[Fic] "Like a Knife All Blade" -- Daredevil (MCU)
Summary: When they were twelve, Elektra and Matthew escaped from the Hand. Twenty years later, they've built lives in the corrupt port city of Hell's Kitchen -- Elektra as a cartel assassin, Matthew as a medium and exorcist. But the Hand is about to find them, and they'll have to reclaim all the pieces of their past if they want to survive and save their adopted home. (1,500 words)
Note: This started as a kinkmeme prompt fill, though I'm not sure how faithful it actually is to the prompt. It's also obviously the opening scene of a longer story, but since it stands reasonably well on its own as a character and worldbuilding exercise, I'm going to post it as-is and make no promises about ever writing the continuation.
Also, I am totally claiming this as a wild card fill for my Daredevil Bingo card, using the AU: urban fantasy prompt. *wry*
[ETA: the AO3 crosspost is now up!]
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Like a Knife All Blade
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A wise doctor does not mutter incantations over a sore that needs the knife. --Sophocles
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Matthew is waiting in Elektra's cramped studio apartment when she gets home from her latest assignment, two mugs of tea (still hot) on the rickety card table she dragged up three flights of stairs from the trash room.
"No," Elektra says preemptively as she tosses her mask and gloves in the sink and turns the faucet on cold, the first step to clearing away any physical or mystical links to her targets. "I will not get involved in another of your bleeding-heart crusades."
She expects Matthew to protest, to rationalize, as he always does before he caves and brings up payment options, but instead his voice and face are mild -- the dangerous, deceptive mildness he uses to cover a whirlwind of flames -- when he says, "I know. That's not why I'm here."
Elektra drops the soap and turns off the water even though she's not anywhere close to getting the bloodstains out of her gear.
"Who died?" Her voice sounds cold to her ears, and she's sure Matthew can hear every beat of her heart as it tries to pound out of her chest, racing in a way scarcely anything can invoke anymore.
"No one," Matthew says. "Yet. Sit down and let me get rid of the ghosts you're carrying. Then we'll talk."
Elektra's watched the exorcisms and séances Matthew conducts for his day job. His fees may shift drastically based on his clients' income (and vanish altogether in too many cases), but he always uses the same rituals: a careful balance between ornate enough to make people feel the weight of the occasion, and simple enough not to make them feel they're being scammed.
He doesn't use any of that with her, merely flicks a lighter against the tip of an incense stick (sage, lemongrass, other scents Elektra can't identify), wafts it under Elektra's nose and around her head like he's sketching a crown of smoke, then snuffs it by pressing the tip against her forehead. She closes her eyes and allows him to brush the sticky ash across each lid.
"The door stands open. I claim your debts as my own. Be at peace," Matthew says.
An intangible weight lifts from Elektra's shoulders as she drags another deep breath of smoke into her lungs, holds it for the count of five, and exhales on a soft hum. "You shouldn't make such open-ended promises," she says, as she always does.
Matthew smiles, a soft, bright expression so at odds with the violence she knows lurks in his bones, and flicks the incense stick over his shoulder to land in the sink, on top of her still stained and damp work gear. "If I don't, who will? And I never say anything about how I'll interpret their obligations."
Elektra laughs. "Lawyer."
"Not until they change the laws."
Then Matthew's smile fades back into that mildness-over-inferno, and he folds his hands on the table beside his mug of tea. "According to Ben Urich, the Hand have sent Nobu to establish an enclave in the city. Something or someone broke your cover and Nobu named you apostate. Fisk accepted his weregild and released you from his protection, as of dawn tomorrow. Then the Hand comes for your head."
Elektra's brain stutters, the kind of deadly pause she's worked for years to train out of her blood and bones. Her breath escapes in a reflexive exhale, as if she's been punched in the chest.
She holds up one hand to forestall Matthew's attempt to rise.
The Hand. Nightmare of her childhood, both in their own right and for all the ways they weren't a nightmare and what she fears that says about the nature of her soul. She would die rather than go back, but death is no guarantee of safety when the Hand is involved. Not even with Matthew's gifts on her side.
