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» WHO? Matt Murdock & OPEN
» WHEN? Now
» WHERE? Deck 6 => 6.27 => Deck 5
» WHAT? Arrival
» WARNINGS? TBC

Arrival Hall (CLOSED to Frank Castle)
It's cold.

He's not where he was before. He knows that much. He squeezes his eyes shut and lets his senses go, scanning his surroundings like an uncalibrated radar. Metal. Lots of metal, clanging, banging. But everything is wrong. Lighter, like things are floating even when they're not. People are talking. Laughing, maybe. But distant, like the next apartment building over, or somewhere down the next block. The fine hairs on his arms and on the back of his neck stand with the low buzz-hum of the vessel, creaking, engine churning like an old ship, suspended in space.

It's like a hangover, except. He feels heavy even though he's light. Shackles on his feet. His head hurts. Everything hurts. And God, what is that noise?

Less of a waking up, more of regaining consciousness as Matt rolls over with a pained cry and a grimace.

His hand crawls over to the smartwatch, trying to mute the beeping and humming and screeching grating against his ears. What day is it? What time? What happened? He clutches the device with one hand and runs the other hand down his body. Daredevil's gone. Only Matthew. A jumpsuit covering the bandages. Stitches. Blood. No pearly gates, no apostles. No questions to answer about how he's lived his life, whether he's lived it well, whether he's repentant. Paid enough of a price. Just a jumpsuit... and a pair of boots?

"...lectra." Talking feels like rousing up a sandstorm in his throat. He groans and struggles to his feet, using energy he doesn't have to drive him forward. Out. Just the one thing on his mind.

I have to save her.

He gets blood on his palm as he presses his hand over a wet bandage, stitches having been ripped as he sluggishly stumbles deliriously down the corridor. His boots clunk along at an uneven, unsteady pace. Everything is too loud. Too cold. Too heavy. There's blood on the wall where he braced himself against it. And then there's a door. Everything flickers behind his closed eyelids. Black, red, black, red, black, black, black...

Room 6.27. Where everything's a little quieter. And he can just focus. Keep the red lights on in the dark.

6.27. Matthew. Chapter Six. Verse Twenty-Seven. 'Can any one of you, by worrying, add a single hour to your life?'

Hn. That's funny. The chuckle bubbles to the surface. For all the pain He's inflicted, God still has a decent sense of humour.

Departure Lounge (OTA)
He doesn't take kindly to being dumped in the med bay, but there's not much of a fight he can put up against Frank Castle in his current state. He's not sure how long he's been resting there, but when he's well enough to orientate himself again, he's not staying in the med bay. The machines are noisy. He has questions. He's scared.

Matt makes it two steps out of the med bay before space sickness kicks in. The sheer wrongness of the gravitational pull throws him off, throws everything around him off. He sinks down to his knees and clutches his head, curling up against the wall. He looks pale, like he's about to throw up.

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"Oh yeah, haven't caught up with you in a while. Also, I guess you were dead, or whatever. I just figured you'd bounce back, and look, I was right." Just not in the way he thought, like, at all. If he notices Matt struggling, he doesn't say anything, figuring he has to get used to space food sooner or later though he does offer up a conciliatory: "If that's too much for you I can show you how to get the protein bars. They're what I live on, mostly."

Matt isn't taking any of this in stride, but when does he ever? Frank is more patient than he looks, or then he once was anyway. He can wait the other man out if he has to. When he slanders the Avengers though, Frank has to laugh, oh man.

"Be a little louder so Cap hears you and wrecks our table, too." Though that's probably too much effort for the guy, honestly. At least from what Frank has seen. He leans over his tray, voice dropping to an octave he knows only Matt will pick up on. "I did it, Red. I got every last one of 'em. When we get back, Kitchen's all yours to dig your knuckles into bullies to your heart's content, alright. I'm out."

"No it's fine." Matt picks up his fork again and moves the 'meat' over the spaghetti a bit, long enough to hopefully assure Frank before he sets his fork down again and goes back to nursing his coffee. He probably was expecting Daredevil to be a lot more adaptable to all these sudden changes and just roll with the punches. But it's not Daredevil sitting with Frank at the table right now, and Matthew is just a man. All the new scars and the paleness of his skin can attest to that.

