coprime_writes (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
coprime_writes) wrote2025-09-09 08:10 am
coprime_writes) wrote2025-09-09 08:10 am
Entry tags:
Spider-Gwen: Poison Creosote (Matt)
Title: Poison Creosote
Author:coprime
Fandom: Spider-Gwen comics
Characters: Matt Murdock
Rating / Word Count: PG-13 / 2,917 words
Warnings: None.
Disclaimer: Spider-Gwen belongs to Marvel Comics.
Summary: First semester of law school brings an unexpected challenge for Matt Murdock: making nice with his classmates in order to build a base of power for the Hand. But Matt has his own thoughts when it comes to the task of selecting a friend.
Notes: Originally written for Daredevil & Defenders Exchange 2025 for![[archiveofourown.org profile]](https://p2.dreamwidth.org/b164c54b26e4/-/archiveofourown.org/favicon.ico)
heroofashesnot.
Please right click and choose "Save As".
Length: 20:01
~Poison Creosote~
When the Hand sent him to New York to acquire a law degree, Matt felt like he was being punished. The short term plan of allying with Wilson Fisk in order to provide the man with an assassin/lawyer who took care of any of the Kingpin's issues while working towards goals which mutually aligned with those of the Hand—that was sound. Even sounder was the Hand's long term plan to depose the Kingpin and set their own agent in Fisk's place. Matt agreed with all of that.
But there was nothing for Matt himself in the city of his birth. It stank. It was all noise and pollution, and there was no getting away from any of it. It was familiar at the same time it was completely foreign to him. He and New York had changed in the years since they'd known one another. The disconnect gave him a need for ceaseless vigilance, even beyond that cultivated by his time under Stick and then with the Hand. He was alone here, without even the dubious support of his fellow Hand acolytes.
He'd spent his first month at ESU sleeping with one eye open, not because it did anything for him but in an attempt to unnerve any who thought they could take advantage of him in his sleep. Any means he could take to get the upper hand on his enemies—because there were always enemies to be found—was worthwhile in its pursuit.
Unfortunately, the sole person unnerved by his scheme had been his roommate Franklin Nelson, and he'd abandoned the ploy for the sake of Nelson's nerves.
Before he'd started at ESU, he'd been informed that Nelson was the son of Rosalind Sharpe, and he'd moved into the dorm with high hopes. Rosalind Sharpe was the biggest rival of Fisk's—she didn't run an operation like Fisk did, but as the preferred lawyer for any criminal with enough money to afford her, she knew all the worst dealings in the city and enjoyed making suggestions to those in charge in order to fuel her own ambitions. Fisk, Matt knew, wanted her gone or at least not to be beholden to her. Which was where Matt, as Fisk's personal lawyer, would step in once he'd received his degree and passed the bar.
Nelson, as Sharpe's son, should have been quick-witted. Ruthless. Someone whose temper was to be feared. Instead he was timid and equivocating, unable to commit to an opinion and always ceding the debate to his conversational partner. A disappointment through and through. Nelson was too soft to last, and Matt doubted he'd even make it to graduation.
Matt wrote him off within five minutes of meeting him, when Nelson had invited Matt to call him by the asinine nickname of "Foggy." He couldn't waste his time or his thoughts on anything—anyone—weak, or else he'd be made weak too. And weakness, in his experience, meant death.
With regards to the future in front of him, Matt would have been...content was as good a word as any to call it. Matt would have been content to go through school and come out the other side having made no more of a social splash than acquiring a handful of enemies he could test himself against. He didn't need or want anyone else. But three factors conspired against him.
One was Wilson Fisk, who was surprisingly hands-on with the implementation of his projects. (And Matt, much to his frustration, had an inkling Fisk had deemed him a pet project.) Fisk thought he should make connections, not enemies, while at school. ESU wasn't as prestigious as the Ivy Leagues, but what it lacked in renown it made up in local flavor. Matt's peers now were the children of the people Matt would treat with when Matt became more involved in the Kingpin's dealings, and there was future power in what Matt did now, or so Fisk pontificated. Matt did not need Fisk so interested in Matt's social life, and yet there Fisk was, giving him advice.
He could have ignored Fisk. After all, no one could make him do anything, but to ignore advice from Fisk was to get on the Kingpin's hit list, and Matt wasn't ready to show his hand—the Hand's hand—just yet.
The Hand was the second factor, reminding Matt that he was in New York in order to create a base of operations for them and they did not believe his being a loner served that purpose. The missive had been pointed about their dissatisfaction and left to the imagination what would happen to Matt if the leaders of the Hand continued to find his efforts lackluster. Correction, Matt knew, would not be enjoyable.