Acid roils in her throat, burns in her chest. If the Hand have her name, it won't be long before they have Matthew's as well, before he joins her as a target. That means she can't run -- not when he'll never leave this corrupt, decadent cesspit of a city, the only place he remembers from Before, the place where they both relearned how to be free.
Twelve gods' teeth, why now? It's been nearly twenty years, Nobu never knew her by sight, and it's not as if Alexandra or the trainers ever used the name her mother gave her. What gave her away? Or perhaps more accurately, who?
When she finds the vermin who sold her out -- the vermin who sold Matthew out -- she will rip the beating heart from their chest, tear it to shreds with her teeth, and spit the bloody shreds in their eyes. She will gut them and weave cat's cradle with their intestines. She will--
But no. That can wait. Plans first; violence later.
Elektra takes a deep breath, counts to five, exhales. She does it again. Then she scrapes a loose strand of hair off her forehead and says, clear and calm and with no hint of the fury and fear boiling in her veins, "Fuck."
"You're taking this much better than I did," Matthew says, a thin layer of wryness over his own rage.
"Liar," Elektra says fondly. "So. Since we have a day -- or at least until midnight -- I can spare thirty minutes to pack something more substantial than my emergency kit. Meanwhile, you tell me everything you know about why me, why now, and who I need to kill to make the Hand reconsider their odds."
Matthew grimaces. "I don't have answers to any of those questions. The Hand destroy any ghosts that get close to their secrets." There is a wealth of anger, old and implacable as the erosion of mountains, underneath that statement. Elektra pauses halfway through opening her closet, listens to the harshness of Matthew's breath as he boxes up the storm and sets it aside for later. "But I know where to go to start finding them."
"Oh?"
"Karen Page and Jessica Jones," Matthew says. His scowl deepens as he adds, "And Colleen, if we can set up a meeting without breaking her cover. Claire will know if there's an opening soon enough to be useful."
Elektra hums agreement under her breath as she sorts through her closet, choosing pieces that both wear well and can dress up or down with a minimum of effort and the right accessories. "Karen first, I think. She has the most experience disappearing. She's also our best chance at finding Frank Castle."
"But--"
Elektra cuts him off. "The Hand aren't petty criminals, Matthew. They aren't even something as relatively fragile as a cartel. They're an army and a cult, which makes this a holy war, however small and grubby. And you know as well as I do that Frank Castle is still far more a soldier than the mad dog the cartels and their bought politicians would paint him."
"True. But if he gets involved, there's no hope of keeping this quiet."
"There never was," Elektra says.
Matthew sighs. "No. There never was." He drains his mug of tea in a single gulp -- Elektra watches the smooth line of his throat covertly from the corner of her eye -- and stands from the rickety table. "All right. I'm no good with clothes, but I can pack any personal items you'd like to keep safe. We can drop them at my church until we're done."
Elektra's eyes skip around her apartment, landing briefly on her aloe plant; the painted miniature of herself, Matthew, and Colleen when they were young and still half-drunk with the raw, heady taste of freedom; the broken sword she used to kill Alexandra when they escaped the Hand; the stained-glass butterfly Matthew bought her as a reminder that she still had a soul. Deadweight, all of them. There's no point dragging bits of sentiment like ballast when they're fighting for their lives.
She sets a dark gray sweater on her bed and crosses the room to Matthew's side, rests her palm against his stubbled cheek. "Thank you," she says, and makes no effort to veil the truth of her words.
The smile that kindles in his unfocused eyes is like sunlight breaking through a week-long shroud of fog, and when Elektra stretches up to kiss him, the contact feels almost redundant. But only almost.
She bites his lower lip -- a promise for later -- and pulls away. "The plant, the picture on the nightstand, the broken sword on the wall, and the sun-catcher in the window. There should be paper bags under the sink."
Matthew nods. "Got it. And then we'll burn all your traces."
"Thank you," Elektra says again, and takes one moment to rest her forehead against his sternum and breathe. Then she returns to work.
When the Hand's footsoldiers break down the apartment door at five minutes past midnight, they find nothing but a bare metal bedframe and piles of still-warm ashes.
