he must've prepared the explanation at home, the bumps seemed more even and easier to read than those from the last time. Matt appreciated the effort, and almost felt ashamed that he'd wanted to yell at the guy the first time, glad that he hadn't in the end.

"Thanks," he said again, his throat still sore – at least he didn't feel like coughing again.

Again, there was some time before another note came, and when it did, it read YOURWELCOME
WATER

"Yeah, water would be nice… thanks," Matt muttered, not very happy about having to ask for such a simple thing as a drink, but his throat was parched even if the IV kept hydrated.

The man touched his shoulder again, which Matt was beginning to recognize as a sign for 'I'm here, don't be surprised' – then the hand slid under his shoulder carefully, helping him to sit up a little and holding him upright for the most part: as much as Matt hated to admit it, he probably wouldn't have been able to sit without any support just yet. Matt had a feeling that the man was leaning close to him – there was a faint scent of soap and skin, and it felt good to be able to smell that, because that meant there was another human being with Matt and he didn't feel so lonely. God, he'd never have thought that he of all people would feel lonely… but he did, he did, so much in this… time he'd spent in the bed.

Something cold and wet and hard touched the fingers of his IV-free hand, and Matt recognized it as glass. He tried to grip it tight, but it felt precarious in his still weakened fingers. The man didn't let go – he helped Matt drink even if he let him have full control of the glass, simply being there just in case. Matt hated being vulnerable like this, incapable of basic motions, but he was glad for the man's gentle help anyway: he couldn't but feel thankful warmth in his chest at the fact that the guy didn't simply put the glass to his lips, but let Matt have some semblance of dignity by placing it in his hand.

He thanked him again, his throat and tongue a little less papery. The man simply squeezed his shoulder gently as a response when he let Matt lie down again. Matt thought he'd left again after that, but some time later, there was another note in his hand.

IFYOUNEEDSOMETHINGTELLME

Matt thought about it and shook his head lightly – he was fine. As fine as one could be when it felt like he'd been transported into some kind of a black hole, still with some semblance of consciousness of his own existence, but incapable of seeing, hearing or doing anything.

He tried to sleep: it didn't work. He could feel the cold water inside of him and shivered as it kept him wide awake. But there was nothing much to do, and Matt, as much as he would've liked to talk to someone, despised the fact that they couldn't really talk properly. He didn't even know if the man was still there, and after a few minutes or hours, he slumbered into shallow sleep.

…

A soft touch woke him up. Drowsily he tried to make sense of the light, feather-like touch over his arms and shoulders – he realized it was a blanket, and a slight rustle of paper in his hand.

YOULOOKEDCOLD

Matt found himself chuckling. It felt a little like when he was a kid and got sick, and his father came to tuck him in and brought him tea and told him silly made-up fairy tales.

Well, the last part would be kinda difficult in his position. Matt doubted the guy would feel like writing a short story or something just to entertain him… that brought on the question that Matt should've asked sooner.

"You got a Braille printer?"

There was another slight shift in the air, the soapy, human scent and Matt realized that it had been there for a longer time, in the atmosphere of his room, faint, almost unrecognizable if not for Matt's greater sense of smell. He only never realized it was present until now.

Thick, gentle fingers touched his hand, and then there was something long and hard and slim and cold – Matt slid his fingers over it. A pencil. A mechanical pencil.

He had to chuckle at that, not really amused, but so very thankful to the guy who took the time to make every single dot on the silly notes that currently meant the world to Matt.

"You dotted all that yourself?" he asked for clarification, even if he knew the answer: he simply wanted to read more, feel like he could reach another human even in this state. Selfish of him, maybe… but hey. He was entitled to a little bit of selfishness.

STILLEARNING was the answer, and the fact that the man forgot one L was just all the more endearing to Matt.

"Thanks," he said again, unable to say how much it meant to him.

The man stayed even if Matt didn't ask anything anymore – he could smell the soap in his room as he fell asleep again.

…

He came back after that, and Matt learned to measure days according to the number of visits. Nobody else came, most likely because they have been told that Matt couldn't really hear them now, useless at keeping company. But the guy returned time and time again, and Matt asked if he came every day and the answer was YES.

Sometimes, they didn't exchange more than a few words, HOWREYOU and 'better' and GOOD and 'thanks' and WATER. But it was enough that someone was there, with his soap scent and gentle hands and his mechanical pencil and what Matt imagined was a notepad, because some of the papers had ragged, torn edges. Matt didn't know why he came or who he was, and he didn't care to ask, because he might learn that he was some sort of a social worker sent to keep the blind guy sane, or someone Matt knew in whose eyes he could imagine pity.

