And miles to go before I sleep. (TM 228)
228: 3 AM
Yellow light from the sixty-watt bulb out in the hall suddenly slices the darkness through his open bedroom door. His dad's footsteps, shuffling, then a thump, and his dad says a curse word loudly. Then a different one, just in a whisper, and then a whole lot of muttering.
The hall light flicks off. Shuffle, shuffle in the darkness. Fridge door opens, rattling bottles. Hiss as one opens, and a minute later, heavy-glass-sound set down on the counter. The f-word again, sounding sadder this time.
He lies in bed, listening, looking at the hazy orange streetlight moon. Scratches his leg with his other foot. Looks at the door when the armchair in the living room squeaks and the TV turns on, real low. Blue-white flickering on the hall wall.
He waits a couple minutes, and when he doesn't hear snoring right away, pushes the covers off and sits up. His bedroom carpet's scratchy on his bare feet, but the linoleum in the hall is smooth and cool.
His dad's in the armchair in his undershirt and pants, work shirt in a puddle on the floor. Still got his boots on, though, so Matty kneels down by the footstool.
"Hey," his dad says, sounding tired. "Shouldn't still be up."
Matty shrugs and finishes unlacing the left boot. "I was asleep," he lies as he eases it over his dad's heel.
"Better have been." His dad takes another drink and doesn't say anything else while Matty does the right boot and sets it neatly next to the other one. But he doesn't tell him to go back to bed, either, so Matty scoots back and sits with his back against the chair and his head kinda leaning against his dad's knee. His dad doesn't say anything, still, but he sets the beer down with a quiet belch and puts his hand on Matty's head. It's heavy, 'cause his dad's so strong.
"You want something to eat?" Matty asks at last. "I'll fix you a sand--"
"Nah," his dad says, his hand moving a little, fingertips brushing Matty's scalp through his hair. "I grabbed a burger earlier. You eat?"
He nods.
"Good. Do your homework?"
"Yeah." They're laughing on the TV, and his dad takes another swig of his beer. Matty kinda wishes he had a glass of water himself. He cheated on brushing his teeth tonight, and they're starting to get that fuzzy feeling. He cranes his neck to glance up at his dad, whose face is pale in the light from the TV show, eyes half-closed. "Can I get a Coke and watch this with you?" he asks, vaguely pointing with his toes at the TV.
For a second, as his dad squints at him, eyebrow kinda climbing up, Matty thinks he might say yes. Then he shakes his head. "It's a school night."
Matty makes a face, but he pushes himself to his feet. Can't help shrugging, though. "So?" he mutters.
And then his dad's hand is around his wrist, turning him around, tugging him down so they're eye-to-eye. Both hands now, one swallowing each of Matty's shoulders, warm through his thin old t-shirt. "So," his dad says quietly, "you listen to me, Matty. You are gonna go to school, and you are gonna get good grades, and you are gonna go to college, y'understand?" Fingers tighten, and now their foreheads are touching, and Matty smells sweat and warm, beery breath as he nods, silently. "You are gonna be somebody, Matty," his dad says. "Not live like this. Better'n this." He pulls back only enough for Matty to see his eyes, all weird and shiny in the TV light. "Okay?"
Matty nods again, then leans in since his dad's hands are getting heavy on his shoulders and wraps his arms around his dad on the chair, scratchy green upholstery rubbing his arms, and gives him a hug. "Yeah, dad," he says, to the side of his dad's neck, or maybe the back of the chair, or maybe both. "Okay."
His dad squeezes him back, almost too tight, then pushes them apart and gives him a swat on the rear. "Now get to bed," he says, and his voice is quiet, hoarse, like he's a lot more tired. Maybe he just wants another drink, since work makes him all hot and thirsty. "There's money on the counter so you can get an ice cream or somethin' after school."
"Thanks," Matty says, and he means it. It's been awhile since he's done anything after school but homework and the dishes. "G'night, Dad."
"'Night, Matty. Be good."
He's back in his room, looking at the streetlight, when he hears his dad start to snore. And then he can go to sleep.
