#i have had this in my docs folder for ages and have finally edited it to my satisfaction

[pastafossa]

Haunted (Matt Murdock x TRT!Reader, Fic, SFW)🌧️

Right, so close to 3 years ago, I had an ask in my box: 'what would happen if TRT!Reader/Jane Hind lost her memory just before returning to Matt after her three months away', aka: just before point where they both confessed their love and got together in mainline TRT. So I wrote up a fairly angsty, no happy ending sort of fic about it, which you can find here. But there just felt like there was more to the story, and the idea of a sequel wouldn't leave me alone, so I've worked on it in little bits and pieces over the past few years and I'm finally ready to unleash that into the world now that it's been edited to my satisfaction.

This will have a happy ending and hurt/comfort, once we swim through a lot of Matt Suffering. <3 Ship: Matt Murdock x F!Reader

Chapter Summary:

Leaving him like that shouldn’t have bothered you as much as it did. You didn’t know him. This man should have been nothing more than a stranger on the street, one you wouldn’t glance twice at, much less feel some ridiculous sense of attachment or obligation to. Yet the memory of walking out of his apartment still left you shaken whenever you allowed yourself to think too long on it.  He… shouldn’t have been alone. That was wrong, somehow.  There was no memory attached to the thought, no blinking sign you could point to that would justify your growing unease. You just knew it. You knew it in the way you knew how to breathe, how to blink, knowledge etched into your very bones over and over by an unfamiliar hand. And no matter what you did, no matter where you went, you were unable to escape the feeling that… that you’d made a terrible mistake, broken something good, tilted the world on its axis until the whole of the city, the earth, the very sky hung just a little crooked like an off-center painting.  Matt was alone.  You’d left him alone.  It was the right choice, one you’d made dozens if not hundreds of times before. Hell, it should have been even easier this time since there were no memories to hold you back. So… why did you feel so very sick?

Wordcount: 11, 805 words so, hilariously, about 3 times the length of Part 1

Warnings for this chapter: angst, alcohol, matt spiraling fairly badly, he throws some things, LOTS of TRT references and spoilers so I wouldn't do this one unless you've finished the Miami arc in TRT.

Sad Matt gif as a reminder that the angst is pretty heavy here because I'm really going to emotionally beat on this poor man for a bit.

At Ciro’s insistence, you gave yourself one month in Hell’s Kitchen. 

A month wasn’t much time, granted, but it would hopefully be enough to see if there was a chance of bringing back the memories you’d lost: memories of friends, of your life here, and of… of whatever it was that you’d had with Matt Murdock. Based on his grief over the loss of Jane Hind—not you, but her surely, the role, the mask you’d worn while here—his attachment to her had been deep and fervent, and those feelings appeared to have been at least partly reciprocated. The dangerously intimate photo you’d found in your memory box was all the proof you needed of that. 

Your past self had already been accustomed to his touch when the photo was taken, based on the way she’d allowed him to press his head tenderly to her temple, his dark eyes warm and fond as he'd smiled in her direction even if he couldn't see her, his arm draped over her shoulders. She should have been put off by the proximity, by such a blatant show of physical intimacy, but instead of looking distressed, she’d been relaxed and comfortable where she’d confidently tucked herself up against his side. Try as you might, you hadn’t been able to find any hint of discomfort, any clue that signaled the obvious affection she’d felt was an act, her shoulder angled in a way that made you think she’d wrapped her arm comfortably around his waist, her grin bright and so very real.

This couldn’t be you.

When was the last time you'd looked that happy?

When was the last time you’d let someone hold you close? 

And when was the last time someone had looked at you like… like they might… 

“Did I… love him, Ciro?”

“I believe that… you might have, yes. Him, and this city. That is why I encourage you to stay, for a time at least. See if the memories return to you. Even should you leave, it would be wise to know of the life you led here.”

Ciro had sent a check to your office, booking you for the month and clearing your schedule. Just like that, you were free to focus on looking for something that might trigger the return of your memories. Though what that something might be, you weren’t really sure. A more thorough examination of the apartment had been your first step. Unfortunately, there’d been nothing there that seemed familiar beyond the same cheap decor and calculated set pieces you’d always used. You’d quickly ruled those out. They were meaningless distractions meant to reinforce the lie of whatever pre-planned identity you’d taken on. In this case, that identity was Jane Hind—practical, professional, detached, likes sailboat paintings and the color grey. Based on the fine layer of dust you'd found coating everything but the kitchen counter and a neat stack of mail, no one else had spent much time here during your months away. That, at least, fit your pattern. You weren’t in the habit of making friends or putting down roots. There was no point in doing so when you’d just wind up cutting them loose and running again. 

What had unsettled you far more were the hints of connection you’d found quietly tucked away:

A fleecy stuffed bear holding a plush crystal ball, the threads connecting the two uneven as if hand-stitched. That kind of time and effort wouldn’t have been spent on anyone but a friend, and the bear’s prominent position on the counter lent it far more importance than any of the other decorations.

A tacky ‘Handsome Devil’ coffee mug, the curling red script and clichéd devil horns design bizarrely out of place amongst the rest of the plain white mugs in the cupboard. An identity like Jane Hind wouldn’t have been caught dead drinking from it, which meant someone else was here with enough regularity to have a mug of their own. Further digging revealed a second decorated mug, this one adorned with the name of the law firm co-run by Matt. You could have written off one mug, but two? Two was a pattern.

An entire drawer in the dresser devoted solely to a pile of dangerously soft shirts that clearly didn’t belong to Jane Hind, the fabric threadbare and worn. They looked about the right size to be Matt’s, though, the faint traces of scent a match for him. The fact that they took up an entire drawer indicated he’d visited often enough to need a space for his clothes. 

You’d… made space for him in your false life. That wasn’t something you did.

Or had you been the one wearing them? 

Maybe…?

You’d spent a long moment holding one of the shirts in your hand, rubbing at the fabric in hopes of stirring something. When that hadn’t worked, you’d even brought it up to your nose to inhale slowly, just in case the traces of scent brought some memory back. 

Clean soap. Salt. Copper. Faint cinnamon. 

All it had done was remind you of holding a grieving Matt in his kitchen after he’d realized your memories weren’t coming back. It was a gloomy enough memory, but ultimately unhelpful.

You'd tossed the old shirt on top of the dresser and moved on. 

While you didn’t know who exactly you’d been here in New York, the longer you searched, the more it became clear what had happened. You’d started to slip, your years of isolation forming a crack in your layers of armor. That fracture had allowed an attachment to form, an insidious connection worming its way in through the open gap like poisonous roots through crumbling pavement. You’d grown weak, and careless. There was no other explanation for why you’d broken so many of your rules, dominoes tipping one by one until it cascaded into a waterfall of mistakes. You’d slipped before, of course—loneliness was natural and expected, which was why you had so many contingencies—but you’d never let yourself get in this deep. Not until now. 

What you didn’t know was… 

Why?

Why here? 

Why these people? 

And why the fuck hadn’t you followed your rules and run? 

If there was an answer to be found in Jane Hind’s apartment, you couldn’t seem to find it, no matter how hard you look, no matter how many of her belongings you dug through. Even your memory box had failed you, the photo of you and Matt at the back of your stack of pictures an outlier you couldn’t explain, this fruit of an as-yet unidentified poisonous tree. You had no real leads, no faint ringing of memory to guide you beyond a vague sense that, somehow, this started with Matt. You didn’t even know where to begin. 

At least, not until some shaggy-haired guy named Foggy—what the fuck kind of nickname was that?—showed up entirely and rudely unannounced at your front door, dressed in a cheap suit and wearing a bizarrely determined look. Despite your doubts, you reluctantly allowed him in. He made it pretty clear he knew you, and if you were lucky he could tell you more about your life here.

“So I know you usually skedaddle when things get uncomfortable, which I imagine they are at the moment. How long are you trying to stay?” 

“One month.” You shrugged casually, a cover for just how warily you were watching him as he paced in your—in Jane Hind’s living area. He knew far more about you than you knew about him, a reversal you were uncomfortably aware of. That vulnerability was almost enough to trigger a retreat beneath that cold, brittle shell you’d used long ago, though you quickly caught hold of that instinct and buried it back down deep where it belonged. Still, you couldn’t quite hide the cool clip to your voice, your walls firmly in place. “Leaving after that. Don’t see the point in staying if the memories are gone. Truthfully I’m not sure why I stayed in the first place, especially once it was clear I was getting attached. No offense.” 

“None taken, my hopefully-still-friend-when-your-memories-come-back.” He abruptly swiveled on his feet to face you, squinting at you thoughtfully. “How badly do you want your memories back?” 

You thought of out-of-place mugs and hand-stitched psychic teddy bears; of faint cinnamon and a worn photo frame; of the way you’d held a broken Matt in his kitchen until he’d carefully pushed you away and asked you to leave, his face closed off and distant despite the tears on his cheeks and yours. 

You’d… been someone here. Someone cared for. Someone whose loss was mourned.  

Even if you left, you needed to know just who that someone had been, if only so you could make sure this never happened again. Not until you reached your island in the sun. 

“Badly enough to stay for the month,” you said quietly. 

“Then put some shoes on. We’re going on a memory hunt.”

Over the next few weeks, Foggy took you all over Hell’s Kitchen. 

You visited Jane Hind’s office, abandoned warehouses, and empty rooftops covered in thick blankets of snow. He reintroduced you to Karen, to your upstairs neighbors, and to a bartender who didn’t seem all that inclined to be introduced to anyone. You drank crappy beer and slightly less crappy vodka, played pool, and went to the zoo to stare for far too long at penguins, which Foggy refused to explain no matter how much you pressed. He had you focus on sights, on smells, on sounds that might trigger a memory. He joked with you in between, and he was just funny enough, friendly and clever enough, that for the first week or so, you were consistently cracking a smile. Hell, you even laughed now and then, much to your surprise. He really did know you, enough so that you gradually began to relax around him, just a little. He was likely hoping the addition of a friend’s voice would bring back what you’d lost, especially when paired with all the other sensations. 

But no matter how much you both tried, your memories remained lost. 

God, you hadn’t thought this would… would hurt as much as it did. Yet with every day that you failed to find your way back to who you’d been, the more that fierce ache, that old longing inside you grew. Your smiles became brittle, your laughter fading, until both finally dried up like withered, crumbling leaves beneath a bitter frost. You couldn't help pulling away really, not when your soul curling up in the dark might protect you from the agony of knowing that maybe, just maybe, you’d finally found what you'd always wanted. How fitting that it had been ripped away from your bloodied, desperate hands like so many times before, one more square for the filthy patchwork quilt of shredded lives and possibilities you’d been forced to leave behind. What was worse: even your memories of that seeming joy had been stolen, too, leaving you with nothing left to carry but the tattered scraps of a ghost and the photograph of a stranger wearing your skin.

It shouldn’t have been possible to miss what you couldn’t remember. Yet here you were missing it all the same. 

It didn’t help that Matt was avoiding you in every way that mattered. You’d thought about calling him if only to ask him questions about your life here, but you could never quite work up the courage to do it. He must have felt the same since he hadn’t reached out to you, either. And why would he? He knew as well as you did that your memories likely weren’t coming back. It made sense to cut that connection, tear it away like a weed before the roots could do more damage—something you should have done sooner, for both your sakes. What you hadn’t expected was just how good he was at dodging you, somehow absent no matter how many places Foggy took you to, places he swore Matt frequented with you when you’d lived here, as if Matt’s mere presence might be enough to trigger some memory in you. Had he been that important? Either way, it didn’t matter. You hadn’t seen Matt once since you’d walked out, doing your best to ignore his hitched breath as you’d opened the door. You’d forced yourself to ignore, too, the broken, agonized sound of grief that he’d let out as you quietly shut the door behind you, leaving him alone. 

Leaving him like that shouldn’t have bothered you as much as it did. You didn’t know him. This man should have been nothing more than a stranger on the street, one you wouldn’t glance twice at, much less feel some ridiculous sense of attachment or obligation to. Yet the memory of walking out of his apartment still left you shaken whenever you allowed yourself to think too long on it. 

He… shouldn’t have been alone. That was wrong, somehow. 