When Matt was capable of sitting, no longer on IVs, and the room was driving him insane enough to say so, the man's hand slid under his shoulders and the other hand threw back the covers and slid under his legs, covered only by an ugly hospital gown (which, of course, was better than being completely naked, but just barely). Matt tried to protest, but the hand around his upper torso squeezed his shoulder encouragingly and in the next second Matt was being set down again, into a wheelchair – which he profoundly hated, but he was already at the point of being willing to crawl out of the window just to get some air.

It must've been a private hospital, because when Matt was pushed down the corridor and up in the elevator, they came up in what smelled like nature, as much as it was possible in New York. It was peaceful, because Matt couldn't hear the sounds of the streets under them or helicopters above, or any other shit. All he felt was sun on his face, a little bit of wind, enough to feel refreshing and not enough to be too cold, and a smell of plants. Most likely it was a roof garden for the patients – but Matt couldn't help and feel the most contentment out of the slight trace of soap he could smell when the wind turned right.

The man sat down on the ground – probably there were no benches, or they were all occupied. Matt pretended the first option was true, even if it was less likely: if this was a small green oasis for the patients, the benches HAD to be there. But it felt better when he imagined they were alone there, him and the man, without anyone gawking at them. Matt could feel the slight press of the man's shoulder on his leg as the man leaned against him, and he raised his hand from his lap to rest it on the man's shoulder. It was a sculpted, muscular shoulder, and Matt wondered why would anyone like that come to volunteer at the hospital… then he dismissed it – even social workers were allowed to look good, and the flexing of muscles felt nice under his palm, tensing first, surprise, then relaxing again.

Matt didn't know how much time they spent there – the only thing that registered deep in his gut was that he regretted the loss of intimate touch when he was wheeled back to his room and helped to bed again.

…

The next day he asked the man to sit on his bed: WHY came back finally, and Matt couldn't but shrug.

"I miss feeling human presence," Matt said, because it was the only answer he had, stupid as it sounded. The man obeyed after that, and the press of his warm thigh against Matt's through the thin hospital covers was calming even as the wheezing in his ears drove Matt insane.

…..

They went to the roof garden several times: Matt came to enjoy the quiet moments when his ears didn't buzz and rustle and itch, and the man's warm back was pressed firmly against his bare legs.

It took a few times of that silent contentment for Matt to get completely used to the touch: the man kept sitting on his bed when they weren't outside, too. And once he was completely used to it – he found he wanted more.

The man was lowering him to the bed after a 'garden party' as Matt came to call it, imagining the other guy chuckle or smile. His warm, large hands were holding Matt safely, and even if Matt still disliked being vulnerable and incapable of autonomous existence, he had come to enjoy the man's touches quite a bit. The man pulled the covers back over Matt's legs, and Matt raised his hand, fumbling in the all-encompassing darkness for the gentle fingers of the other.

The man must've understood because he caught Matt's hand in his and sat down on the bed – the mattress dipped and the soap scent was back in all its unobtrusive persistence and Matt found himself swallowing against his suddenly dry throat. Tentatively he touched the man with his other hand: he found a stretch of chest, wide and solid under Matt's fingers as they travelled over the hard pectorals to where Matt could feel his heartbeat. He could also feel the man's chest rise and fall, steadily and a little quickly, just like Matt's own. His lungs didn't hurt anymore, but something in his chest did, and it was a sweet ache Matt had not felt for a long, long time.

He traced the protruding collarbone, the strong column of the neck and the sharp jaw-line. The soap scent was everywhere, and the man's fingers still trapping one of Matt's hands tightened a little – there was a warm puff of breath on Matt's fingers as he touched thin, soft lips.

The foreign weight on Matt's mattress shifted and the soap scent drowned out everything else. A warm hand touched his face – Matt was painfully aware of the overgrown stubble on his cheeks, he must've looked like a homeless person, how stupid, how gross – but the other man did not seem to mind, because the next thing Matt felt were lips on his own, simply touching and staying motionless for a second or an hour. All Matt had to measure time upon were his heartbeats, deceivingly fast, thudding in his whole body like a reminder of his deafness.

The man moved his lips and lights exploded in Matt's head – his ears rang painfully, but it didn't matter, because there was soap-scented heat surrounding him and a clean taste full of one human life when the man's tongue licked at Matt's lips and he was lost. He opened his mouth and slid his hand into the man's hair – short, soft, not enough to grip on, not enough, not enough – Matt whined, or moaned, he didn't hear it, and pushed him closer. A hand came around his hips, dipping the mattress just shy of Matt's thigh, allowing the man to support his weight and not crush Matt as he allowed to be pulled closer, deeper, and Matt could feel the other's groan on his tongue as he pushed it deep into that inviting mouth.

He wanted him. Matt wanted the man, and the man apparently wanted him, and he wondered if it would be completely inappropriate to have sex on a hospital bed, but he didn't give a flying fuck about being appropriate or not because this felt divine, this felt and smelled and tasted ALIVE, and Matt needed it more than anything.