***
Three AM, and Matt drags himself through the skylight. Drops. Crouches on the floor for a minute, just breathing. Breathing. Not--emphatically not--listening, because if he lets himself, he will have to go back out, have to, and it is three o'clock in the morning, and he has to be in court at nine-thirty, supposed to meet Foggy for coffee at eight, and there is not enough coffee in the world for this.
He pushes himself to his feet, and his knee cracks. Limps to the kitchen--God, feels like the leather is gritty and melding itself to his pores--and his gloved hand is on the fridge handle. Other one smacks the side of the fridge, open palm, quiet in here tonight and he's feeling lazy. Grabs a beer. It takes a second for the cold to seep through the leather.
He opens it before he peels the gloves off, can't handle the metal biting into his bare palm right now, too raw, too bruised, and Jesus, what was that smacked into his ribs? Pipe? Metal baseball bat? Something swinging hard, wasn't paying attention, and...God. Then the bastard's elbow and his face. He's gonna have another bruise, probably, can feel the blood pooling already, and Foggy is going to kill him.
First the gloves, and the air-conditioning in his apartment is like cool water on filthy skin, then his mask, zipper rasping, sticking to his cheeks, before it joins the pile beside him on the couch. Mouthful of ice-cold beer's even better, effervescing against the roof of his mouth, and he leans his head back and just feels his spine melt into the couch. Even with leather chafing his sweaty pits.
If he had the energy to pry his boots off, he would, but it is three o'clock in the fucking morning and he is wiped. Later. After his beer. Before the shower. And maybe tonight he won't bother to put the suit away, maybe he'll just leave it, leave the beer bottle to make a ring he won't see or care about on the side table, maybe--
Except he knows he won't. And he will take a shower and brush his teeth, rinse with Listerine and dab it on his split lip, clean up the place and go to bed at four and get up at seven-fifteen. At least there'll be coffee. And it's Foggy's turn to pay.
And he'll do this because this is who he is. This is what he does.
But right now, right here, there's just him and the beer and the couch and his sweaty feet, and the couple across the street with the yappy dog and the loud TV. Matt closes his eyes and breathes out slowly. "Fuck," he mutters, and takes a drink.
Matt Murdock/Daredevil
Daredevil
1250 words
Yellow light from the sixty-watt bulb out in the hall suddenly slices the darkness through his open bedroom door. His dad's footsteps, shuffling, then a thump, and his dad says a curse word loudly. Then a different one, just in a whisper, and then a whole lot of muttering.
The hall light flicks off. Shuffle, shuffle in the darkness. Fridge door opens, rattling bottles. Hiss as one opens, and a minute later, heavy-glass-sound set down on the counter. The f-word again, sounding sadder this time.
He lies in bed, listening, looking at the hazy orange streetlight moon. Scratches his leg with his other foot. Looks at the door when the armchair in the living room squeaks and the TV turns on, real low. Blue-white flickering on the hall wall.
He waits a couple minutes, and when he doesn't hear snoring right away, pushes the covers off and sits up. His bedroom carpet's scratchy on his bare feet, but the linoleum in the hall is smooth and cool.
His dad's in the armchair in his undershirt and pants, work shirt in a puddle on the floor. Still got his boots on, though, so Matty kneels down by the footstool.
"Hey," his dad says, sounding tired. "Shouldn't still be up."
Matty shrugs and finishes unlacing the left boot. "I was asleep," he lies as he eases it over his dad's heel.
"Better have been." His dad takes another drink and doesn't say anything else while Matty does the right boot and sets it neatly next to the other one. But he doesn't tell him to go back to bed, either, so Matty scoots back and sits with his back against the chair and his head kinda leaning against his dad's knee. His dad doesn't say anything, still, but he sets the beer down with a quiet belch and puts his hand on Matty's head. It's heavy, 'cause his dad's so strong.
"You want something to eat?" Matty asks at last. "I'll fix you a sand--"
"Nah," his dad says, his hand moving a little, fingertips brushing Matty's scalp through his hair. "I grabbed a burger earlier. You eat?"
He nods.
"Good. Do your homework?"