There was no memory attached to the thought, no blinking sign you could point to that would justify your growing unease. You just knew it. You knew it in the way you knew how to breathe, how to blink, knowledge etched into your very bones over and over by an unfamiliar hand. And no matter what you did, no matter where you went, you were unable to escape the feeling that… that you’d made a terrible mistake, broken something good, tilted the world on its axis until the whole of the city, the earth, the very sky hung just a little crooked like an off-center painting. 

Matt was alone. 

You’d left him alone. 

It was the right choice, one you’d made dozens if not hundreds of times before. Hell, it should have been even easier this time since there were no memories to hold you back.

So… why did you feel so very sick? 

Sympathy. 

That was all you were feeling. Matt was grieving a woman he’d cared about, one who’d died and left a cold stranger in her place. It was normal to feel for someone in that much pain, and no one should be alone while grieving. Maybe this was for the best. The sooner you were fully out of his life, the sooner all his friends and family could step in, and the sooner he could move on. He wouldn’t be alone, then. And even if he was, his loneliness wasn’t your goddamn problem. You had more than enough troubles of your own.

Protect yourself. 

Protect what you might one day have. 

All else was irrelevant.

You just… hoped he was doing alright. 

He did his best to avoid you, but that only grew more difficult once your ghost began to haunt his every step.

Even Josie’s quickly became off-limits—something he discovered one night when he stepped through the front door where he was promptly met with the familiar, comforting scent of you floating like a haze beneath the smell of cheap beer and sour sweat. His body went rigid the moment he recognized it, your presence across the room a sharpened knife that only widened the wound carved into him by your death. And if the scent of you was a knife, then your bark of laughter was a cruel twist of the blade, one that left him gutted and shaking there in the doorway. He drank in his apartment after that, waiting for that blessed moment when he would feel nothing, waiting for the very second the glorious shroud of night fell. Only then could he finally escape to the streets and drown himself in a far better kind of pain, taking his rage and his grief out on whatever piece of shit had the misfortune of falling into the Devil’s path. 

But Foggy seemed determined to shove the specter of you directly into his face. 

“You need to talk to her!” Foggy snapped, his voice only just shy of a shout. Matt ignored him as he headed for his office, desperate to retreat from your scent lingering on Foggy’s clothes. Foggy had taken you to a coffee shop that morning, one you’d frequented when you’d lived here, and now each inhalation was a vicious torment. It felt like breathing in shards of glass, the sharp pain of it throbbing with every stuttered, choked breath he drew in. If Foggy noticed, he didn’t seem to care. “Christ, Matt! You love her and we both know it. If you talk to her, it might trigger something—”

“Stop,” Matt grit out, reaching up to scrub his hand angrily over his face. He stalked his way over to his desk, still desperate to escape somehow, even if it was into his work. “Just stop, Foggy. I did talk to her, and you know what happened? Nothing. She didn’t remember anything at all. She’s gone, and you dragging this out is just making everything worse for all of us.” 

“So what, you’re just gonna roll over?” Foggy scoffed, crossing his arms as he planted his feet in Matt’s doorway. “Are you sure you actually loved her? Because I’m pretty sure she loved y—”

Matt slammed his fist down on his desk, the furious crack of it echoing through the office like a gunshot as he shouted, “Don’t you fucking dare!” 

Tension hung thick in the air as Matt’s chest heaved, his teeth bared, blood and adrenaline running hot in his veins as if Foggy were some sort of-of threat. Everything in him shook with rage, or maybe unshed grief, the burden of them both impossibly twisted and tangled beneath the sea of his guilt and his self-loathing until he couldn’t tell which was which. He just couldn’t—how was he supposed to force it all down when Foggy had just come so close, so dangerously close to shattering what few pieces remained of Matt’s crumbling armor?

It was bad enough loving you the way he did only for you to slip through his bloodied, desperate grasp like whispering grains of sand. What was worse, this entire disaster was one of his own making, a series of mistakes whose snarled, winding paths led inevitably back to him just like they had so many times before in his life. This loss of someone who’d truly understood him, accepted him, cared for him had already broken something inside him he wasn’t sure he’d ever be able to repair. But that fracturing inside him would surely rise up to consume him if Foggy were right, if you’d truly cared for him that deeply before your memories were taken, so deeply that you might even have…

I miss you, sweetheart.

…loved him the way he loved you. 

Abruptly Matt’s surge of rage drained away and his head fell, leaving him feeling all the more empty and broken. He braced his arms weakly against his desk, drawing in a shaky breath as he forced himself to confess, his voice gone hoarse and ragged with grief. “I loved her, Foggy.” He lifted one shaking hand to his face. “God, I loved her so, so much. I can’t… I don’t know what to do without her now that she’s gone.” “I know, Matt,” Foggy said gently. “I know.” “I loved how she always smelled a little like coffee, and the way she always managed to wind up climbing into the oddest places for a case. She had one of the foulest mouths I’ve ever heard, but I swear she could use it to talk her way out of almost anything or to bring someone up out of whatever dark hole they were trapped in. She was… far kinder than she’d ever admit.” His lips quirked, but there was no humor in it, the expression miserable and gutted. You’d have likely argued with him about how kind you were if you’d been here. But there was no chance of that now, no matter how much the scent of you on the air told him otherwise. “Some days it felt like she was the only thing holding me together, like the only time I could breathe was when she held me in her arms. She was always there when I fell apart, or when it all… when it all started to hurt too much. And I tried to give her whatever pieces of me the Kitchen hadn’t already taken, to be there for her like she was for me, to keep her safe. We were finally going to make our relationship official when she came back, her and me, even if there’d… already been something there for a while now if I’m honest.” 

And it had, it had been there, this soft, tender thing that had developed slowly but surely between the two of you, a tangling that came by degrees rather than all at once. It had sprouted, grown, and blossomed so gradually that even now he struggled to point to any one moment where it had truly begun—the night he found you in the warehouse, maybe, or that first game of Devil Hunt, or when you’d both almost taken the leap before he’d realized you were drunk. But the question of where it began didn’t matter. All that mattered was that it was there, something nameless yet still so good and warm and perfect, a connection nurtured in the low light and the blood-soaked soil of the Kitchen. You’d felt it just like he had, and you’d been willing to take that chance with him despite the baggage he carried behind him like an anchor destined to drag him down. You never would have agreed to kiss him when you came back otherwise. Now that chance was gone. 

“How much did she know before she left?” Foggy asked quietly, leaning against the doorframe. 

”She knew that I-that I wanted to be with her, but I never told her that I loved her.” Matt blew out a slow, heavy breath. “I was too scared of chasing her away, I guess. I thought maybe when she came back, if she still wanted me, I would… I decided that I would tell her. But I waited too long. Now she’s gone and I’ll never be able to tell her. All because of me.” 

He finally lifted his head, tipping it at Foggy. Neither of them dared mention the wetness on Matt’s cheeks. Even speaking about this—about how much he’d loved you only for him to ruin it—was almost more than he could bear, the edges of the wound still fresh and raw. Then again, maybe he deserved that pain after how miserably he’d failed you, just like everyone else in his life. “I miss her. And what’s worse is even when she’s right there in front of me, she’s not. She’s not, Foggy. Because I-I fucked up. I’m the reason the woman I knew, the woman I loved, died. I’m the reason she’ll never remember what we had, why I’ll never hold her again, and why she’ll leave New York at the end of the month like she does whenever she’s afraid of forming a connection.” He let out a bitter laugh, waving towards the windows, towards the place you’d once held dear. “I couldn’t even keep her here before. She almost ran last summer and the only thing that stopped her was being kidnapped. That was what slowed her down long enough for our thread to turn red, not me. She won’t let that happen a second time, not now that she’s seen what happens to people I care about. Do you understand?” 

The door to Nelson and Murdock creaked open, Karen’s voice making its way in first. Her voice was followed only a moment later by another’s, one still so familiar. 

“—I mean, winding up in a pool while chasing a kid sounds about right for me, so even if I don’t remember, I won’t argue—”

“I had to keep you here somehow.” Foggy’s voice remained quiet, but there was no disguising the ferocity in it now, the fervent belief. “Get out of your own head and talk to her, Matt. Fight for her. She would want you to.” 

No. 

No, no, no.

Your body may have been here, whole and real, but the woman who’d known him wasn’t. The song of your voice, your sweet scent, the flames of heat and stirred air currents around you flaring into a familiar shape: all of it was nothing but a lie, a snare for his senses, a ghost of his own making, and he wasn’t about to be caught by it again. 

He darted back around his desk, shoving his way past Foggy on the way toward the front door, his heart racing. If he was quick, if he just put up enough of a front, he could get out before they trapped you here with him like they’d planned. He wouldn’t relive this grief again, he couldn’t, not without falling apart. The moment he’d had with you in his apartment had been enough agony for one lifetime. 

“Hey, Matt.” You cleared your throat, shifting awkwardly on your feet where you’d stopped by the front door. Your stance was cautious and guarded, almost wary of him. It was just one more reminder of how uncomfortable he made you now. “Are you—”

“Heading out,” he said stiffly, only belatedly remembering to trace one hand along the wall as if his heightened senses hadn’t given him a clear map of the room the moment his adrenaline spiked. That spike was a curse all its own. It made the scent of you so much stronger, the lie of it fresh and present as it twined around him. His chest hitched just once before he forced himself to breathe his mouth. But that route of escape had been cut off, too. All it did was shift his focus to the taste of you on the air, and the taste of familiar fabric once so tenderly given. 

You were wearing one of his shirts. 

He fumbled for his cane, his hands starting to shake before he finally found it where he’d left it against the wall. He couldn’t let you see him like this. It wasn’t your fault that you didn’t remember him, nor was it your fault that he’d lost you. He’d done enough damage without adding a layer of guilt to what you were dealing with, too. But despite his attempts to hide what he was feeling, his face a hard mask, your fingers still brushed gently against his arm a moment later. It was an offer of help, or maybe an attempt to reach out, to slow him down, to connect. It was a kindness, a sympathy he didn’t deserve. Even now, you read him far too well, this touch the same as it had been that first night he’d met you when you’d gently brushed your hand against his arm. “Hey, do you need… I could walk you home.”

He shied away from your touch, finally managing to roughly unsnap his cane before going for the door. “I’m fine. I just—I have things to take care of. Excuse me.”  

He went straight home and showered, but no matter how many times he scrubbed, he couldn’t seem to wash the ghost of your scent away.

You slowly wandered around Matt’s office, taking it in. This was another place you’d supposedly frequented, a place that should have been familiar, and one you'd avoided until now.

Even though Foggy had assured you it was alright, it felt… almost wrong to explore a stranger’s space like this without them present. But you couldn’t help but brush your fingers across the battered desk and the small labels in braille you couldn’t read, run your hands along the chair for clients that you might have sat in once, and trace curiously the small seashell next to Matt’s laptop. The base scents of Matt were stronger here where he spent so much time, only partly erased by the smell of coffee and paper. The room was clean, cared for, and well-organized despite how rundown the office was. Important to him. You could tell that much, even if the scents and sights had failed to spark any memories.

Maybe… knowing his space wasn’t enough. 

This was about more than just figuring out who you were, now. For some reason, you needed to know who Matt was, too: this man Jane Hind had cared so much about and who’d cared so much about her. You told yourself it was practical. Matt was your best bet when it came to remembering who you’d been. But some part of you deep down recognized the lie. No, there was something in you inescapably drawn to him, a pull you couldn’t quite explain. Maybe that strange, unnatural gravity was what had started this whole mess in the first place. What was it about him that was so different, that had driven you to break every last rule you’d lived your life by for over a decade? 

And why… did you spend so long wondering if he’d ever climbed out his office window?

It had been twenty-nine days, and not a single memory had returned. 

Oh, there were beats now and then when you thought that maybe, just maybe something was coming back, but those moments were painfully few and far between. Even in those moments, you couldn’t say remembered anything, exactly. It was more a frustrating sense of deja vu, a fleeting little itch at the back of your mind like you’d forgotten something important, flashing road markers to warn you of the dark, empty gaps in your memory. That sense was probably driven at least in part by Foggy’s growing desperation as he frantically hunted for something that might trigger a return of your memories. 

But the rest of that feeling… the rest was all you. 