"He wouldn't assault a blind man," Matt comments dismissively. He might have a few disparaging thoughts about the Avengers but there's a special place in his heart for the boy from Brooklyn who carries the weight of the world on his shoulders, who is incidentally also technically a veteran. A much higher opinion than the big green wrecking ball, the billionaire playboy or the tourist with a hammer, anyway. If Matt knew anything about Steve's stance on Registration he'd be scoring even more points.

It's hard to feel happy for Frank when 'I did it, Red' means he went Rambo somewhere and shot someplace up, leaving a pile of bodies in his wake.

"How do you feel, Frank?" Matt can't help but ask. He's not asking it like an adult would ask a child 'what do you have to say for yourself?' He just wants to know. "Are you at peace?"

Frank never doubted Daredevil was a man, even one with human weaknesses. He'd seen them, with the mask on and off alike. Maybe more on, even. It's why he's watching Matt so carefully like he might combust right before his eyes. Like it'll be on him when something terrible inevitably befalls him. He grunts noncommittally at the quip, Steve seems alright honestly, but he's just as lost as the rest of them. No special superhero insight to be found. And it's not like he has super great opinions of the Avengers, then again, he doesn't think about them too much except when people around here ask about aliens. Then he can't be happier to tell them the story. Maybe it's because he was overseas, but he feels a disconnect to the whole event like it didn't come way too damn close to leveling the little house his beautiful family was in. Then again, didn't really matter in the end, did it.

How does he feel? He comes back to the conversation with an uneasy expression writ over his face. Should he tell Matt about all he's endured here? Would he even care? Would he believe him? And furthermore, does he even want to get into it when he'd finally managed to move past the whole event? Frank doesn't feel patronized to, though, that doesn't even really cross his mind. Still, sarcasm comes easier than true self-analysis almost always.

"Well, I'm on a haunted space station that wants to kill us all, so yeah. I'm a yogi master." He laces his fingers and sets them on the table, abandoning his food since Matt doesn't seem to be eating either.

Edited (one letter edit is my stREET NAME) 2018-07-20 01:22 (UTC)

Matt gives Frank his signature constipated lineface look, the one that says the blind man is glaring without being able to glare.

"How do you feel about killing everybody you set out to kill," Matt reiterated, his voice gaining a dull edge to it. Also, Frank said a lot of things at him earlier, but Matt's pretty sure he never said anything about 'haunted'.

"I'm asking about closure, Frank. Whether you even know what that is." Because displacing difficult emotions in lieu of trying to protect someone who isn't Lisa Castle and everyone else here in this damned place is not closure. Would Frank's wife even have wanted this of him? Did he even think of that when he was pursuing his blood-soaked agenda? Or did he just want to make everyone else hurt the way he'd been hurt?

"What the fuck difference does that make, here?" Frank snaps, eyes flashing, though he's still careful not to raise his voice. He knows he doesn't have to anyway. The truth is? He doesn't know. He'd been about to figure that out when he'd woken up here instead. "We're all just tryin' to survive, and at least that's something I'm damn good at."

Maybe that was a little too telling, honestly. That he feels more at home in a place that's terrorizing him than in his own city. Still, Matt has to know what he's asking isn't fair. After another beat if Matt can manage to keep his mouth shut, Frank will open his again.

"It feels... empty. The same. Better, worse. I'm glad they're gone. That they can't hurt anyone else." That doesn't mean he's glad he's alive. It doesn't really mean... anything, in the end. "So much happened you don't know dick about. Ask Kamala if you want to fill in the gaps." Since thanks to Matt he'd had to tell her every gory detail. Nightmare fuel, she'd said. Well, try living it.

"Kamala isn't your daughter, or your priest!" Matthew snaps back with his voice raised, his hands coming down hard on the table as he gets up too quickly to his feet. Standing up too fast was clearly a mistake. Not only did he draw unwanted attention over, all the blood rushed up to his head and combined with the smell of synthetic food it was too much for his body to handle.

He winces and withdraws, clutching his head with his right hand as the sudden onset of vertigo made the bright lights and the machines buzz too loudly, the ship groaning in his ears. The rest of that 'you don't get to go on your killing spree and unburden yourself on someone else's kid and it's not fair on her and blah blah blah' lecture fizzles out abruptly as his boots stumble a few centimetres backwards and he grabs onto the edge of his table with a white-knuckled grip.

