devil gonna follow me e'er I go

[hasnobullets]

By all rights I should be sleeping. Confusion's given away to exhaustion by the time Peter's through explaining what Mr. Saverin wasn't equipped to, though even he has no real answers for where we are or why we're here. He's distracted as he paints the story of this place in broad, haphazard strokes. His expected jokes are forced. His responses are

Comments

[velation]

I don't really like being saddled with people. Even more than that, I don't like having favors pushed onto me. Usually, it's not even that the favor being asked of me is too troublesome, it's not that I have anything better to do with my day- if anything, I try to make a point of doing nothing better that day, keeping my schedule clear for anything interesting that turns up and might catch my eye. It's a very freeing way of living. You should try it. But my point is, I don't like having favors pushed onto me because they never seem to be returned. And the way I figure, Lady Luck's made me enough of her bitch all my life that it's pretty clear doing good deeds, trying to build karma, that just doesn't work. So I send a little glance over my shoulder, but with how idle I've been on the island, it probably comes off more weary than irritated. If I'm fortunate, this 'pal' of his might be more interesting than the stupid box I've been planning on rummaging through again

[hasnobullets]

Smokers never seem to realize how they smell. That the abrasive scent of tobacco lingers long after the cigarette's gone. (In Ben's case, the cigarette was rarely gone for a few minutes. Not that this woman is Ben. She's barely spoken five words, but even if she hadn't said anything at all, that much is obvious, even to a blind man. From what I've experienced so far, the environment doesn't lend itself well to high heels. Which either means she's stubborn or just so focused on her appearance that she doesn't care.) The eucalyptus clinging to her skin masks it, barely.

People always have different reactions to my condition, and I wonder what hers is. If she's holding her hands in front of my face or simply thinking to herself can he or can't he?

"Very," I say, because today's been chock-full of honesty. I'm on a roll, and it doesn't serve me here to lie. "You can stop doing that."

[velation]

He doesn't seem like he's afraid. I can't tell if that's him being fearless, or him just being an idiot- though really, the two overlap pretty often in men, I've found- but for now, I assume the former, that he's got some kind of reason or experience to be as relaxed as he is. Either way, it spares me a great deal of trouble. I've never been good at comforting others, not even back in the days before my memory was sanded away by time suspended.

"Stop doing what?" I ask, a smile stretching across my face immediately, even if he can't see it. "You've got a handsome face. I don't see anything wrong with appreciating that."

Without prompting, I take in the sight of his wet jacket and start digging through the clothes right away, hoping to find something that isn't completely visually offensive to have him wear.

[hasnobullets]

"So you were staring," I say, brows pulling upwards. (It was a guess. An educated one, but nothing more. Without a better grip on my new, lessened senses, Stick's teachings seem impossibly far away. My perception of the room is limited to what I can hear and smell and feel. For the moment, everything lacks its usual dimension.) Her reply has trouble written all over it, but I don't make a habit of retreating. It's been a very long day, I'm soaked, and I'm not yet convinced I won't be waking up to find myself in the back of a van, drugged and groggy. Flattery won't get her anywhere, but it doesn't go unappreciated, either.

I stick out a hand. "Matt Murdock."

[hightail]

"Sure," Kate agrees, but she sounds dubious, the word drawn out longer than it should. The man who asked is long gone, disappeared up the staircase, leaving her alone with a stranger and confused as to what kind of help she should be offering. The glasses are hard to miss, but not uncommon for a tropical island; it's possible he's just really hungover. "Sounds like," she agrees. Gesturing toward the basket in her arms, then the machines, she asks, "Mind if I just take care of these real quick? What do you need help with?"

[hasnobullets]

"What are those?" I ask, using the sound of her voice to help pinpoint where it is I should be gesturing. There's no way to account for my accuracy. My mind's still reeling enough from the day's events that what I remember from Stick's lessons, years ago, seems impossibly far away. Maybe once I've had a few hours sleep I'll be able to let my other senses, deadened as they are, paint the picture my eyes can't see, but as it is, I'm punch-drunk with an exhaustion more mental than physical.