There was no denying a traitorous part of you wanted to remember no matter how ill-advised it might be. You wanted to remember this bizarre little family you’d stumbled into and then lost, just like in Los Angeles. You wanted to remember the love you’d had for this place, this city, this taste of mutual affection that had grown up around you after going so long without. After endless ages and ages of drought, of starvation, you hungered for even these bare crumbs of connection, something to tide you over until you found safe haven on the distant horizon. What a tempting thought it was to slither back into the life of this woman who’d been so cruelly murdered and replaced by a stranger wearing her skin.

Was this what a demon felt like when it took over a body? To walk around with someone else’s face, to speak with the unnatural voice of the dead, tormenting the loved ones that remained? 

That, ultimately, was why it didn’t matter what you wanted. Your presence in this city only spread rot and suffering. It would be better for everyone involved if you left like you should have long before now. Then they could all grieve without you tainting the very soil around them. 

Especially Matt. 

You’d seen him once or twice in passing as your time in New York wound down. Even at a distance, you’d marked the growing circles under his eyes, dark enough to be visible despite the glasses he always wore. The rest of him wasn’t doing much better. It seemed like every time he crossed your path, there was another bruise, another cut across his face or knuckles, a shifting canvas of pain painted across skin grown pale and drawn. He didn’t just look tired—that wasn’t what this was. This was something far worse, a haggard exhaustion, a weariness that couldn’t be solved with sleep, if he slept at all. This was someone being haunted. 

Probably because the ghost of Jane Hind kept crossing his path. But that would be solved soon enough. 

You’d already packed up your things, not that you had much to take. Just your bag and your memory box. You’d be leaving the next day. Foggy was still convinced he had a few more days, but you had other plans. You couldn’t give Matt back the woman he’d lost, nor could you give him a body to bury, a grave to lay flowers across, but you could give him what Jane Hind had carried with her until her dying breath. 

“I thought you might… want these before I left tomorrow,” you said quietly. “I… sorry, it’s… it’s a bag with my—with her things.” 

Matt took it carefully from you, the motion mechanical and stiff. He hadn’t really invited you the rest of the way into his apartment, the two of you now stalled out in the hallway just beyond the closed front door. He hadn’t taken his glasses off, either. It made it harder to read him, his face closed off and impassive, a wall of red glass placed firmly between you. Come to think of it, you hadn’t seen his eyes even once since that day you’d first come back, and you didn’t blame him. You didn’t like feeling vulnerable, either, though that was just a guess when it came to what he might be feeling. 

“It’s the shirts from her apartment, which I think are yours. And the stuffed bear.” You bit your lip and released it slowly, shifting uncomfortably on your feet. “And the… the mug, which Nelson said was yours, too. The one you used at her place. I also put the hoodie in there, the one she had with her while she was traveling. And…” You reached into your pocket, fumbling for a moment. God, you were bad at this, unsure of just how to do this without hurting him any more than was absolutely necessary. It wasn’t a concern you usually dealt with since your goal was almost always the exact opposite, a precaution meant to destroy any threads of connection they held with you. Unfortunately, he wasn’t giving you much to work with, though you didn’t miss his subtle flinch when you drew the key from your pocket. “I thought you might want this, too.”

You cautiously edged forward, daring to breach the ring of radiant heat that surrounded him, the closest you’d come to him in almost a month. He went stiff as you approached, his jaw growing tight as the gap between you both closed. Another step, and his head cocked as if he were listening to your footsteps, or maybe… maybe he was just waiting to find out what you had to give him. But he wasn’t telling you to fuck off or just set your gift aside, which was a good sign. So you hesitantly reached out and brushed your fingers lightly against his bicep, a signal so he knew you were about to pass him something. 

A breath.

He remained absolutely still amidst the sudden, crackling tension in the air as your fingertips skated gently down and around his forearm, stirring all the little hairs, his skin shockingly warm. All you’d intended to do to take his arm and guide it up so you could place the key in his hand, but you quickly found yourself distracted by a ragged scar along the back of his forearm, one your fingers seemingly made their way to on instinct. It was a deep scar, the original cut likely made by some sort of blade, the edges of it rough and uneven from messy stitching. Your curiosity got the better of you, so much so that you missed the way Matt had begun to hold his breath.

“Who fucked up the sutures on that?” You furrowed your brow, your thumb smoothly marking out the jagged line of it. “They did a terrible job. No offense.” 

Matt’s face fell and you only realized too late just who it was that must have patched him up. 

Before you could blink, he’d yanked his arm out of your grip as if your touch had burned him. “Don’t,” he grit out, his chest heaving as he put a few steps distance between you both. “You can—just put your key on the bench.” 

“How did you know—” “Because there’s only one thing left it could be.” 

You nodded weakly, taking a few steps back towards the little bench beside the door. That unfamiliar ache, that sense of wrongness was back, the weight of it settling uneasily in your chest like a stone until you almost wanted to retch. It didn’t help that Matt was just barely holding himself together while you were here. 

Best to say what you’d come to say and leave him be. 

You gently set the key down, and the quiet click of the brass against the wood seemed to echo in the hallway, a graveyard bell tolling with a looming sense of finality. What you were about to tell him would hurt, you knew it would, but maybe one day he’d find comfort in it. This—a sign of what she’d felt—was the real gift you’d truly come to give, the only true token of her you could offer. Your words, when you spoke, were almost as hoarse as his. “I thought you should know I… she wore it. The key. I asked them. She wore your key and she never took it off. Not once. Whatever you both had, she treasured it, and all she wanted was to get back to you. She didn’t leave you by choice, Matt. I hope that… that helps.” 

Of all the things you’d said and done, it was this that finally seemed to break him. His face twisted in a sudden wave of grief, and regret hit you all at once. You quickly took a step towards him, one hand out, though you weren’t sure what you’d do if he reached back—it wasn’t like you knew how to comfort him, and you sure as hell didn’t know if he’d tolerate you holding him again, nor whether he was someone that needed some sort of touch when he was hurting. But before you could take another step he’d flinched away from you, retreating quickly back into the darkness of his apartment, his voice ragged. “Just go. Get out.” 

“I’m sorry,” you whispered, backing away towards the door. “I’m… I’m so sorry.”  

It shouldn’t have hurt as you closed that door one last time. But you cried all the same. 

Somewhere within the apartment came the sound of splintering furniture and a hoarse scream wracked with grief.

“Look, Nelson.” You tiredly adjusted the strap of your duffle bag over your shoulder, reaching up to pinch at the bridge of your nose as if it would stem your growing headache. “I know it’s a day early. But another twenty-four hours isn’t going to make a fucking difference.” 

“I don’t need another day!” he pleaded, his arms spread wide where he’d blocked your front door, ensuring you couldn’t leave your apartment until you’d heard him out. You’d had no idea he even had a key until today and, not for the first time, you cursed Jane Hind’s apparent lack of common sense. You did not give out keys, or at least, you hadn’t before coming here to this ridiculous fucking city. “Just five minutes. That’s all. I’ve got one last thing to try.”

“Maybe I don’t want to try one more thing!” you snapped bitterly, dropping your hand. That anger was a good cover for the way something sharp and prickly had begun to catch in your throat, the incident with Matt still fresh in your mind. “I’ve tried for a month, and it’s gotten me nothing. Fucking-fucking bars and random rooftops and a shitty little duck, goddamn penguins and keys, and none of it did shit! Jane’s gone, ok? She’s dead. And I’m sorry, I know you all cared about her, but I’m done—”

“Have you climbed inside a thread?” 

“...What?” you asked in sudden bewilderment, your rage abruptly faltering in the face of pure confusion. “What the fuck does that even me—”

He let out a whoop, practically dancing on his feet. “Yes! I knew it! I can’t believe no one told you!” 

“Told me what?!” You chucked your bag back onto your couch in sudden exasperation. If this was thread-related, at the very least you could stay long enough to listen. “There’s nothing to climb!”

“Ok, so stick with me.” He rubbed his palms together eagerly, a bright light in his eyes. “Because I’m about to get really metaphysical.”

It took you what felt like hours to climb inside the shimmering honey-colored thread that lay between you and Matt—a thread that sang with his sorrow and your reluctant sympathy. 

It wasn’t right having your soul constricted like this, all of who you were narrowing down into something so small as you squirmed through a barrier that tasted and felt like dirt and earth, chasing after the sound of trickling water. There wasn’t supposed to be anything on the other side. It was an emotional connection, nothing more.

And yet here you were, standing in a place that had no reason to exist.

“Holy shit,” you whispered in amazement, spinning on your heels to examine your surroundings. “Holy shit, he was right.”

Despite the late hour, the air was full of a muted light that seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere all at once, tinting the world a hazy, eerie green. High up above you roiled thick, sullen black storm clouds, silent flashes of red lightning carving their way between swirls of charred smoke. It wasn’t much light, but it was enough to see by.

And what you saw was heartbreaking. 

You stood in a dry, stony riverbed. The ground beneath you was cracked and brittle where the water had receded, leaving behind nothing but dust and broken branches. The river itself remained though just barely, the thin trickle of flowing water down the center of the riverbed a far cry from whatever immense force had carved its way through the landscape until the banks were a good ten paces from one side to the other. The terrain beyond the river didn’t look much better, wilted, drooping cattails dotted up the bank before giving way to endless forest that stretched farther than your eye could see. Like the cattails and scrub, the pine and fir trees stood withered and brown, casting their empty branches up toward the sky. 

If it had been beautiful here once, whatever had happened to you had destroyed that beauty. 

“Jesus,” you whispered. 

“Can you hear me?” Foggy’s voice sounded distant and far away, tinny like he was talking through a long tunnel. 

“Yeah. Can you hear me?”

“...Ok, if you’re trying to respond, I can’t hear you. But according to Matt, whenever you were here, it felt like memories. So poke around, see what you can find.”

You sighed and started down the riverbed. “Not super helpful, but ok. Let’s give it a shot.” 

The water was the most obvious place to start, and you made your way over to the thin stream that ran raggedly across the parched soil. Much to your fascination, you quickly discovered that what you’d thought was one current was actually two, one layered over the top of the other, each flowing in the opposite direction. The first of those currents hiding on the bottom was fairly calm, steady if a little restless, swirls of pale color that almost felt like curiosity, though how you understood that translation was a mystery. The second current seemed far rougher where it roiled atop the first, its section of the stream cloudy and thick with swirls of black and the red of an open wound. You hovered over the second current for a long moment, working up your courage, before you finally knelt and hesitantly brushed against it with one finger. It was just water. How bad could it be? 

The moment your skin made contact, your chest seized on a sudden swell of agony. Your mouth filled with the taste of grief, with the sound of an empty home, the lack of some familiar scent that meant affection and warmth and softness and safety, the ache of an old wound reopened just when it had started to heal. Alone, always alone, I deserve it, so many gone, he was right, when will I learn? There was no hope for comfort from that pain, no escape from the darkness into tender arms that could hold you just right when it all hurt. All you had to look forward to was more— 

You threw yourself backward, scrambling away from that terrible current as if what you’d felt might rise up and chase after you, snapping its teeth the whole way. You didn’t stop retreating until your back slammed against the dry soil of the riverbank. Only then did you stop, panting, your eyes wide in shock as you cradled your hand against your heaving chest. 

Emotion. It’s emotion.

That was what the water was. Matt’s emotion. Which meant the other current—one now shifting back to yellow despite a momentary surge of twisting, roiling black—was… yours. 

Right. So you could rule the water out. But if that was emotion, where was memory? 

Examining the rest of the river was the most obvious next step now that you’d ruled out the water. Based on what you could see, the original riverbed had been a mix of silt and stones of varying sizes, a firm foundation beneath a once-powerful river. Now, though, the grey, dried-out silt was covered in a strange sea of divots and dips, as if something—a lot of somethings—had been plucked up and removed. You traced one of the indents in the soil curiously, lifting your hand back up to consider the grit as you rubbed it between your fingers. Another glance around revealed the answer. 

The stones. 

There were still plenty of stones remaining in the riverbed, but the divots in the dry silt told you there’d once been far more. If that was what you’d lost, then maybe…  

You rocked up eagerly to your feet, pacing around breathlessly as you searched for a promising stone to start with. Eventually you made your pick, plucking up a stone just small enough to fit in your palm, flat and smooth save for a little groove in it as if someone had run their fingers over it endlessly. Strangely, it smelled like honey and herbs, the surface oddly warm against your hand like the brush of a thumb against your mouth. You waited for a long, impatient moment, and when nothing else happened, you tapped it a few times. 