"Yeah." They're laughing on the TV, and his dad takes another swig of his beer. Matty kinda wishes he had a glass of water himself. He cheated on brushing his teeth tonight, and they're starting to get that fuzzy feeling. He cranes his neck to glance up at his dad, whose face is pale in the light from the TV show, eyes half-closed. "Can I get a Coke and watch this with you?" he asks, vaguely pointing with his toes at the TV.
For a second, as his dad squints at him, eyebrow kinda climbing up, Matty thinks he might say yes. Then he shakes his head. "It's a school night."
Matty makes a face, but he pushes himself to his feet. Can't help shrugging, though. "So?" he mutters.
And then his dad's hand is around his wrist, turning him around, tugging him down so they're eye-to-eye. Both hands now, one swallowing each of Matty's shoulders, warm through his thin old t-shirt. "So," his dad says quietly, "you listen to me, Matty. You are gonna go to school, and you are gonna get good grades, and you are gonna go to college, y'understand?" Fingers tighten, and now their foreheads are touching, and Matty smells sweat and warm, beery breath as he nods, silently. "You are gonna be somebody, Matty," his dad says. "Not live like this. Better'n this." He pulls back only enough for Matty to see his eyes, all weird and shiny in the TV light. "Okay?"
Matty nods again, then leans in since his dad's hands are getting heavy on his shoulders and wraps his arms around his dad on the chair, scratchy green upholstery rubbing his arms, and gives him a hug. "Yeah, dad," he says, to the side of his dad's neck, or maybe the back of the chair, or maybe both. "Okay."
His dad squeezes him back, almost too tight, then pushes them apart and gives him a swat on the rear. "Now get to bed," he says, and his voice is quiet, hoarse, like he's a lot more tired. Maybe he just wants another drink, since work makes him all hot and thirsty. "There's money on the counter so you can get an ice cream or somethin' after school."
"Thanks," Matty says, and he means it. It's been awhile since he's done anything after school but homework and the dishes. "G'night, Dad."
"'Night, Matty. Be good."
He's back in his room, looking at the streetlight, when he hears his dad start to snore. And then he can go to sleep.
***
Three AM, and Matt drags himself through the skylight. Drops. Crouches on the floor for a minute, just breathing. Breathing. Not--emphatically not--listening, because if he lets himself, he will have to go back out, have to, and it is three o'clock in the morning, and he has to be in court at nine-thirty, supposed to meet Foggy for coffee at eight, and there is not enough coffee in the world for this.
He pushes himself to his feet, and his knee cracks. Limps to the kitchen--God, feels like the leather is gritty and melding itself to his pores--and his gloved hand is on the fridge handle. Other one smacks the side of the fridge, open palm, quiet in here tonight and he's feeling lazy. Grabs a beer. It takes a second for the cold to seep through the leather.
He opens it before he peels the gloves off, can't handle the metal biting into his bare palm right now, too raw, too bruised, and Jesus, what was that smacked into his ribs? Pipe? Metal baseball bat? Something swinging hard, wasn't paying attention, and...God. Then the bastard's elbow and his face. He's gonna have another bruise, probably, can feel the blood pooling already, and Foggy is going to kill him.
First the gloves, and the air-conditioning in his apartment is like cool water on filthy skin, then his mask, zipper rasping, sticking to his cheeks, before it joins the pile beside him on the couch. Mouthful of ice-cold beer's even better, effervescing against the roof of his mouth, and he leans his head back and just feels his spine melt into the couch. Even with leather chafing his sweaty pits.
If he had the energy to pry his boots off, he would, but it is three o'clock in the fucking morning and he is wiped. Later. After his beer. Before the shower. And maybe tonight he won't bother to put the suit away, maybe he'll just leave it, leave the beer bottle to make a ring he won't see or care about on the side table, maybe--
Except he knows he won't. And he will take a shower and brush his teeth, rinse with Listerine and dab it on his split lip, clean up the place and go to bed at four and get up at seven-fifteen. At least there'll be coffee. And it's Foggy's turn to pay.
And he'll do this because this is who he is. This is what he does.
But right now, right here, there's just him and the beer and the couch and his sweaty feet, and the couple across the street with the yappy dog and the loud TV. Matt closes his eyes and breathes out slowly. "Fuck," he mutters, and takes a drink.
Matt Murdock/Daredevil
Daredevil
1250 words