Frank sees the problem long before Matt does, trying to ignore the sharp spike of hurt that goes through his heart at the words. He should know better than to be completely honest with him, and yet he always tries anyway. He's always the one reaching out, even when he has to tie Matt up to get him to listen. He leaps up, worried the table won't hold the man's weight, but also not about to let him injure himself further, no matter his own feelings right now. Getting behind Matt, he wraps both arms solidly around his shoulders and attempts to ease him up and away from the table then hopefully with a gentle push: back into his chair. The second he gets Matt seated, he's patting down his front for any new tears or bleeds.

"No, dipshit," he manages gruffly, real fear clenching his heart, obvious in the way the pace picks up. "She's my friend." Frank has a few of those, now. He did always manage to pick them up wherever he went, not that Matt would know it. But he's joined the community here, when people need his help he's always there. And that includes ungrateful lawyers who didn't even try to help you the first time around, he supposes. At least Matt's right about one thing: he didn't want help then.

Edited (WHERE DID THAT SPACE COME FROM) 2018-07-20 12:17 (UTC)

Instinct screams to try to push Frank away, the stubborn, independent and unwell man screaming for freedom inside wanting to insist he doesn't need his help. But Frank casts a warm shadow over him, and in the darkness the calm washes over him like cold water, a moment's reprieve from the sensory overload letting him sit without incident, without feeling like he's floating.

It's just Hurricane Matthew's way, barging into a situation with insufficient information, making assumptions, running his mouth, dispensing accusations and judgemental comments left and right. And maybe after some introspection, after he's broken everything Matt might be able to manage a seemingly heartfelt apology and beg for forgiveness. But by then the damage is done and sorry doesn't mean shit anymore.

"Just leave me alone, Frank." Before he gets even uglier and says something he's going to regret. Matt buries his head in his hands and squeezes his eyes shut while the floor starts tilting at a 6 degree angle under his boots. "Please."

The thing is: Frank expected this when Matt arrived. He expected all of this. And he doesn't need a goddamn apology, probably wouldn't accept it if he got one. He crouches down in front of the man but doesn't try to touch him again, even as he sees a speck of red appear on his jumpsuit.

"It's not gonna happen, okay? You're here so we're in this together now."

It's as simple as that for the Marine. He puts a hand on Matt's calf to see if he can take contact of any kind. He really doesn't want to have to carry him out of here, but he will.

"Just... take a breath, focus on my voice. Shut everything else out."

Matt flinches and he moves to close his legs defensively, but he doesn’t try kicking Frank so perhaps, all things considered, that could count as a win. He counts his breath in, one, breath out, one. Two, two. Three, three. Every time he gets distracted he hones in on Frank and resets the counter back to one.

Slowly the background noise drifts out of focus, like the mess hall is in a different room far away from here. The floor starts to right itself as his senses wrap around Frank, darting from heartbeat to electrical activity under the skin to those vocal cords vibrating, turning air into his voice.

“...I don’t like space.” Yeah, Matthew is whinging now. He doesn’t like space and he doesn’t like Frank. Yet what is he surrounded by, and who’s keeping him company? Story of his life really.

Frank takes his hand away at the flinch, standing on his knees so he can watch over Matt and catch him if things get bad. He keeps murmuring nothings, Shhh, it's okay and the like until it seems like the other man is calming down. Finally, Matt speaks up and he could almost laugh. He won't, though, knowing the other man can probably sense the way his eyes have filled with water somehow. Freak.

"Yeah, me either, buddy. Let's get up?" he suggests, voice soft and impossibly gentle as he slowly moves to get up, hand on Matt's knee for a quarter of an instant and then a more solid touch as his hand settles on Matt's shoulder. "If you're ready, I'm right here."

"I'm not done yelling at you," Matt quips as he tries not to lean forward or backwards too much when he moves to stand. He hates being so dependent, especially on Frank. He might not be acting like the most grateful, indebted person on this ship right now, but he's aware that Frank's being patient with him as he grapples with his injuries and the new environment. And he appreciates it even though he isn't saying as much.