Still nothing. 

And something inside you… cracked. 

“Fuck!” you screamed, hurling the stone back down the river in a sudden rage. The pain and the loneliness you’d been suppressing for the last month, the last year, the horrible, endless eternity since leaving your family in Los Angeles began to claw its way up your throat, the clouds churning wildly above you in response. A wild rain came next, each droplet sharp and cold and edged like the blade of a knife, bitter and biting as it beat against your skin. You grabbed another stone, one that tasted like shitty beer—Josie’s beer. You threw that rock, too, then another and another, throwing stones that smelled and tasted and felt like your shriek of laughter as he grinned and caught you against his chest, like torn flesh and a needle held by tender hands, like your face nuzzling fearlessly against Matt’s throat as he whispered comfort into your hair and held you close, like synced breathing and hearts and dances between binary stars as you both fell into sleep, fell into safety, fell into one another, phantom sensations that only made the fierce ache in you grow stronger because with every stone you snatched up it became clear that… 

You’d been loved. 

Not your identity.

Not the image you showed to the world. 

Not the walls you’d put up in front of him before he’d found some way past them. 

You. 

And he’d loved you with every part of him. 

You weren’t sure when you started crying, a violent, vicious stream of tears that was just as much a product of rage as grief. Here was someone who’d loved you fully, loved you despite every asterisk and bit of baggage and sharpened edge that came with being a broken hound, with being a former experiment still on the run. But you barely noticed your tears, spitting up at the unforgiving clouds and the howling wind, because you could howl, too, just as violent, just as much a threat as any storm in this place. “I want my fucking life back! I want him back!” 

You hadn’t wanted it before, or maybe you had and you’d just been too afraid to ask for it. But now? Oh, oh, now you were furious, furious and hurting and screaming, because you’d denied yourself connection all these years only to find it in the last place you’d expected. That was what this had been—home, family, love. That had to be why you’d stayed in New York, why you’d risked everything for these people, for Matt. You weren’t an idiot. You’d have run the numbers and the math, made your calculations.

You couldn’t bear to lose this. Not… not again. 

You threw stone after stone, hunting frantically as your fingers bled dry, desperate fury into the air, reddened drops disappearing before they ever hit the ground. The trickle of water in the center of the riverbed had churned itself into a frenzy, but you ignored it. There had to be something here that would trigger a memory, something that would let you remember being loved again, something big enough, important enough, so you grabbed and you grabbed and grabbed and grabbed and grabbed until at last, you found a stone the size of your fist. You snatched it up with a ragged sob, cradling it greedily against your chest as if doing so might let you carry it out of here, because you wanted it, you wanted him, wanted to remember more than anything in the world. 

“Let me have it!” you snarled, snapping your teeth at the howling winds of the storm as if you might catch this place between your jaws and tear it open until you at last found what belonged to you. “Give it back!” 

And with a blink—

He tore one of his bloodied gloves off, his hand shaking as he reached out to you.

You stilled the moment his fingertips brushed tenderly against your cheek, so very gentle, affection layered over blood and earth and hurt. And god, your skin was so terribly dry and cold, the beat of your heart uneven as it struggled to pump blood through your body, but he could feel you react to him, the barest parting of your lips as you dragged in a startled breath. He didn’t want to startle you further or risk you fighting him, so he let his voice drop into a whisper, soft as the brush of a feather.

“It’s me. I’m here.”

‘I heard you,’ he tried to say. ‘I heard you. I’m here.’

And your weakened heart… skipped.

He wasn’t sure if he reached for you or if you reached for him. All he knew was it was the sign he’d been looking for. In a heartbeat, he scooped you up off the floor, stealing you back from that dry, filthy cement and crusted blood that had tried to take you from him. He cradled your cold body against his chest, then, held you there where it was warm and where you were safe. You made the softest little noise, the sound choked and dry, but there was no disguising the heartbreaking relief in it. He pulled you in further, pulled you up until you were curled up in his lap, not an ounce of air left between your bodies, your head laying against his shoulder.

He would never let you touch the floor of this place again.

“D…” you mumbled, not one hint of fear in you despite what he’d just done, the blood on his hands and the burning heat of violence that still lingered in his bones. You wearily slid your head over, inch by inch, until you’d buried your face against the sweat-slick line of his throat, nuzzling in against him with a hoarse sigh that only made him hold you tighter. You inhaled slowly then, heedless of the blood and dirt and sweat that coated his skin, your fingers coming up to hook weakly in the collar of his shirt. “You came.”

And you… smiled.

He buried his face against your hair and let out a shaky breath. As he did, he dug down past blood and dust and dirt, dug and dug until he found the sweet, familiar scent of you, a scent he never wanted to leave him again.

The stone fell from your limp hands, a ringing in your ears you could barely hear beneath the sound of the water nearby, frothing and wild. 

The increased sensory feedback had been bizarre, and there was… there was no reason he should have been covered in so much blood, his body burning as if he’d been fighting before coming to you. But…  

“Hey, you in there?” Foggy called. 

“D.” The letter felt strange, and yet… natural, as you cradled it on your tongue. “D?”

And you knew what came after that letter, shaping the word again in your mind. 

You knew. 

You… remembered. 

“Always,” he’d said. 

“Always,” you whispered, casting your eyes up the riverbed towards another large stone. “Always, D.”

He didn’t know what you were doing or why you’d climbed inside the thread. 

“Always, D.”

All he knew was that it hurt. 

“You’re stuck with me, unfortunately for you.”

He’d thought catching your scent, hearing your laugh, being forced to take back the key he’d given to you had been the worst of it. But no. It was far, far worse having to relive these memories of your time with him over and over and over without pause, his senses filled with you: with your touch, with your scent, with the taste of you on the air. He heard you whisper, laugh, and sigh; felt the brush of your fingers in his hair and your body shaking with laughter when he snatched you up during a game of Devil Hunt and the safety of you as you’d held him so tenderly after his fight with Foggy. All of it was a reminder of what he’d lost, what he’d never get back. 

“Don’t you give up on me, Matt. Ok?”

He was in agony. There was no blocking you out like this, no escaping your memory no matter how much he tried to push back or retreat, until he wound up trapped and spiraling in his kitchen. 

“Kiss me when you come back.”

On and on it went, memories snapping at his heels until all he had left to hide behind was rage. He swept his arm across the counter, glass shattering as he screamed himself hoarse. Eventually he found himself backed up against the wall, sinking down as he hitched out something like an agonized groan, his hands over his ears, his eyes shut tight. “Don’t do this to me, sweetheart, please—”

“Adoringly yours, because I do adore you, you ridiculous man...”

“Leave me alone,” he whispered. “Just leave me alone.”

“...Remember that. if nothing else.” 

In hindsight, it was a really bad idea to give back your key.

“Matt!” you shouted, pounding frantically on his front door. “Matt, let me in! It’s me, I swear, I can-I can—”

Silence. 

And you weren’t willing to wait any longer. This wasn’t something you could explain through the door, out here in the hall where the neighbors could hear. You needed to get inside. You knew he was in there somewhere. 

Red threads never lied.  

You wiped the blood away from your nose and took off for the stairs. It was only one flight up to the roof, and sometimes he left the rooftop door unlocked. Even if it wasn’t unlocked, you’d use the key under the mat. You didn’t remember everything. But you remembered that. And if the key wasn’t there? You’d break that fucking door down.

He sat unmoving in his meditation pose on the floor, the sound of your attempts to get into the apartment distant and far away. Meditation had been the only thing left he could think of that would allow him to escape the pain and the memories of you that had flooded his thoughts. Like this, with his mind and his focus withdrawn until it lay deep within himself, he’d hoped he’d be far enough away from the world that the ghost of you couldn’t reach. 

Yet even deep in meditation, his instincts were set off by the crack! of his rooftop door slamming open.

He was on his feet in a heartbeat, his heart racing as he bared his teeth, his body prepared to face whatever threat had just broken in. The sensations of you, at the very least, had quieted during his meditation, which should have left him enough space for some small margin of peace as he threw himself into a fight. But that peace was nowhere to be found, because you were here again. 

He recoiled from that thought the second it crossed his mind. This wasn’t you, that much had become painfully clear. You’d passed away somewhere far beyond his reach, away from the home, the life you’d lived here. The woman that stood on his landing now was nothing but a ghost, a fading memory and a terrible reminder of what he’d had and lost, what he’d earned by daring to reach for something good. There was no undoing it, no washing away the blood on his hands. If anything, how he felt for you had doomed any hopes of you staying long enough for him to reform that connection with you. He knew how you operated—hell, you’d tried to run on that hot summer night so many months ago after seeing just how much he’d cared, even if you’d ultimately changed your mind. At the time, he’d thought it was Destiny, the hand of God ensuring you remained in the Kitchen where Matt could keep you safe from the Man in the White Coat, here in this place where you both might… might shape something good out of all the broken pieces you’d both been left with. He knew better, now. Even the hand of God couldn’t break the curse Matt placed on those he loved. You would leave, leave like all the others, and he deserved it. 

The only question that remained was why you seemed so, so fucking determined to make him suffer. 

“Matt.” Your voice cracked as you stumbled down the stairs. “Matt, I—”

“Why can’t you just leave me alone, sweetheart?” he grit out, reaching up to fist his hands tightly in his hair. He’d never known you to be unnecessarily cruel, but there was no other explanation. “God, I-I can’t—you can’t keep doing this to me.”

“Matt, just let me—”

“Do you even care how much you’re hurting me?” He hitched out a broken laugh, something bitter and tormented, the sound absent all humor as you made it down the stairs. “All those months, all I wanted was for you to come back. I begged. I prayed to God, over and over again, that he would bring you back to me. And now that you’re gone, you just won’t leave. I can’t get away from you no matter what I do. Do you know what that’s like? To lose someone you love only for their ghost to haunt you every time you turn around?”

A soft intake of breath. 

There it was. Now that he’d said it, you’d leave. There would be nothing more frightening to the You he’d first known than a word like love. 

“I just…” His breath hitched again, something thick building in his throat. It was just another sign of his weakness, the same weakness that had gotten you killed. 

‘I warned you, kid,’ came Stick’s voice, so smug that Matt bared his teeth. ‘I fuckin’ warned you the night I opened up her eye. But you didn’t listen.’

He started to pace wildly, ignoring your voice as he hunted for some opening through which he could escape, flee from Stick’s voice hiding in the corners of his thoughts, from your ghost. With every step his movements grew more frantic, more furious as his rage built like a rising wave: rage at himself, at God, at the monster who’d taken your memories and the possibility of a life for you here with Matt, and at you, too, because you just didn’t get it. “I just want to grieve, and God can’t even give me that much, can he? Is that what this is? Punishment? Revenge? Congratulations. Job well done. You can go.” 

You tilted your head as you watched him pace, the same cock of your head you got when considering your potential routes forward. As far as he was concerned, the only route he’d give was a route out the door.  

“I don’t know why you came back, and at this point, I don’t fucking care,” he told you hotly, nothing but burning smoke and thick venom in each word. “We don’t have a red thread anymore. There’s nothing to keep you here. Leave. Now. I’m not asking.”

Your soft response was a single letter, one that struck directly at the open wound inside his chest. 

“...D.” 

He snatched up an empty beer bottle from the kitchen counter in a sudden rage, turned, and hurled it past you. 

You didn’t so much as flinch as the bottle came within inches of your head. Nor did you react to the distant shattering of glass, the sound of it barely audible over his anguished roar. 

“Leave me alone!”  

And then he froze in sudden horror at what he’d done, his heartbeat almost drowning out the soft sound of your steps. All he’d wanted to do was scare you away, frighten you away so he could break where you couldn’t see, because it had hurt, it had hurt to hear you call him—

Wait. 