Something vibrated against his thigh – he'd wanted to dismiss it, but the man pulled back, and left Matt breathless and gasping for air, dissatisfied, wishing to get that damned cellphone or whatever it was, and throw it out of the window or at least against the wall, damned stupid thing to interrupt NOW.

He waited for the guy to come back, but he didn't, no matter how long Matt sat there, tentatively outstretching his arm now and then. Nobody caught it, and Matt smirked bitterly to himself. It must've been a text from the guy's girlfriend or something. A reminder that a caretaker or whoever in a hospital and a guy disabled in so many ways weren't really meant to share kisses like that, searing to the pit of his stomach and wiping his mind clean except the sheer want for the other.

…

He didn't come back on the next day. Matt slept a lot, telling himself that he simply wasn't telling the time right, that it only seemed so long. But after a while (several long whiles), he couldn't think of the abysmal expanse of time as simply one day any longer, and he had to admit it to himself.

He wasn't coming back, his man.

Eventually the ringing in his ears eased a little. The doctor came, or at least Matt thought it was a doctor, because he smelled of disinfectant (and no soap), and pushed papers in Matt's hand, making Matt's stomach churn a little. It was an agreement for the surgery, and it was over pretty fast and Matt got his radar sense back full-force.

He was grateful for that, no longer having to rely on anyone, but something in him, deep down, regretted leaving the hospital.

Because if HE wanted, HE couldn't probably find him outside those sterile, time-cracked walls.

…

The outside world wasn't really what Matt wanted to deal with. The registration of superpowered humans was on, Stark was up to his ears deep in shit, Fury was dead and Captain America was dead too, together with hope.

He stalked to his office, unsettled and weary, because not even his special 'bed' could make him sleep anymore. He forcefully attributed it to the fear of having to register as a meta-human, free for the army to use as they please, but he knew it wasn't just that.

He was willing to take any case, any distraction, just to not have to think about soap and warmth. When the box came to his office, he was buried in research for a case, that was why he let Foggy get to it first. He didn't even pay much attention until Foggy's surprised yelp came.

"WOW, man. THAT's sick. Someone really must have something against you… what did you do?"

Matt raised an eyebrow, turning his head in the direction of Foggy's outrage.

"What? Why?"

"Y'know, that's just… really really sick. Why would anyone send you pictures of yourself with holes in that? It's like voodoo or something. Ew. Are they stupid or something? Don't they know you can't SEE it?"

Matt rose from his chair, a strange churning in his stomach again. Did someone really attempt to threaten him…?

"There are… holes?" he asked quietly, proceeding to the menacing box on Foggy's table.

"Yeah. Tiny little ones. Like… I dunno."

Matt reached into the box, running his hand over the first sheet in it.

GOOD

For a second, it was hard to breathe. For another, it took all his effort to get air into his lungs as he lifted sheet after sheet of paper, punctured with a mechanical pencil Matt had once held in his own hand.

WATER
GOOD
FUNNY
SHOULDBEOKSOON
WANTOGOOUTSIDE

YOULOOKEDCOLD

They fell from his hands back to the box, rustling until Matt thought he was at the hospital again, smelling the soap in the air, but that might've risen out of the sheets of paper, too, and Matt had to sit down, weak in the knees suddenly.

"Is it Braille?" Foggy asked, somewhere in the distance, "What does it say? Is it a threat? A letter of warning or something? Because, man, it seems like they were stalking you when you were at the hospital. Lots of drawings of you. I wonder why wouldn't they get photos though…"

Foggy rambled on, and Matt didn't listen, his mind blank and whirling with questions at the same time. The fax machine beeped, printing someone's message in Braille, and Foggy picked it up, handing it to Matt.

Weakly he reached up and ran his fingers over it. The printed Braille seemed too rough, too regular, too perfect under his touch.

Murdock

Stark here. I guess you got the package by now. We found these in Steve's room, we're cleaning it out, National Museum wants to set up an exhibition or something in his honor or some shit like that… nevermind. I figured you should have these. I know you can't really see them, but you're on them, the papers, you're drawn on all of them so I didn't wanna just… throw it away or something. You throw it away if it's meaningless. Maybe Steve was just doing some study in drawing sick people or whatever. But they seem like he had some feelings. You know. For you. So I figured you deal with this.

Anyway. Bye. Do what you want with this.

Matt set the fax on his desk and kept silent for a long, long time. He couldn't measure it by heartbeats anymore.

"I'm on those papers?" he asked quietly in the end, picking up the first out of the box.

"Yeah, man. All of them. Kinda creepy, for someone to draw you asleep, up close."

Running his fingers over the paper, his skin created friction over the material and he could see the sheet, rough-edged, torn out of a scrapbook or something, with tiny holes in it.

The surface remained blank to him.

That was the first time Matt's dead eyes stung with regret for what they could not see.