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We'll see if that insists on turning into an actual novella, or whether posting this scene was enough to appease the plot bunny and let me focus on other things.
If you want to comment on this post, you can do so over here on Dreamwidth, where there are currently (
comments)
Note: This started as a kinkmeme prompt fill, though I'm not sure how faithful it actually is to the prompt. It's also obviously the opening scene of a longer story, but since it stands reasonably well on its own as a character and worldbuilding exercise, I'm going to post it as-is and make no promises about ever writing the continuation.
Also, I am totally claiming this as a wild card fill for my Daredevil Bingo card, using the AU: urban fantasy prompt. *wry*
[ETA: the AO3 crosspost is now up!]
---------------------------------------------
Like a Knife All Blade
---------------------------------------------
A wise doctor does not mutter incantations over a sore that needs the knife. --Sophocles
-----
Matthew is waiting in Elektra's cramped studio apartment when she gets home from her latest assignment, two mugs of tea (still hot) on the rickety card table she dragged up three flights of stairs from the trash room.
"No," Elektra says preemptively as she tosses her mask and gloves in the sink and turns the faucet on cold, the first step to clearing away any physical or mystical links to her targets. "I will not get involved in another of your bleeding-heart crusades."
She expects Matthew to protest, to rationalize, as he always does before he caves and brings up payment options, but instead his voice and face are mild -- the dangerous, deceptive mildness he uses to cover a whirlwind of flames -- when he says, "I know. That's not why I'm here."
Elektra drops the soap and turns off the water even though she's not anywhere close to getting the bloodstains out of her gear.
"Who died?" Her voice sounds cold to her ears, and she's sure Matthew can hear every beat of her heart as it tries to pound out of her chest, racing in a way scarcely anything can invoke anymore.
"No one," Matthew says. "Yet. Sit down and let me get rid of the ghosts you're carrying. Then we'll talk."
Elektra's watched the exorcisms and séances Matthew conducts for his day job. His fees may shift drastically based on his clients' income (and vanish altogether in too many cases), but he always uses the same rituals: a careful balance between ornate enough to make people feel the weight of the occasion, and simple enough not to make them feel they're being scammed.
He doesn't use any of that with her, merely flicks a lighter against the tip of an incense stick (sage, lemongrass, other scents Elektra can't identify), wafts it under Elektra's nose and around her head like he's sketching a crown of smoke, then snuffs it by pressing the tip against her forehead. She closes her eyes and allows him to brush the sticky ash across each lid.
"The door stands open. I claim your debts as my own. Be at peace," Matthew says.
An intangible weight lifts from Elektra's shoulders as she drags another deep breath of smoke into her lungs, holds it for the count of five, and exhales on a soft hum. "You shouldn't make such open-ended promises," she says, as she always does.
Matthew smiles, a soft, bright expression so at odds with the violence she knows lurks in his bones, and flicks the incense stick over his shoulder to land in the sink, on top of her still stained and damp work gear. "If I don't, who will? And I never say anything about how I'll interpret their obligations."
Elektra laughs. "Lawyer."
"Not until they change the laws."
Then Matthew's smile fades back into that mildness-over-inferno, and he folds his hands on the table beside his mug of tea. "According to Ben Urich, the Hand have sent Nobu to establish an enclave in the city. Something or someone broke your cover and Nobu named you apostate. Fisk accepted his weregild and released you from his protection, as of dawn tomorrow. Then the Hand comes for your head."
Elektra's brain stutters, the kind of deadly pause she's worked for years to train out of her blood and bones. Her breath escapes in a reflexive exhale, as if she's been punched in the chest.
She holds up one hand to forestall Matthew's attempt to rise.
The Hand. Nightmare of her childhood, both in their own right and for all the ways they weren't a nightmare and what she fears that says about the nature of her soul. She would die rather than go back, but death is no guarantee of safety when the Hand is involved. Not even with Matthew's gifts on her side.
Acid roils in her throat, burns in her chest. If the Hand have her name, it won't be long before they have Matthew's as well, before he joins her as a target. That means she can't run -- not when he'll never leave this corrupt, decadent cesspit of a city, the only place he remembers from Before, the place where they both relearned how to be free.