"Don't suppose you've figured out the Ubereats app," he mutters, turning his wrist with the communicator over. It's as big of an olive branch as Frank is going to get right now.

"You're never done yelling at me," he points out, getting a hand around Matt's back so he doesn't fall backward as he gets them both to their feet. The last way he'd ever describe the man is indebted to him so it's fine. He feels strangely responsible for all of this, slowly letting up so Matt can stand on his own, but leaving his hand on the man's elbow loosely. He snorts at the question. "Yeah, it's called don't be a douchebag and maybe Frank will bring me a protein bar." He will even if Matt is being a dick, clearly.

"You didn't tell anyone," Matt says softly when he ducks his head in closer. He's trying not to drag his feet because that just makes the boots even louder and heavier. The uneasy mix of drain water passing for coffee and sludge passing for spaghetti does little to settle that nauseous feeling, that uncomfortable churning in his stomach.

"I thought you would have said something," he continues, blinking a few times. "But I made you relive all that. And I didn't mean to." Or, in other words, sorry.

It kind of earns Matt a funny look, not like he'd know the difference. He's moving him to stand by the replicator Frank likes best so he can take his hand again and show him the sequence for the protein bars. He probably should have known better, honestly. Again, he blames himself.

"I didn't really think it would make me a lotta friends here, you know." An easy joke like they're old pals, being some psycho murderer back home wasn't going to get him any trust with these people and he needed that to help them. It's what he's singularly focused on these days, that and supporting Karen so she can open up more of the station. The not-quite-an-apology catches him off-guard and he shrugs a shoulder, not sure how to respond. Matt wasn't going to tell anyone else, apparently. That meant his preempt to Alex was hasty, but their relationship hadn't suffered for it so maybe it was better he know the truth anyway. "I relive it every day anyway."

In other words: you're forgiven. He pushes a long puff of air from his nose in a noisy exhale before patting Matt's back once to tell him to stay put. Then he goes back to their table to clear their trays before rejoining him at the replicator, scooping bars into his pockets for the trip.

"Think you've had enough medbay for one day?" Matt would probably have to go back and soon if his injuries persisted, but he'd rather release him on his own recognizance than truly have to babysit him 24-7.

Matt feels a little bad for letting that... synthetic stuff go to waste, given that this seems like the kind of place that'd be strapped for resources unless they stop off at places in regular intervals to get restocked. But clearly not bad enough to sit back down and force himself through that meal.

He'd always pictured Frank as painfully alone, which is partly why he didn't think he'd be teaming up with people, making friends. Maybe trying to fly solo isn't going to work in a place like this. He doesn't yet know enough about the troubles they're facing here to figure that much out yet. They're kind of the same, really, as much as Matthew would hate to admit it. They're lonely people. Matt has friends but he also thinks of them as people he has to protect, dreams he has to preserve. Even Frank Castle is fairly high on the list of people he wants to save, whether Frank himself wants to be saved or not.

This is a good thing, regardless. Lonely people making friends. If the circumstances were any better he'd be happy for Frank.

In the end, for better or worse Matt doesn't have to say anything awkward when Frank gets back to him.

"If you take me back there I will throw you into the elevator shaft."

Frank is lonely, even surrounded by friends, including Karen Page who he'd tried again and again to distance himself from here to no avail. They all need one another, and they're going to need Matt too. It's okay that he's reliant on Frank right now even if it isn't okay with him. He'll get the fuck over it because it's about survival. That's what Frank is best at: seeing all the angles and knowing the best approach instantly. The best tactic for the situation, and the best people to carry them out. Before he was the Punisher he'd been a team leader and a father. Maybe onboard Reverie Terminal, he's a little of both.

He's glad they're back to sniping, a bemused sniff countering the other man's threat. Frank pats him on the shoulder and nods before nudging him towards the exit. "Deck 6 it is." Once they're in the elevator, Frank allows Matt the chance to engage his own boots himself, not unlike training his dog in so many ways. He watches carefully for the expected response and when it doesn't come there will be gentle corrections, but never force. He slaps the '6' and the close door button and turns on his own boots, waiting patiently with his hands clasped in front of him.

Once they reach the deck they're both now apparently residents of, he glances at the blood that's no longer there. He'd done his best to clean up, though he's sure Matt will be able to smell it still. He can almost convince himself he can, after all, and the other man has much keener senses than he does.