"Given where we are, I assume you're referring to your laundry, but I can't actually see." My earlier smile returns, no less tired than before. "Which likely answers your second question."

[hightail]

Not a hangover, then. Fortunately for Kate, he can't witness the gape she now wears, both surprised and apologetic, though for what she can't be sure. Guilt and regret are the constants of her life, maybe they've just now decided to color her every interaction. "Yeah," she confirms, clearing her throat as she turns back around to load the machine. For some reason, she still feels as if she's being watched, and Kate finds herself glancing back over her shoulder more than once before she can finally make her way back over. "So I guess you're in the market for some fashion advice," she quips, making an automatic (and likely needless) gesture toward the box.

[hasnobullets]

I've caught her by surprise. I probably shoudn't laugh at her expense, but I can't help a smile all the same. Given the day I've had, I have to find the humor somewhere. Not that the situation I've found myself isn't so absurd to qualify on its own. (It is.)

"If this stuff looks as bad as it feels..." I say, pulling out something slippery and bulky (a jacket, maybe). "Advice would be appreciated."

[curiously_cora]

"Oh, I know. He's my trigonometry teacher. And I'm um... enthusiastic." Coraline said cheerily as she bounced into the room. Her rubber wellington boots squeaked and creaked indicating where she was, as she moved about the room noisily. Coraline dumped her laundry into the washing machine and hummed a cautious note before she just poured a whole load of washing powder into the machine. She assumed that would be enough, it was probably far too much. Coraline slammed the door and bounded towards the man smiling. "Okay, that's the laundry done. I think. So, what do you need help with? Oh, is the box being mean?"

[hasnobullets]

A child. He sent me a child. Were it not for the fact that I'm used to him taking off mid-conversation, I'd wonder if this wasn't deliberate on his part. As it is, wariness overtakes weariness. Beyond saving them, I don't have a lot of experience with children, and what little I have in more mundane circumstances hasn't particularly promising. I used to entertain the notion of settling down to start a family, but that was a long time ago. Plans change. Mine did when Karen asked me never to quit. The way Peter tells it, though, that choice might no longer be up to me.

But this isn't about Karen. (Not everything is about Karen, no matter what Milla or Ben or Foggy or anyone else chooses to believe.) This is about the little tornado of an English girl who's been asked to lend me a hand. (The squeaking of her boots alone would've driven me up the wall if my hearing was still heightened.) Wanting to get this over with as soon as possible, I shove one hand into the depths of the box, and pull out what I determine is a shirt. One that feels

[curiously_cora]

Coraline stared at the man, confused for a moment before she made a soft oh. Well, that would explain why Mister Peter wanted someone to help but even still grown ups, even cool ones, made stupid assumptions.

"Well, do you think you need help? Because I can help if you want, I'm good at finding things and the box likes me." Coraline said, frowning at that thought. Coraline clearly didn't like the box, she put up with it but she didn't like it. It reminded her far too much of the Other Mother and the room she'd made for Coraline. "Just not that shirt. It's ugly. Do you like hawaiian shirts? Because there's a whole load of them in there right now and some really ugly purple short-shorts."

[hasnobullets]

I've never actually seen them myself, for obvious reasons, but the Hulk's purple stretch pants are an ongoing joke in the superhero community. The association alone is enough for me to shake my head. Not that I'd wear purple short-shorts anyway, mind you. My days of masquerading as Mike Murdock are long behind me. Which means I'll pass on the offer of Hawaiian shirts. On the other hand, I just want something dry to crash in for a few hours. I frown.

"I'm not a fan," I reply, sifting through the box. I pull out a polyester shirt, and hold it up to my chest. "But beggars can't be choosers. Does this look like it'll fit?"

[little_moons]

"Yeah, tell me about it," I mutter with a dry snort of laughter. It's not like I know Peter well, having only run into him during council meetings, and he seems like a decent enough guy, but it's not something I can really disagree with. Especially not with the way he just swept outta here like a goddamn geeky little hurricane.

His pal is... gorgeous. And yeah, I notice that first. Maybe I'll always notice that kind of shit first. He's also looking somewhere just slightly to my left, behind tinted glasses, and it doesn't take a fuckin' rocket scientist to figure out that he can't see.