You’d… you’d called him…

“My Devil Man, my Saint Matthew,” you whispered, the touch of your hands cool and endlessly gentle as you cupped his face. His skin was wet, damp beneath your thumbs as you swiped them across his cheeks, when had he started crying? You brought his head down until you could lay your forehead against his, the taste of salt hanging in the air. Your voice grew achingly tender, so longed for that he swayed helplessly on his feet, wanting nothing more than to be held like you’d held him so often before when he was hurting. “I’m so sorry, D. I’m so sorry I left you alone, sweetheart.” 

He closed his eyes tight, his breath growing shaky. You couldn’t know that he was two steps away from crumbling in your arms, fractures widening with every breath. He had no energy left to fight your touch, your misplaced mercy, but giving into the lie was another thing entirely. He couldn’t bear to hope again, not when it would crush him if he were wrong. “Foggy told you to… he told you to call me that, didn’t he? To see if you’d remember. But I can’t—you’re going to leave me, you’ll—” “Do you remember what I said before I left? Because I do.” You swiped your thumb gently against his cheek, your uneven breathing skipping and falling into rhythm with his as his hands shakily rose. They hovered hesitantly a few inches away from your face, terrified that you might vanish beneath his hands like a ghost. “I don’t leave my box behind, and I won’t leave you behind, either. I told you that you were stuck with me after Nobu. I meant it. It’s really me. I know you’re tired and hurting, sweetheart, but listen to my heart. What does it say? Truth or lie?”

…Steady. 

Truth.

Could it really be you?  

He held his breath as he dared at last to touch your cheek, stirring the fine hairs as he stroked his way along the familiar shape of your face, one he’d traced so often in his dreams. Your skin was damp with tears just like his, another sliding down to bump against his thumb as your lips quirked up into a brilliant smile. And the moment his trembling fingers passed your lips, you kissed the tip of each with a warm fondness, a mirror of that night you’d held his broken, torn body and he’d kissed your fingers and palm. 

“How much do you… do you remember?” There was a ringing in his ears as the world beneath him seemed to roll beneath him. “Everything?” “Not everything. Some pieces are still missing, with Foggy and Karen and my job, but I-I remember enough. I remember you, and what I had with you.” Your voice grew fierce and fervent then as you drew in a sharp breath, preparing yourself. “I remember you, D. And I remember that I love you. I love you, Matt Murdock, all of you, so, so much. And I will never leave you alone again.” You loved him. 

You loved him. 

The weight of it—being forced to let you leave the city, the ensuing months alone, the agony of the past few weeks thinking he’d lost you entirely, and now this, this, knowing you loved him like he loved you—hit him all at once, and with a sudden groan he started to drop. You caught him in your arms, the two of you sinking to your knees as you held him tight and he wound desperately around you in return. Only then did he start to fall apart in your arms, shaking in your hold, his grief, his hurt, his relief spilling out in choked gasps where you’d tucked his head down against your neck. He fisted his hands in your shirt as you both rocked, and a ragged moan tore free from him, spilling against your skin when you lifted your hands to trail your fingers lovingly through his hair. You knew, you remembered just how to hold him when he was hurting, a balm across every last wound. His shivering, touch-starved body remembered your touch, too, drowning beneath the sudden surge of good, warm, safe, soft after months of nothing but pain, so much so he couldn’t help but gasp out your name. 

“I’ve got you now, D,” you whispered, burying your face against his shoulder until he could feel the heat of your tears against his shirt, too. “I’m here, now. You’re not alone. I’ve got you, Matt.” 

“I thought you were gone.” There was no way for him to truly sync his breathing with yours, not with the way you were both crying, but still his body tried on instinct, tried and failed over and over again. He closed his eyes tighter, burying his face deeper against your throat as he pulled you in even closer, until there wasn’t an inch of space between your body and his, where he could feel every beat of your heart against his skin, as if to make up for the way he’d almost… almost chased you away. “I thought you’d left me and I was alone. I’m sorry. I’m sorry I didn’t try harder, and that I didn’t-I didn’t go with you, but I couldn’t—I’m so, so—” 

“Hey, hey, it’s ok.” You kissed shakily at his hair, his shoulder, and whatever other parts of him you could reach, your breath, your tears, your absolution washing over him like rain. “It’s not your fault, D. It’s not your fault sweetheart. None of this was your fault.” 

“But—” “Hey. Listen to me, before you get any further down in that hole.” You lifted his head from your shoulder, cupping his tear-stained face in your hands again. For a moment you both simply breathed with one another, your forehead to his, soaking in the contact, the affection that you’d both dearly missed and needed. “What happened to me outside New York, my memory loss… all of that is not your fault. It never was, D. There are-there are a lot of things we’ll have to deal with in the future, things I need to tell you. Consequences of what we’ve done, and—but this isn’t one of them. Never this. You’re what helped bring me back.” “How? I didn’t…” He let out a breathless, watery little laugh. “I didn’t do anything but try to chase you away.” “Some part of me couldn’t help but be drawn to you. I remembered, deep down, I think.” You gave an amused little huff. “And once Foggy showed me how to get into our thread, all your memories are what brought me back, helped me remember, because I could feel it, how you loved me. That was the key. Speaking of which…” You leaned in to nuzzle up against his cheek, your voice lowering to a whisper. “I think I made you a promise, you ridiculous man. And it’s one I intend to keep.” 

And with one small tip of your head, and a single slow breath… 

“Kiss me when you come back.” 

…your lips brushed against his for the very first time, tender and achingly soft, and so full of love that it would have stolen his breath away if he’d had any left at all. 

It wasn’t the first kiss he’d envisioned months ago just before you left, something triumphant and wild. Nor was it anything like the first kisses he’d imagined before that, the first kiss he’d thought this journey with you might lead to. And God only knew he’d considered kissing you for the first time more than was healthy.

Your first kiss with him was, instead, shaky and gentle, tasting of salt and tears and the fading shades of grief retreating like streamers of night before a welcome sunrise. Slowly, and then more surely, his lips began to move against yours, finally allowing himself to truly taste you for the first time, his eyes slowly falling closed as your fingers ran fondly through his hair, you, it was really you, you remembered. With a quiet moan, he breathed you in deep, calling your grace, your love deep into him until it settled there against his heart, knowing that, no matter what else might come, he would never lose it again, one of his hands rising to tenderly wind around your throat, his other hand finding yours so he could lace his battered fingers tightly with yours.

It wasn’t the first kiss he’d expected, but it felt perfect all the same. 

Because all that was left was him… 

And you. 

#the red thread #matt murdock x reader #matt murdock x f!reader #daredevil x reader #daredevil x f!reader #daredevil #matt murdock #fic #fanfic #reader #x reader #f!reader #angst #hurt/comfort #tw: alcohol #tw: depression #memory loss #matt is really self sabotaging here to an extent #this fic is three times longer than Part 1 which is hilarious #i have had this in my docs folder for ages and have finally edited it to my satisfaction #gonna post this on AO3 too but dropping it here first since the first fic was only ever posted here anyway! #and you'll get to have a fun 'Pasta writing 3 years ago versus Pasta writing now' experiment #when i post on AO3 i'll probably post the whole thing (including part 1) as one fic in separate chapters just for ease so I'll edit it then

[four-loose-screws]

*wipes sweat off forehead* IT IS DONE!!

Welcome to one of the greatest Fire Emblem-related treasures I’ve ever just so happened to find in the wild: a TEN page interview from Nindori (Nintendo Dream) magazine with none other than Claude’s Japanese voice actor, Mr. Toshiyuki Toyonaga!!

What I thought would be a quick, fun little project before I got to my big goal of translating the FE3H drama CD, ended up being an epic journey that spanned 9 months.

Being a translator is wild. You NEVER know what project will end up being the one that tests your limits. Turns out this one was mine. It just so happened to use language that was very complicated for me.

As a result, this is one of the translations I’m most proud of yet, so please enjoy it extra hard! =3 

And for those of you who want to see the original pages in a much larger size and better quality than the Google Doc, click here for the folder with the scans!

If you read my original page-by-page tumblr posts, then there really isn’t any reason to re-read this final Google Doc version if you don’t want to. Nothing changed aside from some super minor typos and formatting issues.

Full story: last November, I put in a big order of things I wanted off Amazon Japan, so I could justify the DHL shipping price to the US. The big ticket items were the new FE Drama CDs for Three Houses and Awakening, but among the other things I ordered was an issue of Nindori. I used to buy Japanese magazines while I was in Japan for the bonus item, and then I’d end up ignoring the actual magazine because I had no time to read it... Well this time, I couldn’t do that. I soon found a treasure worth way more than just the Hyrule Warriors: Age of Calamity poster I originally wanted: a TEN page interview from Claude’s Japanese VA. I immediately dropped everything to translate it... but it turned out to just so happen to be a VERY difficult translation for me, and I have only just now polished off the final draft for all to read. 

Please enjoy, FE:3H fans!!!!

#fire emblem #fire emblem three houses #three houses #fe #fe16 #fe 3h #claude #claude von reigen #nintendo #switch #nintendo switch #japan #japanese #translation #magazine #claude va interview

[skippyv20]

MM ANON with Love and Humour

… LA ,ageing secrets … “ feeble,shallow,weak The folded meaning of your words’deceit… “

The new edition of Vague has finally arrived with much coveted fanfare from only HRH The Douchess of Sussyex!  MM is very proud of her ghost writer who she has been in contact with every 56 seconds despite the demanding schedule of doing nothing and pretending to have a baby to look after since March this year.  Featured souls, were required to be either infirm, dislike wading at the edges of the ocean or reply to a WhatsApp message once a week.  MM was most miffed that the last place didn’t include #MeghansMirror, specifically requested but clearly missed in the editing process that she had nothing to do with.

. A matriarch scorn falls on deaf ears.… an early exit creates animosity … 

Up at Balmoral, HMTQ has come up wth a new game to play with all the family.  One puts an acorn in ones ear and awaits the pressure build up.  If sufficiently full of hot air or having a swollen head, the acorn will ricochet across the room and hit another family member!  MM was the clear winner at the game and chose to retire after hitting the DOC 7 times in succession.  The rest of the family decried the retirement as not being cricket and bombarded MM in disgust.  She is currently being treated for acorn burn at the local NHS hospital - apparently George has a wicked aim.

“we’re gonna need a bigger bank”… “ brother ‘ where art thou”…… 

After ‘foiling’ the tax paying public for at least 4 minutes that MM and PH actually live at FC, MM has laid down the law and decided that they will make one special appearance on the grounds to rumours to rest as to their shared abode.  Despite repeated requests, PH (nor the far preferable PW) will not be there but MM will be in full splendour with Darren to oversee the construction of a 34m high, 2.13m thick, 1,576m long wall, of course at the helm with her trusted purple manila folder and glitter pen.  She has not decided whether to wear a grey tent, accessorised with a wooden staff to declare They Shall Not Pass to the hoipoiloi.  

“so many men, silence is expensive”…… the daily Male ‘

MM is having difficulty with the inter web.  Her daily notifications from internet dating sites for rich and famous, pale, grey and stale matches will not cease despite repeated pleas and offers of cash to PM to aid in turning them off.  The latest text from him was reported to read “Hehehe - I send a copy to the whole family you never had”.

🎼 listen’ do you want to know a secret” 🎼

After the acorn game ended in tears, the BRF have resorted to the more traditional Chinese Whispers at Balmoral.  LG was the instigator, HMTQ chuckled discretely and PP hooted with laughter.  Camilla was so excited she stubbed out her cigar in Charles glass of Gin. The DOC and DOC exchanged a controlled amused side eye and instructed the Royal nannies to take the children to bed, far too much for young ears.  The family later has a wonderful and hearty sing-a-long to the Beatles classic “Got to get you out of my life”.

Oh thank you so much!  I love it!  We all needed this!  😂😂😂😂😂😂😂😂😂😂😂😂😂😂😂😂😂😂😂😂😂😂😂

#Ask Skippy #submission

[hydrospanners]

a writing year in review: 2k18 edition

So I’m taking a minute to look back at all the writing I did this year and it has been a pretty spotty year for fanfic for me. Lots of long, blank spaces between weird surges of productivity. But! I did a lot of work on my original projects and also the boring adult responsibilities in my life (I changed jobs three times!!! I changed my name!!! I started going to therapy!!!!) and I pushed out some fic I really liked this year in spite of all that so, all things considered, I’m calling this one a win.