"It's unlocked now, but you can lock and unlock the door with your communicator. I think I can rig the keypad to take a voice entry so pick a four digit code you can remember in case you lose your watch." He's expecting Matt to ditch it often, honestly. "There's a terminal inside your room and you can find them throughout the station if you need to get a hold of anyone without it, too." But that's not an excuse to ditch it on purpose!!!

The room has also been cleaned in the time Matt's been in medbay: clean sheets and a meticulously made bed awaiting him.

"Here," he offers softly, handing the other man the glasses he'd found and also cleaned up from where they'd been sitting on the bedside table. Then he dumps the protein bars on its surface from his pockets instead. "Water from the tap is safe. Clean clothes in the dresser." Yep, Dad alert (yikes.)

He's getting used to this walk to the elevator, the artificial spin that keeps them grounded. The weight of his boots as he starts filtering the noise they make out. If it wasn't for the space sickness and the other no-longer-debilitating injuries, this could actually be a positive, almost fun experience, this partial weightlessness. But when does Matt ever enjoy himself doing anything? He tends to suck the fun out of the situation.

He stumbles on his way into the elevator but he rights himself, turning his head partially over his shoulder as he tries to rock on his feet and engage his boots. "Just like trauma recovery," he mutters softly. He's not talking to Frank in particular, it was just an observation. Baby steps. Disorientation. Unfamiliarity. Fear. He's not used to it, but he's been here before. The parallels are there between this and recovering from his injuries in the accident, learning how to use a cane, how to read braille. Hurting himself in the dark walking into things, dropping things, telling dollar bills and clothes apart. Frustrating, and slow, but eventually liberating.

Matt makes his way to his room. He's not sure how it ended up as his room but since he's bled all over it he'd feel bad moving into anywhere else and making someone else stay here. He can get there just by the smell of cleaning liquid smothering the scent of his own blood, but he places his hand on the doorframe just in case.

Frank knows him well. He won't be keeping his watch on until he realises he needs it and he's knee deep in trouble. Even with audio functions, this thing that keeps talking at him would sooner or later grate on his nerves. Matt tends to isolate himself especially when he thinks he can't even get around without assistance anyway. He's not going to be talking aloud at what seems like blank screens to him while everyone in the background can hear him.

"Do you always nag this much?" Matt quips when he slides his shades on, concealing the vulnerability and uncertainty in his eyes.

Trauma recovery. It's still on his mind moments later though he'd said nothing to the words. Matt isn't wrong, after all. And it's a good lead-in to what Frank has to tell him next, something that feels him with apprehension. Not because he wants Matt's sympathy or understanding, afraid he won't get even basic validation - but what if he doesn't even believe him? He knows he can't let it stop him from warning Matt, especially Matt, who's already vulnerable in so many ways here.

"You'd know that already if you ever listened." No, seriously, how are you only now noticing the Dad vibes?? Something clicks when Matt puts on the shades, a mask of sorts even if they aren't devil horns by a longshot. Still, the familiarity helps him breach the subject he's been putting off. "Two weeks ago... something happened to me, Red." This clearly isn't a personal anecdote for entertainment value, it's a PSA. This happened to me and it could happen to you, too.

There's a joke on the tip of his tongue. One of those 'yeah, it's called a midlife crisis' kind of benign jokes. Except Frank seems to be in a fairly serious mood. Matt crosses his arms and leans back slowly to perch against the corner of the bedframe.

"Do you want to sit and talk about it?" They might not get along but if this is a confession, Matthew's door is always open.

Frank nods even if Matt can't see it, denting the edge of the man's bed with his bulk. He needs a minute to push this out, knowing he'll easily sense the tension in him.

"Things happen to people here. So far... so far they're always temporary." But that could change at any time, clearly. Frank starts by talking about others because it's never easy to talk about himself, and especially not to Matt. "My friend Alex, he... he had all the water squeezed out of him like. I think he died, I'm not sure, but then he came right back and-- a girl drowned. She came back too, but blind. A Marine I know, taller and bigger than me, she. She wasted away to nothing, then filled back out again like it never happened, and. I."