Twelve gods' teeth, why now? It's been nearly twenty years, Nobu never knew her by sight, and it's not as if Alexandra or the trainers ever used the name her mother gave her. What gave her away? Or perhaps more accurately, who?
When she finds the vermin who sold her out -- the vermin who sold Matthew out -- she will rip the beating heart from their chest, tear it to shreds with her teeth, and spit the bloody shreds in their eyes. She will gut them and weave cat's cradle with their intestines. She will--
But no. That can wait. Plans first; violence later.
Elektra takes a deep breath, counts to five, exhales. She does it again. Then she scrapes a loose strand of hair off her forehead and says, clear and calm and with no hint of the fury and fear boiling in her veins, "Fuck."
"You're taking this much better than I did," Matthew says, a thin layer of wryness over his own rage.
"Liar," Elektra says fondly. "So. Since we have a day -- or at least until midnight -- I can spare thirty minutes to pack something more substantial than my emergency kit. Meanwhile, you tell me everything you know about why me, why now, and who I need to kill to make the Hand reconsider their odds."
Matthew grimaces. "I don't have answers to any of those questions. The Hand destroy any ghosts that get close to their secrets." There is a wealth of anger, old and implacable as the erosion of mountains, underneath that statement. Elektra pauses halfway through opening her closet, listens to the harshness of Matthew's breath as he boxes up the storm and sets it aside for later. "But I know where to go to start finding them."
"Oh?"
"Karen Page and Jessica Jones," Matthew says. His scowl deepens as he adds, "And Colleen, if we can set up a meeting without breaking her cover. Claire will know if there's an opening soon enough to be useful."
Elektra hums agreement under her breath as she sorts through her closet, choosing pieces that both wear well and can dress up or down with a minimum of effort and the right accessories. "Karen first, I think. She has the most experience disappearing. She's also our best chance at finding Frank Castle."
"But--"
Elektra cuts him off. "The Hand aren't petty criminals, Matthew. They aren't even something as relatively fragile as a cartel. They're an army and a cult, which makes this a holy war, however small and grubby. And you know as well as I do that Frank Castle is still far more a soldier than the mad dog the cartels and their bought politicians would paint him."
"True. But if he gets involved, there's no hope of keeping this quiet."
"There never was," Elektra says.
Matthew sighs. "No. There never was." He drains his mug of tea in a single gulp -- Elektra watches the smooth line of his throat covertly from the corner of her eye -- and stands from the rickety table. "All right. I'm no good with clothes, but I can pack any personal items you'd like to keep safe. We can drop them at my church until we're done."
Elektra's eyes skip around her apartment, landing briefly on her aloe plant; the painted miniature of herself, Matthew, and Colleen when they were young and still half-drunk with the raw, heady taste of freedom; the broken sword she used to kill Alexandra when they escaped the Hand; the stained-glass butterfly Matthew bought her as a reminder that she still had a soul. Deadweight, all of them. There's no point dragging bits of sentiment like ballast when they're fighting for their lives.
She sets a dark gray sweater on her bed and crosses the room to Matthew's side, rests her palm against his stubbled cheek. "Thank you," she says, and makes no effort to veil the truth of her words.
The smile that kindles in his unfocused eyes is like sunlight breaking through a week-long shroud of fog, and when Elektra stretches up to kiss him, the contact feels almost redundant. But only almost.
She bites his lower lip -- a promise for later -- and pulls away. "The plant, the picture on the nightstand, the broken sword on the wall, and the sun-catcher in the window. There should be paper bags under the sink."
Matthew nods. "Got it. And then we'll burn all your traces."
"Thank you," Elektra says again, and takes one moment to rest her forehead against his sternum and breathe. Then she returns to work.
When the Hand's footsoldiers break down the apartment door at five minutes past midnight, they find nothing but a bare metal bedframe and piles of still-warm ashes.
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---------------------------------------------
We'll see if that insists on turning into an actual novella, or whether posting this scene was enough to appease the plot bunny and let me focus on other things.
If you want to comment on this post, you can do so over here on Dreamwidth, where there are currently (
comments)