I walk, barefoot, over to the washer, dumping in a load of little girl clothes and knocking the door shut with my hip.

Dropping smoothly into a crouch at his side, I rest a hand on the edge of the box and say, "You in the market for somethin' in particular?"

[hasnobullets]

He smells like the worst parts of Hell's Kitchen. Normally that would be enough to raise my hackles, but considering Peter, of all people, didn't think twice about sending him over means I choose to play nice. That the man's offering to lend a hand helps in the decision-making process. Besides, the truth of the matter is, I'd really like to get out of these wet clothes, collapse for a few hours, and wake up to find this was all some kind of fevered dream. Despite the assurances from stranger and friend alike that that isn't the case, I refuse to rule it out as an option just yet. (It's been a while since I've been so optimistic. I wonder what Foggy would say.)

I shove a hand into the box, expecting to maybe feel some sort of force or field, anything that might indicate it's magic, but there's nothing except thin air and polyester. Curious.

"Right now my main criteria is dry," I reply, plucking at the sleeve of my jacket. "Though I'd like to avoid blinding anyone else, if at all possible."

[little_moons]

"Then you might wanna avoid that one," I say of the acid green, polyester track jacket he's got his hand on. Reaching into the box, I grab a pair of stonewashed jeans that look relatively close to his size and pull them toward him.

"So, just how new are you?"

[hasnobullets]

"Very," I say, discarding the article of clothing by his suggestion -- whatever it is. I'm tired enough that Stick's teachings seem impossibly far away, like a dream, but he told me, once upon a time, that my radar was something learned, not a byproduct of the radiation that took my sight. But my other senses are so dulled right now that I can barely create an impression of the room beyond what I can smell and hear and feel.

Sensing movement, I cant my head to the side, and reach out. My fingers eventually brush against denim. "I'm still expecting to wake up. These are okay?"

[only_son]

"If he wanted me to help you with the box, I have a feeling you might be disappointed," Clark admits. He looks briefly after Peter and then steps fully into the room, his sweat-drenched t-shirt sticking to skin. Absently, he wipes at his forehead, making the smear of dirt there even worse. "Not many people like flannel shirts as well as I do, apparently."

As far as Clark's concerned, the box is perfect anytime he delves into it; the endless t-shirts, flannels, blue jeans and work boots are exactly what he'd choose anyway. "I could probably manage a plain white t-shirt and blue jeans," he amends, thinking surely that's inoffensive enough for anyone.

[hasnobullets]

My company sounds friendly enough. Tall, too, though my perception's somewhat skewed from my position on the ground. The kindness of strangers is the sort of thing you hear in theory more so than in practice, but that he's willing to help isn't a fact I'm about to question. Getting sleep is high on my list of priorities, and I'd rather do so in the comfort of something dry. It's been a long, trying day. Hidden under the rest of my wet clothes is my Daredevil costume, still soaked from chasing Lawrence through the rain, and starting to chafe.

"As long as it's dry, you're not likely to find complaints," I reply with a shrug. Flannel isn't my usual style, but it's better than waterlogged spandex.

[only_son]

It isn't until Clark begins to step forward that he realizes he's talking to someone blind. He feels a pang of ableist guilt despite not having done anything overtly wrong; he'd assumed the sunglasses to merely be a typical island fashion accessory.

"Good attitude to have, but maybe we'll get lucky," he says as he settles into a crouch beside the box and thrusts a hand inside like it's a bingo cage and he's hoping for a lucky ball. "If this thing's reputation is to be believed, it spits out some truly awful clothes- Hey, red t-shirt on the first try," he adds, and holds it up so he can check the size. "The tag says extra large, will that work?"

[hasnobullets]

"It'll be loose, but that's fine," I reply. Given that my immediate plans do include passing out for a few hours, something bigger is probably better, anyway. I don't make a habit of sleeping with a shirt on, but parading around half-naked in a strange place isn't in the cards just yet, and not just because I'm likely to burn. My torso's littered with scars that no attorney would have a simple explanation for. I hold out a hand. "Thanks."