Without further ado, here is the breakdown of all the fic I’ve written this year plus a sad breakdown all of the geriatric WIPs looking at me with their big sad eyes, crossing their fingers for 2019. Hiding most of it under a cut because the rankings and WIP snippets got long.

2k18's Publication Stats for Fun & Profit:

This year I published 16 fanfics, all but one for SWTOR. 10 were brand new, started and finished in 2018, and 6 were old WIPS that have been marinating for Force only knows how long. That number is down from the 29 fics I published in 2017, but close to the 14 I published in 2016. 2015 was only 3 fics and 2014 was only 2. I have a total of 64 works published on AO3.

This year I published 34559 words for an average of about 2160 words per fic. This is extremely above my overall average of about 930 words per fic with a combined total of 59569 words published since I started posting fic publicly back in 2014.

So the number of fics may be lower this year but the number of words total and the average words in the fics I did publish went up! Please enjoy a review of the shit people liked most according to AO3 and then the stuff I personally liked most because I'm allowed to like my own writing, sue me.

2k18's Most Read Fics:

1. spoonful of sugar: Everyone gets sick sometimes; even big damn heroes. These are vignettes about the Jedi Knight's crew getting sick, getting treated, and getting better. (SWTOR)

I started writing this one when I got really sick during the summer of 2017 and I finally finished it this year! There's another part that I cut because it got way out of control that I'd like to one day add back in as a second chapter but I am okay with calling this one complete and maybe never doing that. This one is a nice combo of funny and a little bit sweet that I think is refreshing, like a cold, fruity drink on a hot summer's day. Here is my very favorite line from this whole fic because it is so delightfully dumb:

“Scourge,” Rhese tries and fails to sound as though he has some degree of command over his own voice right now. “Get off my dick.”

2. filling the table: They have a saying back on Corellia that the only way you can ever really know a man is by taking his credits. They also have a saying that you should never play cards with a Corellian because Corellians always cheat, but she's betting Doc never heard that one. (SWTOR)

I think I started this one all the way back in like 2014 or 2015. I can't remember now but it was a long time ago and this piece of shit has morphed a million times since then. I must have rewritten the ending about a million times.

I really wanted to capture the desperation of the Balmorran Resistance while I was doing the character work with this, the sense of limited resources and hard living, and I am pretty happy with the result. I'm also pretty happy with the characterization work here, the little snippets they are both revealing to each other and the bigger snippets they aren't. I'm still not entirely happy with the white spaces in this one. I feel like I was a little too sparse and there are lots of places that don't flow if you don't already know what isn't being said, but I am more or less happy with this one! Here is my favorite bit because of the doublespeak foreshadowing their future relationship that was definitely on purpose:

Four hands later, she’s fifty credits richer and Doc is rooting around in his pocket for something to scribble another IOU on. She knows he’ll never make good on it, but Rea’s happy to accept his empty promises if it keeps him playing the game. She’s overdue for a bit of fun.

3. take back what the kingdom stole:  Alliance Commander Nirea Velaran has always had a talent for burning bridges. When Theron comes to her after Nathema to pay for his sins, she finds herself wondering whether some bridges can't be repaired. (SWTOR)

Hey look! Something I started and finished in the same calendar year!! This one grew out of a very stupid joke that I ended up not even making until the end of the fic. At first I wanted to draw that bit, but I got frustrated with my lacking artistic talent so I wrote it instead and it turned into one of my fave things I've written. It has nice scenery and character growth and intimate friendships that have a real impact on their emotional lives! Hurt feelings aren't just for romance fam!! Anyway here's my favorite bit because it's one of the most Rea moments I've ever written:

He shoved her off his shoulder none-too-gently, scowling as he looked skyward, as if searching for another fleet of hostile ships to arrive and grant him the sweet release of death. When none came, he settled for another hearty gulp of whiskey. He had to be halfway to knackered by now. “You’re insufferable,” he grumbled.

“I know.” She smiled a smile that felt damn near genuine and collapsed back against the grass, swinging her legs out over the crevasse.

“I don’t even feel bad about all this anymore.” Theron complained. “You deserve it.”

Rea only laughed. A real laugh, all the way up from her belly, and it felt so fucking good.

Theron looked at her from the corners of his bloodshot eyes, suspicious and too clever by half. “Fuck,” he swore, shaking his head. “You just mindfucked me, didn’t you?”

2k18 Author’s Choice:

1. when the wicked play. After witnessing his first real lightsaber duel, Doc reflects on the contradictions of what the Jedi are supposed to be and the realities of fighting a war. (SWTOR)

This might be one of my very favorite things I've written ever. In case it wasn't clear by now, I am pretty preoccupied with making myself feel the weight of the violence and uncertainty and war that plagues you in this game. It all feels so clean and sanitary in the game because it's a game, but it's something I always want to explore and make visceral in the stories I tell about the game. I am also obsessed with Jedi and the mythos and conflicting ideas that must surround them inside the story's universe. This was a fun way to marry the two and do a bit of character work at the same time. I'm also pretty proud of this one structurally, with how contained and bookended it is. [high fives self] Anyway here's my favorite part because it's some of the only action I've written that feels like it captures the brutal urgency of how I imagine actual lightsaber combat and also says a little bit about my girl Rea via the way she fights:

Rea is little more than a blur of blue light as she collides with the Sith across the field, her sabers swinging too fast for Doc’s eyes to track. She’s hammering her enemy from every side, pushing him back and back and back. Her assault is savage and relentless and there is nothing like grace or elegance in any of it. It isn’t beautiful; it’s violence. Ugly, brutal violence.

The whole thing is over in less than a minute.

Blue meets red meets blue meets blue meets blue meets red and then the Sith’s head is hitting the floor with a muffled thump. It happens so abruptly Doc doesn’t even realize it’s ended until the rest of the body collapses a heartbeat later.

2. shadows settle on the place that you left. In the wake of her father’s death, Nyria Ryder tries to reconcile the man she knew with the shadow he left hanging over her. (Mass Effect: Andromeda)

Look! Something that isn't SWTOR! (The only thing I wrote this year that wasn't for SWTOR.) I have a whole bunch of feelings about Alec Ryder and had a really good time porting Rea over to this game and seeing the ways his presence in her life altered who she is and the ways that it didn't. Also I have a lot of feelings about SAM. This is probably peak self-indulgence but I still feel like this is some efficient sketching of Nyria's character and Alec's and their particular relationship and I'm pretty proud of it. Also I'm always a slut for complicated familial relationships. Here is my favorite bit because it's such a nice illustration of who Ria is and an important turning point for her character:

She decided to be kinder to SAM than the universe had been to her. He was her brother, just as much as Rhys, and she was all he had. She would have to make sure herself was enough.

“He believed in us both,” she told him what he needed to hear, even though it wasn’t true. Then she made a promise she could not keep, because she knew he needed that too: “You and me are going to figure this thing out. Just you watch. We’re gonna make Alec proud.”

3. take back what the kingdom stole:  Alliance Commander Nirea Velaran has always had a talent for burning bridges. When Theron comes to her after Nathema to pay for his sins, she finds herself wondering whether some bridges can't be repaired. (SWTOR)

All the same stuff I said above applies here still. Glad we can all agree this one was nice.

State of the WIPs

Just for fun I did a dive into my WIP folder to see what I'm setting myself up for in 2019! Only it wasn't very fun at all because there is so much really old stuff in here!!!!!! Good luck to future me because past me really left you with the bag girl! Good luck carrying the weight of hopes and dreams and stories unfulfilled!!

I have a total of 48 fics in progress right now. The fandom breakdown is as follows, ranked from the most to the least: Star Wars: The Old Republic (35), Dragon Age (8), Mass Effect: Andromeda (4), Fallout 4 (1). And because I'm a masochist, I looked at the dates on all this shit too. Here's the breakdown of what year all of these things were started:

2014: 4 fics

2015: 9 fics

2016: 15 fics

2017: 11 fics

2018: 9 fics

That sound you hear is me sobbing in the distance. 2014!!! What the fuck!!!!! I am gonna finish those four fics this year if it kills me. We aren't living like this anymore. Please enjoy some samples from the WIP folder with absolutely no context:

“You carry sleeping pills in your pocket?”

“For my wife. Maybe you’ve met her? About this high--” Doc raised his hand half a foot over his own head “--brown hair, blue eyes, great ass.”

Ignoring the commentary on his sister’s figure and the extreme overestimation of her height, Rhese nodded. “I may have seen her around.”

“Well if you see her again, you tell her to come home. Her family’s worried.”

Do you hear that Rea? Your family is worried. Rhese wondered if she could feel their concern, their anguish. Was she searching for them as they searched for her? She’d always been good at hiding, but she’d never vanished completely before. A hole in the Force where her warm, fervent energy should have been.

He felt cold. Really alone for the first time in his life. Careful what you wish for, Liss had always said. You might just get it.

Ossus is important.

Rea feels it when she falls out of hyperspace, that shift, that tug of something just behind her navel. The familiar weight of destiny, settling like a stone in the pit of her stomach. It leaves her breathless, white-knuckled and gripping the shuttle’s controls, her skin prickling under the cold caress of dread.

She wasn’t expecting this story to have a happy ending—a colony of Jedi on the eve of war? she’s danced that dance enough times to know the steps by now—but she wasn’t expecting anything so bad as the draw of destiny.

Fate has never been anything but cruel to her. Feeling it here, now? This is going to be worse than she imagined.

This is how you deal with failure.

You just do.

You get up in the morning and brush your teeth. You train until your legs wobble beneath you. You choke down your nutripaste and ask Simms about his niece. You congratulate Tarinik on her promotion. You laugh too loud at Vortena’s shit jokes. And when Beniko’s eyes follow a little too close, you blow her a kiss like it doesn’t matter at all.

You keep moving forward because standing still will kill you. Because life is a race and if you slow down for even a second, death will catch up.

Nirea Velaran is not ready to die.

She is not maleficarum, but she is changed. Something is awake inside her now, and the whispers are louder each time she touches the Fade. Sweet, coaxing whispers full of promises. Some of them sound like her mother.

Take care of your brother, Niria. You’re all he’s got.

In the morning, Qarric wakes with a pounding head and an empty sleeve. He never asks, but he watches her more sharply, reprimands her more often, demands more of her in training.

When she is fourteen, blade tucked into the top of her worn boot, he gives her a warning. “You aren’t as strong as you think,” he says. “No one is.”

“Is it much farther?” Ria jabbed the bladed end of her stave--a fancy enchanted thing Vivienne had insisted on--into the sodden ground and squinted through the trees, praying for a glimpse of the promised coast. The air smelled of salt and death and the sea, but she hadn’t seen a single crashing wave yet.

“A few more miles yet,” Blackwall answered irritably. Ria had elected to blame the weather for his foul mood. “Same as it was five minutes ago, Your Worship.”

“And five minutes before that,” Varric added.

“Conditions are much safer inside the ship, Nyria.”

“Didn’t come all the way out here to be safe, SAM.” Another rock plinked hollowly against the wall of the prefab. “We came to see new planets and shit. That’s what I’m doing.”

“There is not much to see at night.”

“Not much to see during the day either. Sure as hell nothing worth dying for.” She huffed a bitter not-quite-laugh.

She spoke before he could even open his mouth to ask the question. “You’re overthinking it, little brother.”

“We’re twins,” he said, mostly out of habit. “And I’m taller.”

“Your hair is taller.”

“This is serious, Nyria.”

“So is your hair.” She reached out almost absent-mindedly to ruffle it, eyes still fixed on her omni-tool, but he dodged out of the way.

#long post #idk what else to tag this as #so long 2k18!!!! #you were a bitch of a year and i hated you!!!!! #good vibes & righteous anger for 2k19!!

[nathyfaith]

Tag Game- Nosy WIP Folder Edition!

RULES!

List the titles of ALL of the active WIPs in your WIP folder, along with a sentence for the general concept if it isn’t self-explanatory. This can include fanfic for any fandoms that you’re in, as well as original works! Then, tag as many people as you want.

I was tagged by @scrollingkingfisher and boy am I dreading this thing, but let’s be honest I need to push myself to finish these fics, otherwise, it will just sit there forever.  