Matt had anticipated that Fisk and his own leaders would not leave him be for the years it took him to acquire the credentials he needed for their plans, though the direction of their concerns made him roll his eyes as if he were a rebellious teen and they his overbearing parents. Matt hadn't had parents in a very long time.
The third factor, an anonymous assignment for his Legal Writing class, had been the deciding factor in shaping Matt's response to the first two factors.
By now, Matt was well familiar with the intellectual acumen of his fellow law students as well as their lack thereof. Not a one of them was someone whom he would consider worthy of his time, which had left Matt with the task of picking either which of his cohort would be the least onerous to befriend or which would net him the most connections later down the line.
Except a fluke of serendipity had shown Matt a different path: unmask and befriend the author of Anonymous Submission #14.
The assignment for Legal Writing had been boring—write a defense of a topic, submit it anonymously, and then during lecture the class as a whole would pick apart each anonymous defense. While Matt had enjoyed the chance to excoriate what passed as logic for his classmates, and while it had been gratifying to kick back and listen to everyone else fumble in their attempts to do the same to his submission, it had all been humdrum until the last submission.
Anonymous Submission #14 had been beautiful. Well argued, with obscure cases to back up those arguments. Rebuttal arguments written in anticipation of what would be said in class. All wrapped up with a cunning artfulness that had left Matt grinning in the middle of class while the person sitting next to him edged their chair away from his.
This, here, was a person worthy of Matt's attention.
Matt just needed to discover who they were.
~
~
His first step, confronting his Legal Writing professor, turned up zilch. The man blustered through excuses, claiming commitment to the integrity of the assignment then respect for the privacy of his students, before finally admitting that the computer's anonymizing was too thorough and he had no way of tracing submissions back to their authors. The man's heartbeat said he wasn't lying, which was too bad because Matt would have enjoyed practicing his interrogation techniques.
Ah, well. As Matt strolled out of his professor's office, he hoped whichever Hand busybody had been assigned with overseeing his adherence to the long-term plan—Ōtomo most likely, their leaders did love assigning Matt to Ōtomo's watchful eye—was pleased with his self-restraint in not interrogating his professor anyway. Matt had no doubt his life in America was being observed: there was no trust to be found in the Hand, only obedience and swift punishment when obedience faltered.
Matt at least walked away from the meeting with a copy of Submission #14 in his e-mail's inbox. And he'd left his professor with a vague wariness because even if he hadn't interrogated the man, he was perfectly capable of intimidation—discreetly, with his victim none the wiser as to where this creeping sense of dread had come from. It was a petty victory, but one Matt reveled in. All he had at the moment, stuck in school as he was and spinning his wheels til he could get out, were petty victories.
Nelson was in the dorm room when he returned, but Matt ignored him in favor of turning on his computer, putting on headphones, and bringing up Submission #14. Surely within it there was a way forward in his quest, and he was determined to find that way.
Nelson cleared his throat.
Maybe there was an odd turn of phrase he could pin to a particular classmate or an erudite word only one other person used.
Nelson did it again.
Something, anything, Matt would take if he could simply find the clue he needed.
Nelson again. Matt paused his screen reader and faced his roommate.
"Are you getting sick, or are you trying to catch my attention?" he asked.
"The...the latter."
Matt waited for more, waited for Nelson's rabbit-quick heartbeat to slow its nervous prattle, but when nothing else seemed forthcoming, he said, "Well, you have it."
"I just...I couldn't help but notice you've got our Legal Writing assignment on your screen. And—is it your assignment? I don't recognize it."
That last statement was a lie. Nelson's heart practically tripped over itself as Nelson pretended not to recognize the writing on Matt's screen. Matt grinned a Cheshire cat grin: here was a clue for him to investigate.
"No, it's not mine. I'm studying it."
"But...why? There must be other, better things people wrote that you could study over that one."
A rare rebuttal of Matt's actions from Nelson. Nelson never argued with Matt, and here he was telling Matt not to bother with Submission #14. What did Nelson know about this submission that gave him such bravery?
"No, Submission #14 was the clear victor in the battle of wits set on us by our professor, even above my own submission, much as it pains me to acknowledge it."
Nelson seemed on the edge of saying something but was too timorous to out with it. Matt could hear the wet squelching of his throat and tongue as he swallowed and re-swallowed in preparation of opening his mouth but never did. Maybe Matt needed to lay it on thicker to encourage Nelson to say whatever was stuck on that tip of his undulating tongue.
