"No. You're lying." It's completely plausible to think that anyone would know of Elektra given the circles she's been around in, but who would know of their relationship? She could have anyone in the world and she chose the near penniless orphan from halcyon college days with laughter in his eyes and summer trapped in his hair. The number of people who knew about them, about Daredevil and Matthew and Elektra, he could count on one hand.
It's him. You know it's him.He's tried his best to ruin Matt's life. Driven him out of his house, framed him, turned the cops against him. Turned him against everyone - made him believe he couldn't trust anyone, they're all working for him. Driven Matt and almost everyone he knows to despair, to near insanity, cornering them. Toying with them.
Matt curls his hands into fists, clenching his teeth. He knows how Elektra died. He dreams about it every other night. The thunderous roar of a skyscraper coming down upon them, her warmth in his arms, dust filling his lungs. He hopes (without hope) that she somehow survived the ordeal, the way he did. But any sliver of hope he's managed to cling onto is dashed, by a madman sitting on the couch in front of him goading him, pressing his buttons, and the flare up of paranoia that That Man has instilled in him. Who's the madman now?
Because it could always be The Hand, but Matthew knows. It's Fisk. It's always going to be Fisk.
There's nothing particularly funny about their current predicament, but it makes Matt laugh anyway. A small, defeated little noise that moves his shoulders and has him ducking his head. He came all the way here. Fallen from grace, tumbling all the way down to hell. And still, the torment follows, relentlessly.
You're in Hell now, Matt. It's okay. You can let the devil out.
All pretenses of being unable to navigate the space around him dropped, one hand flies out to grab Lester by the collar while the other stays fisted while calloused knuckles look to make landfall somewhere between Lester's jaw and cheekbone.
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It's him. You know it's him. He's tried his best to ruin Matt's life. Driven him out of his house, framed him, turned the cops against him. Turned him against everyone - made him believe he couldn't trust anyone, they're all working for him. Driven Matt and almost everyone he knows to despair, to near insanity, cornering them. Toying with them.
Matt curls his hands into fists, clenching his teeth. He knows how Elektra died. He dreams about it every other night. The thunderous roar of a skyscraper coming down upon them, her warmth in his arms, dust filling his lungs. He hopes (without hope) that she somehow survived the ordeal, the way he did. But any sliver of hope he's managed to cling onto is dashed, by a madman sitting on the couch in front of him goading him, pressing his buttons, and the flare up of paranoia that That Man has instilled in him. Who's the madman now?
Because it could always be The Hand, but Matthew knows. It's Fisk. It's always going to be Fisk.
There's nothing particularly funny about their current predicament, but it makes Matt laugh anyway. A small, defeated little noise that moves his shoulders and has him ducking his head. He came all the way here. Fallen from grace, tumbling all the way down to hell. And still, the torment follows, relentlessly.
You're in Hell now, Matt. It's okay. You can let the devil out.
All pretenses of being unable to navigate the space around him dropped, one hand flies out to grab Lester by the collar while the other stays fisted while calloused knuckles look to make landfall somewhere between Lester's jaw and cheekbone.