It's hard, it is, but he has to just say it. Matt's right, this is all serious. He wishes it weren't, that this was all an elaborate prank. But he'd seen it all with his own eyes. Matt would just have to trust his, he supposes, something that doesn't come easy for him either.

"I lost my hearing. Then my sense of touch... It only came back a few days ago." In the most excruciating way possible, he doesn't say. Maybe he's said enough, really. "Sorry to dump this on you, but if you're next--" He needed to know anyway, Frank is just grasping at straws to blame himself.

'Things' isn't very specific, but Matt rolls his shoulders and stretches his neck as he listens. He's already been told that people just sort of... die and come back, feeling ill. He's still processing that. Nevermind that both he and Elektra somehow made it out of Midland Circle alive, he probably won't believe it until he senses someone die right in front of him and come back a little differently. But to hear Frank talk about people dying like this is definitely something else.

He listens to that heartbeat pounding away in Frank's ribcage. It's upsetting, unsettling for him to talk about this. No trigger finger or shaking leg really necessary to convey that.

Matt sighs and scratches his forehead, clearing his throat before he speaks. He's got words of reassurance. Words of comfort. Questions - a whole lot of questions that just seem to multiply for every minute he spends here. But first and foremost it's words of concern.

"Yeah. Are you okay now?"

Frank doesn't want or need any of that. Not from anyone, but least of all from Matt. He just needs him to listen, something he finally seems to be doing. It was easier when they were fighting, he realizes then, looking up at the other man without guarding his expression. Not that Frank ever does, fear and panic plain for him to not see. But he knows he can sense it all, that he doesn't have to explain. Is he okay? The concern touches him in a place he'd thought long broken, pushing out a thready breath as he considers how to answer that. He's always been truthful with Matt, often to his own detriment, but it isn't that hanging him up now.

"Physically," he manages with a nod, turning and looking back down at his lap, his mag-boots. He can feel his hands sweat as he wipes them on his jumpsuit pants and shakes his head. "Sure. We're all... fine. I'm really glad you missed the music."

That would have been Hell for someone as sensitive as Matt and the thought makes his heart squeeze uncomfortably. As awful as he feels right now, though? He's just so grateful that he can feel it at all.

"You've seen me at my lowest, Red. You know what that looks like. Here - here I've been lower."

The music? What Matt's envisioning is probably not what Frank is referring to judging from his body language. 'Fine' doesn't sound like fine, either. But then Matt deploys 'fine' in the same way, so he's not going to pick that in front while Frank seems to be in a mood.

Matt shuffles in a little closer and sits next to Frank on the bed, moving slowly. He hunches over with his elbows on his thighs, clasping his hands together and resting his chin on his thumbs. He thinks he's starting to get an idea of what happens around these parts. It's troubling. But there's also little they can do about it, and he's no stranger to being in a situation where very little is in his control.

"Shitty things happen, Frank. To everybody. You can't stop everything or save everyone." For every decision Daredevil makes to intervene in one corner of Hell's Kitchen, someone gets hurt on the other side of the neighbourhood. And he can hear it, and he knows it, and there's nothing he can do about it. He's learning to make his peace with that, to let that guilt roll off his shoulders because dwelling on all the people he couldn't save doesn't lead down any good paths. Frank maybe ought to do the same.

"These are things you can't control. You just have to help whoever you can and keep going. It's not about being a marine or being a hero. It's just. What we do."

His whole being wants to rail against what Matt is saying, and not just because Matt's the one saying it. He takes a bizarre level of comfort from the man sitting close to him. If it were anyone else on board he'd put an easy hand on their back, maybe, or touch at Matt's arm. But because he's him, Frank keeps his hands to himself, doing his level best not to spiral out.

"You know I really hate it when you're right," he grumbles roughly without any of the heat he might usually carry into their interactions. Matt is right though. Not being able to save everyone, or even himself on occasion, isn't a reason to give up. He'd become complacent of late, he has to find a way to put his skills to use. That is, outside of dadding everyone. That's not going anywhere.

Slowly, he forces himself up, knowing he should let the man get settled on his own. On his way up, he pats the other man's knee like your dad does after you have a real chat. Sorry, he's actually 70 on the inside.

"You remember how to find me?" Not like he thinks it'll be hard for him, but just to check. Again #justdadthings.

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