WIP’s Supernatural

Second Chances: Gabriel is sent back after he managed to piss off an ancient than the universe entity, except to everyone's surprise, including his, he doesn't come back as himself and there a new can of worms for Gabriel and TFW 2.0 to work on. Apparences of Fenrir, Hela, Jormungandr, and Sleipnir. (Google docs, will be posted once I finish it)

Heart’s Desire (needs a new title): Dean and Sam are on their usual hunt when Dean eats some chocolate candy and ends up six years old again. (rewriting process)

Destined To An Angel (which I had completely forgotten it even existed): Apparently is a mess of Winchester’s as kids, Jimmy Novak, Castiel, and pastor Jim, with a side of bad parenting John (who at least in this fic looks like if trying to keep it together) and Castiel. I think the main idea here is to have the kids creating a bond before Jimmy become the permanent vessel of Cas. (Google docs)

Believer: a 3k maybe 4k file with an OC called Elizabeth who is a nephil and has her grace locked up in a necklace and the boys plus Cas are trying to discover the mystery about this girl. (Google docs)

WIP’s Sleepy Hollow

Give Your Heart a Break: Abraham has just lost his wife, and Ichabod being the ultimate best friend decides that a change of scenery will do him some good. That's how they end up in Sleepy Hollow, desperate to find a place to stay until they can buy a home, they found themselves in front of a very peculiar mansion - who clearly had seen better days - and are met by one of the two enchanting Mills women...Abbie smiled as she jumped down her stool and, feeling impulsive, she stopped at Ichabod’s side. Before he could acknowledge her small persona, she stood on her tiptoes and kissed his cheek, making him hold his breath, as she whispered “Goodnight, Ichabod,” close enough that he could feel her warm breath. She was already at the kitchen door when he finally managed to say, “Goodnight, Abbie.”  (4 chapters posted on AO3)

Technicolor: It's been like these for centuries, you were practically colorblind from the moment you were born until the moment you met your soulmate, some were very lucky and met their love in their young age, learning all it's perks and fears, helping and growing together, others had it rough, the love was obsessive and often turned into despair. (5 chapters posted on AO3)

Ichabod had learned from a very young age that telling his parents, his mentors and his friends precisely what they wanted to hear was the answer to all of his troubles, but his world would turn upside down the moment he met Miss Grace Abigail Mills.

Abbie never cared much for this stupid color system, but sometimes, even she had to admit she was jealous of all this love fest, even the Lieutenant in her had to admit she wanted and wished for star cross lovers.

WIP’s Agents of Shield

Inner You: “Who is Grant Douglas Ward?” His tiredness was getting to him, and as he finally succumbed to sleep, his dreams were filled within questions, his subconscious confusing and querying him. (5 chapters posted on AO3)

Grant Douglas Ward had been a lot of things. He had been a Hydra soldier, he had been Garrett's follower, he had been a SHIELD specialist. Although, he had never been the chance of simply being Grant. A child, a normal teenager, a man in love. And now he had been given a second chance. He was not going to waste it.

Secret Santa:  In which Skye gains a Secret Santa on the first day of December. One that wishes to remain secret, but that each day leaves her a small token of his appreciation. (7 chapters posted on AO3)

Crossed Paths: Agent Ward? I strongly advise you to keep my daughter out of this. Whatever happened between us she’s not a part of it. I’m not the little girl you used to know anymore, Grant. If you as much as say something that will make her even frown I’ll tear you to pieces and feed you to the dogs.  (5 chapters posted on AO3)

I don’t even know who to tag... maybe @sageclover61 @orlissa @adelindschade @wanderingrookie and I’m sorry :D

#fanfic writing #wip #work in progress

[juggydunes]

Would it be a sin? Chapter 2

You guys... I’m so sorry for the wait. I swear. I am truly ashamed. Everytime I’d open the word doc, words would vanish from my brain. But I managed to resist and now this has been written, edited ( At 5am, so please... be gentle) and posted.  Hopy you guys enjoy. As usual, this is unbeta’d and any mistakes are mine.  PS: I would like to dedicate this to @wordsonpages1 because she’s awesome and encouraged me to actually get some writing done. <3 

Summary:  "He thinks this is the reason there are books and poems about music, this is the reason music has been around for ages, because of people like her."

Ao3 link 

Jughead is messing with some melody on the ukulele he leaves on the office as they wait  for everyone to arrive. He’s had it since meetings had become a common thing. 

Jughead’s muse was fickle and when his inspiration showed up, his fingers would  itch to write down the melody, play it and make it clear in his head. That’s  where the ukulele had taken residence on Cheryl’s office, much to her chagrin.

Slowly,his fingers start playing a song that’s been stuck in his head all day. Smiling  lightly when Archie starts to hum along the tune. It takes only a few seconds  for Melody to use the table as a drum, lightly tapping her hands on the surface  to the rhythm.

Sometimes you've got to bleed to know,

That you're alive and have a soul,

But it takes someone to come around to show you how...

Archie starts singing with a smile. Jughead enjoys these quiet moments when they get to  jam out like when they were teenagers in Archie’s garage, not a single care in  the world for them beyond doing music and enjoying the process.

Now there are moments of stress where Melody wipes a tear off her cheek because she  misses her family. Archie will sometimes knock a few shots whiskey alone as he  watches the road fly by. Valerie would go out at night and not return until the  next day, sometimes that place would be Archie’s bedroom. Jughead locks himself in his apartment to surround himself with his instruments or a book and blurt everything he feels into a notebook.

The songs on the radio are ok,

But my taste in music is your face,

And it takes a song to come around to show you how...

Jughead joins Archie singing, both of them smiling along with Melody, Valerie moving her head to the beat. He can feel the stress leaking out of them little by little as they lose themselves in the song. This is where he feels more comfortable, like this is where he’s meant to be.

She's the tear in my heart, I'm alive,

She's the tear in my heart, I'm on fire,

She's the tear in my heart, Take me higher,

Than I've ever been...

By the time they reach the final chorus, Jughead and Archie have found the perfect way  to harmonize their voices. Archie hitting the higher notes when Jughead voice  covers the rest. There’s a glint in Archie’s eyes, a certain kind of happiness  that he suspects has to do with seeing him let go and sing along his best  friend.

Jughead lets the song die slowly, the last Than I’ve ever been done by him in a  light rasp that sounded more like he was speaking than singing, eyes closed. A  few claps make him jump from his seat, turning around to see Veronica, Betty,  Cheryl and two other men that Jughead recognized from being in Betty’s band.

“That was so good! I love Twenty One Pilots.” Betty says, blinding smile on her face. It  makes Jughead smile a little in reply. “I didn’t know you could sing.” She says  as Veronica and all of them come into the room.

“He does the backing vocals.” Archie answers, coming behind him and patting Jughead on the chest. He winces a little at the cave man act, then sees how her eyes light up at the sight of his best friend. “How are y’all?”

“We’re good, thank you for asking.” Betty replies, as they sit on the large table. One band in front of the other with Cheryl in one end and Veronica plus a production man next to them. “This is Kevin and Reggie, by the way. Guitar and Drums.” Betty says, pointing at them. Kevin waves somewhat awkwardly and Reggie nods, his hands on the pockets of his jacket nonchalantly.

“Of course you’re good. You’re about to sign on a great deal with our own Archiekins here. Who wouldn’t be good?” Cheryl says, raising her eyebrows. It makes Jughead snort at her words.

“Archiekins? I like it.” Veronica says. He catches the way Archie is giving Veronica his infamous Andrews smirk and has to control himself from rolling his eyes.

“We tried to make it his stage name but he wouldn’t give in.” Valerie says, faking a pout at Archie.

“Yeah, contrary to popular belief I actually want people to take me seriously…” Archie defends himself.

“Could’ve fooled me, buddy.” Jughead mutters to himself. Betty chuckles and he realises she’s directly in front of him. He smiles shyly in return.

“I heard that, buddy.” Archie says, narrowing his eyes at him. Jughead gives him an innocent expression and grabs the bottle of water in front of him, taking a sip.

“Shall we start?” Michael, the producer, says with a bored expression on his face like dealing with twenty somethings sucks the life out of him.

“We shall.” Cheryl answers with a big smile. She gets up and starts handing everyone papers. “I left pens in the middle of the table for everyone to sign with. I checked those papers myself so they’re perfect. Let me break it down… Basically, signing these papers you would be agreeing to go on tour with Archie and the bad as their supporting act. You would have 45 minutes to perform, the recommended amount of songs is around 9 but you get to mostly manage that. The first leg of the tour is happening  in two months, this is sort of last minute to be honest.” Cheryl’s eyes wander towards Archie and Jughead in apprehension. “You’d also be able to sell your merch in the stands we’ll give you. As I mentioned earlier, the first leg will involve 26 venues and for the second leg… if everything goes alright we will call you back.”

“Can we have a moment to read this?” Veronica says, all business now with a shocked Betty by her side, she looks like she’s processing information.

“Of course. Take all the time you need.” their manager answers.

“There you go.” Jughead gives the contract to Cheryl after signing it. They’re come very far with their relationship from high school. They actually trusted each other now, a development that happened after a real serious talk they’ve all had about actually making the band work. He barely looked over papers she handed him before signing anymore.

“Thank you, Jones.” The papers of the rest of the band follow while Veronica, Betty, Kevin and Reggie look over their papers. “Don’t you dare, J.” Cheryl says a few minutes later when Jughead’s hand moves towards the ukulele sitting on the chair next to him. He sighs, frowning at Cheryl who only gives him a stern glance like he’s some restless kid… which, alright, he kinda is.

“These look okay, Cheryl.” Veronica comments.

“You sure you don’t want to check those with a lawyer?” Cheryl asks her, moving her hair behind her shoulder with a flick of her head.

“Well, considering I’m one… it kinda has been checked.” Veronica’s sly grin makes her look sort of wicked to Jughead’s eyes.

“Wait, you’re a lawyer?” Archie asks, sounding surprised when she nods at him. “Nice.”

Veronica smiles at him in a way that would make Jughead fidget in his seat, but Archie only gets this really intense look on his face he’s only seen when he can’t play something and will practice it until he gets it right.

“Betty has good taste in managers.” The guitarist, Kevin, says with a smirk as he looks at the blonde.

“In friends, Kevin, in friends. ” Betty tells him and the two girls share an adoring look before Betty breaks it to hand Cheryl the signed papers. “There you go, Miss Blossom.”

“Miss Blossom, I like it.” Cheryl says. “I shall keep you, dear.”

“You should run while you still have time.” Jughead tells Betty, who smiles in amusement at him. “Save yourself.” he whispers dramatically before finally grabbing the ukulele.

“As you can see, Betty, I need people who truly appreciate me around here. I’ve been around these hobos for too long.”

“Hey!” Archie says. “I haven’t done anything.”

“Yet, Archiekins, yet.” Cheryl clarifies, gathering the rest of the paperwork. “Well, kids, that’s all. I officially welcome you to the tour.”

Betty claps happily with a dopey grin on her face, next to her bandmates who look equally excited. If Jughead looks really hard he thinks he can see her eyes being glassy at one point. Archie appears with a bottle of champagne and pours them on some toasting flutes that he’s never seen before.

Jughead barely has a sip after they toast, merely to keep appearances, not that anyone beside his friends will notice or know he doesn’t drink much alcohol and least of all champagne. He enjoys the contagious energy of the room, almost tasting the happiness rolling off on waves from Betty and her bandmates.

“We should continue celebrating. My house? What do you guys say?” Archie says when the champagne is gone and it’s time for them to leave the offices. Jughead closes his eyes briefly because he’s supposed to stay at Archie’s apartment today and he really wants to just crash on any flat surface he can find.  

“Are you sure?” Betty asks, wide eyes.

“I’m always up for a little party.” Reggie says, nodding and grinning.

“Yeah, I’m sure. You in?” Archie directs this last question to Veronica, who doesn’t seem as inclined to celebrate as the rest of them. She looks over at Betty and Jughead can see some weird unspoken conversation happening before she turns back to Archie.

“Sure! Only if you’re buying, though.” Veronica winks slyly.

“Any time.” Archie answers, grinning back at her. “Okay guys, let’s head out!”

“You coming with?” Jughead asks Cheryl, who is lightly chatting with the producer as she gathers the contract papers and puts them into a folder.

“Oh no, I have a date night with Joshua.” Cheryl tells him. “Some relaxing before the chaos starts.”

“Okay, say hi to him from me.” Jughead says, already walking backwards. “See you soon, chief.”  He turns to the door, almost colliding with Betty and Kevin who are chatting near the door in hushed tones. “Whoops, sorry.”

“No damage done.” Kevin says, lightly guiding Betty towards the exit. “Is Archie’s house far from here?” he asks.

“Uhm… not really. I’d say it’s 15 minutes.” He replies, pressing the button for the other elevator. Reggie, Veronica and Archie laughing as they enter theirs.

The trip on the elevator is passed in a short almost comfortable silence. Jughead leans on the side wall, closing his eyes for a minute before the doors open again, leaving them on the entrance of the building.

“Hey, Jug, you okay taking Betty,  Kevin and Valerie? I’ll take Veronica, Reggie and Melody.” Archie says as soon as they step out of the elevator. Jughead takes a deep breathe. Act nice, they’re the best supporting act for us. You can’t screw this up.

“Sure. Are you guys okay with that? My car is a block away.” He turns to ask them because, unlike Archie, he does have some manners… most of the time.

“Yeah, of course. We could take a cab there, thought, you don’t have to drive us.” Betty insists, he finds her attitude endearing and briefly wonders if she’s always so soft.

“It’s not trouble. I need to drive my car to Archie’s one way or the other, taking you doesn’t bother me at all. Come on…”

They make the short walk to his car, Kevin and Betty chatting by his side, Valerie joining the conversation occasionally.  Jughead turns down the music that begins blaring on his speakers as soon as he starts the car, feeling slightly disappointed when Valerie sits on the front seat, leaving Betty and Kevin on the back.

“Oh, you’re in a Muse mood?” Valerie asks, raising her eyebrows expectantly.

“Somewhat.” He simply answers, aware of the people listening.

Valerie knows him too much, especially about his moods, as the band likes to call them. Said moods include the battery of his phone dying because he will lock himself up on his home studio, unreachable, only to come back to life with a few new songs and dark circles under his eyes. Like clockwork, Jughead will start listening to Muse days before and sometimes during. There’s just something about the band that makes him feel ethereal and like he can handle everything that’s thrown at him, a powerful force flooding his veins.

“A muse mood?” Betty asks from the back. Jughead can see her frowning on his rearview mirror.

“A long stupid inside joke. Apparently when I hear Muse I get philosophical, annoyingly so. I personally disagree.” Jughead tells her, carefully avoiding the realness of it all.

“You say that because you’re not the one making a joke only for someone to start a rant about the purpose of life, creativity, how Tarantino is a cinematic genius or all of those together.” Valerie chuckles when Jughead glares at her.

“Well… in his defense Tarantino is a cinematic genius.” Betty says, shyly.

“Thank you! Finally, someone with a brain.” Jughead yells, lifting his hands for a second before putting them back on the steering wheel. “Don’t listen to them, Betty. We’re smarter and they’re just jealous. We’ll make our own band full of Tarantino and Muse.”

“We’ll be instantly famous.” Betty plays along. “We can write odes to Quentin.”

“I like the way you think.” Jughead looks at her in the rearview mirror, catching her eyes for a second and he can’t help but smile back at her, content spreading through his chest.

“Don’t give him any more ideas, girl.” Valerie tells Betty, smirking. The comfortable silence taking place for a few minutes, the music softly playing.

“We’re here.” Jughead says, pulling over next to Archie’s car.

“How the fuck are they already here?” Valerie asks, frowning as they get out of the car.

“You know Archie, his childhood dream was becoming speed racer.” Jughead kids, making Valerie laugh.

He opens the door to the apartment with his key, music can be heard from the outside. Jughead is already mentally preparing himself for the imminent headache as he opens the door to Archie’s obvious bachelor pad.

He has white bare walls, a comfortable couch with a huge tv and a guitar rack  on the other end of the living room. Archie doesn’t really have a home studio, choosing to use Jughead’s, even buying some gear for it himself. Jughead and Archie worked best together so they had decided it would be useless to spend money in two studios when they could have one and buy all the good stuff.

Jughead get himself a beer from the fridge as the rest talk and get comfortable in the living room. He later sits with them, picking one of the comfortable chairs and enjoying the chatter and laughter going on in the room. He thinks that maybe this could work, if they’re already getting along nicely, maybe tour could work . He feels like a broken record, but after all he’s been through it stills feels like everything could fall apart any minute.

A smile spreads on his face, relaxing further on the chair and laughing along with his friends as Archie tells a tour story of how Valerie accidentally kicked something and Archie’s guitar stopped sounding. His friend, in a break of genius, had asked the sound guys to bring him an acoustic guitar and they had done the rest of the show unplugged. It had been one of the greatest experiences in Jughead’s short life, the energy he had felt that night as the crowd went silent to listen them, softly singing along… he would never forget it. He vividly remembers going back to his apartment afterwards and crying like a baby because the emotions were too big for his chest.

It’s a while after when he makes his way to the balcony to have a cigarette and to get away from the noise if he was being honest. Times like these he wishes he could adapt more to social events like Archie or the rest of the band does, but they simply drain the energy out of him. He needs to prepare himself mentally each time. Concerts are different, that’s probably the only social interaction that he absolutely loves.

The night is quiet, a slight breeze cools his heated skin and clears his thoughts. Jughead watched the smoke from this cigarette disappear into nothingness, so enraptured on the simple action that he doesn’t notice her until she’s right beside him.

“Can I have one?” She asks, nodding towards the cigarette in his fingers.

“Why, Cooper, I didn’t picture you as a smoker.” He says, passing her the box and lighter, watching as she lights the cigarette. He notices how she closes her eyes at the first drag, her shoulders relaxing a little.

“I’m not. I just like to smoke from time to time.” She tells him, leaning her arms on the rail. “What did you picture me like?”

Her question surprises him and he turns to really look at her. She’s looking back at him, unflinching, eyes a little glassy from the alcohol, but open and curious as they stare at each other. Jughead looks at her polka-dot short sleeved dress, her wavy blonde hair braided on the top, black ankle boots and the tiny key necklace that adorns her neck. She looks amazing, there’s no denying that.

At first, Betty wouldn’t really stand out from other girls, but if you look closer, Jughead realises, you could see the fire in her eyes. He can see the passion and determination in those green eyes, it makes him want to lean forward so he can take a closer look, perhaps, right into her soul. The air changes the longer they stare at each other.

“Well, you seem like the kind of girl that has this whole vocal chords ritual, a voice freak if you will…” He states, putting the cigarette back to his mouth. “Kinda like Archie does.” The tension vanishes with the sound of her laughter.

“I actually kinda have a vocal chords ritual but I do indulge in a cigarette every now and then.” Betty answers with a smile.

“Such a rebel.”

“So… how long have you known Archie?” she asks, not looking at him.

“Since we were little kids. Our parents were friends.” Jughead replies, used to this question.

“Wow, that must be cool. Growing up and then touring with your friend.” Betty sighs. “I’m really glad I got this gig, to be honest. I can’t believe this is really happening, I’ve been a fan of Archie for a while but I sent the supporting act request on a whim. Veronica talked my ear off for two days before I actually sent it, I had no expectations at all.”

“Well… you’re really good. You deserve it.” He simply says, not knowing how to answer, his stomach twisting a little.

“To be completely honest, this feels a little like a dream… being in his house, being here with you, your bandmates. I can’t believe I’m going on tour with the dude that makes me cry with his songs sometimes.” Betty says, chuckling self-deprecatingly.

“What?” Jughead asks, a little dumbfounded, her words running through his head.

“Yeah, I know. It’s a little silly, I guess, but the first time I heard Ode to sleep I cried like a baby.” Betty tells him, smiling shyly. “Don’t tell him that, It’s a little embarrassing. But it hit me so hard…”

Jughead’s heart is beating wildly in his chest, he tries to look nonchalant but inside it feels like a cocktail of various emotions spilled on his brain. His stomach twists painfully as he listens to her go on and on about the amazingly written metaphors and exceptional narration of a story in just one song. He feels sick, his headache is back.

“Yeah… he’s great.” Jughead answers when he realises Betty’s looking at him like she’s expecting a reply. “Hey, do you mind if we go back inside?”

“Sure…” Betty looks a little surprised, but they head back to the party where she’s called by Veronica as soon as they step inside the living room.

The sick feeling stays with Jughead the rest of the evening, making him quieter as his friends talk. Thankfully, nobody seems to notice he isn’t really laughing along like he was before. He waves the group goodbye from the sofa as they head to the door, sighing in relief as soon as the door closes.

“Okay, spill.” Archie says, coming to sit beside him.

“What?” Jughead asks, frowning at him.

“Don’t look at me like that. Other might not know you so well, but I actually can tell when something happens to you. It’s my superpower.” His friend says, grinning at him, proud of himself. Jughead chuckles before sighing.

“It’s nothing important.” He looks down at his hands for a moment. “She told me that the first time she listened to Ode to sleep she cried.”

“Dude, that’s awesome!” Archie says, turning to face Jughead fully, arm on the back of the sofa as he smiles.

“Yeah… she also told me not to tell you because it might be embarrassing because she was such a big fan of you and your lyrics.” Jughead’s voice drips with a bitterness he wasn’t expecting, it makes him frown.

“Jug… she doesn’t know.” Archie says softly. “Nobody knows.”

“Valerie, Cheryl, Melody and a bunch of other people do…” He tries, knowing he sounds like a child.

“It doesn’t count if they’re co-workers, man…” Archie tells him, hand on his shoulder. “You don’t let anyone know.”

“Yeah, I know…” Jughead sighs, rubbing his face with his hands. “It just… the way she spoke about the songs, man… you should’ve listened to her. It was like there were something precious.”

“They are, Jughead, they truly are. You know…” Archie starts. “We’ve talked about this, all you gotta say is tell me and we’ll change it. People should know you’re the writer of these amazing songs…”

“I know.” Jughead stops his friend, suddenly feeling more tired than he’s felt in weeks. “It’s okay. I don’t need that, it was just… a moment, you know? I’m happy with the way things are. Besides you’re the jock of this relationship, you’re the only built for fame, my friend…”

“Jug…” Archie starts as Jughead gets up from the sofa.

“I’m going to bed, pal. I’m just really tired. Everything is okay, I swear. We’re okay, forget I said anything.” Jughead tries, eyes silently pleading his friend to drop the subject.

“Sure.” Archie says even though he doesn’t sound sure at all.

Jughead walks down the hall to the guest bedroom that’s more his than for guests and closes the door behind him before taking his clothes off and falling into bed.

He knows Archie is trying to talk to him. He’s been trying to talk to him for years now, since they started this whole music career and Jughead refused to let people know he was the intellectual owner of most of their songs. He’s painfully aware of the way insecurity played a role on that decision, but he also wanted to make music without the pressure of the fame.

Jughead was comfortable as the sidekick, comfortable being the bassist of the grand Archie Andrews. In the intimacy, they knew they were a band, but for the public Archie was a solo artist that had the graciousness of taking his best-friend as his bassist. But Jughead thought he got the best of both worlds... going on tours, writing, playing music and all that without the pressure of the fame, the interviews and photoshoots he saw his friend go through daily.

The way Betty had spoken of his song brought something he had spent his whole life repressing… the desire to be seen. All his life he had taken the role as an observer.  Observing as Archie grew popular in high school, observing how people looked at Archie and really believe that he could be the next big artist. Being the observer kept him safe . He knew what it was like and wore that as a comforting second skin. Sometimes, though, like tonight… he craved the “spotlight”.

There was a moment when he had to restrain himself from telling her the truth. That’s me! I did that! That’s mine! Those are my words!... He chuckles bitterly at the idea now, how naive. At this point, he doesn’t think anyone would believe him if he went and said he wrote most of Archie’s songs. Hell, sometimes he isn’t even sure. Not that he would ever try it. Too risky, he thinks.

Feeling weirdly defeated and extremely tired, Jughead closes his eyes.

He dreams of green eyes and disappointed glances.

#bughead fanfiction #bughead #riverdale #betty cooper #jughead jones #betty x jughead #riverdale fanfiction #mine #my fics