"Truly, it was a masterwork of argument, of rationality and the fine art of running circles around your opponent. The most stunning prose I've encountered this semester."
Okay, maybe that was thicker than Matt had intended at the outset of that mini-tribute, but Matt had a goal here.
Also, the squeak in Nelson's voice as he went, "Oh?" was a gratifying sign that Matt's stratagem had life to it. "Really? I, um...."
"Hm?" Matt kept his voice light, trying not to spook Nelson. His roommate required a different approach than his professor. If Matt could drag whatever Nelson knew out of him physically, Matt wouldn't hesitate to unsheathe his sword from his cane, slice open Nelson's stomach, and dig through his intestines till he found what he wanted.
But, alas and alack, Nelson's knowledge was not printed in braille on his innards for Matt's convenient perusal, and instead Matt was forced into patience if he wanted to achieve his goal.
Matt reminded himself of the opening sentence of Submission #14, of its succinct summation and subtle sarcasm towards its opposition. He reminded himself of Fisk and the Hand breathing down his neck, that the single choice allowed him was the person with whom he chose to socialize. And even that would be removed if he dawdled.
And more than that, he wanted— Someone on his side. The Hand had their machinations, and he followed their cause. They'd remolded him to fit their needs, taking what Stick had started and bending it to their purposes, and now he was too misshapen to fit anywhere else but as part of the Hand.
So be it. He was alive still, which was preferable to dead. But maybe he could bow Submission #14's author so that they were misshapen like him, in a way that fit together with him. Reclaim one part of this city that had birthed him, one person, for himself.
If only Nelson would spit it out and tell Matt what he knew.
Nelson whispered, "Thank you."
Matt's mind skidded and overturned like a semi truck jackknifing, his thoughts overshooting themselves as he tried to align Nelson, his pusillanimous roommate, with Submission #14's anonymous author, the only one of his peers with a brain. It was like filling a missing hole in a jigsaw with a piece from an entirely different puzzle, and yet finding, once the facts had been jammed together, that the different piece fit neatly in its new home.
Nelson was the author Matt was seeking. It was the one answer that made sense given Nelson's responses, but Matt still found himself wanting direct confirmation.
"What." Matt's voice cracked down hard on the final sound, disbelieving.
"Uh, never mind, it's nothing." Nelson's chair squeaked as he turned back to his desk. Away from Matt. "I'll just leave you to your business."
Matt scrambled. Nelson was once again retreating, giving way and refusing to engage, and Matt needed that not to happen. Not if Nelson really was the person he was searching for. He was Matt Murdock, and he would not let this opportunity slip through his fingers because he did not lose, not anymore.
Swiftly, Matt grabbed the back of Nelson's chair and swung his roommate back around. He leaned in, close enough that Nelson's pungent sweat—now beginning to smell like fear—blocked out the rest of the student body they shared a building with.
Nelson blurted out, "Please don't hurt me."
Matt cocked his head and tried on a grin that was, in all honesty, more menace than mercy if the way Nelson attempted to put distance between him and it were any indication. Matt didn't care; if he were right, he could teach Nelson when a smile of his was meant as a threat once they were friends.
"I won't hurt you so long as you answer my question: is Submission #14 yours?"
Well, perhaps he did mean it—at least a little—as a threat. But what was a (potential) friendship without a bit of intimidation between its fellows.
Nelson gulped. "Yes? I'm sorry."
Matt's smile turned...not genuine, of course, but more affable as he sprang up and threw his arms wide. "Wonderful!"
With this testament, Matt penned Nelson's name back into his mental ledger of important people. Somewhere, buried deep underneath all that hesitation, Nelson had a talent—one Matt could nurture to his own aims. The possibilities for Matt stretched out before him.
Given Nelson's merely adequate grades and this submission's anonymous attribution, Matt was the only one who knew of Nelson's potential. As Rosalind's son, he sat outside Fisk's domain. Fisk would be happy Matt was cultivating a way to destroy Rosalind's influence from the inside. The Hand would be happy Matt was creating a wide power base for when they stepped up their activities in New York. It was beautiful, all the requests on him met by doing just this one thing.
And best of all? Matt would have an ally that was his own, no loyalty to the Hand or Fisk. Matt was convinced that any sway Rosalind Sharpe had over her son—if any, she did not seem to factor into Nelson's life currently as far as he could tell—he could supplant with his own influence.
Matt swept Nelson up out of his chair and bodily hauled him into a hug.
"Eep!"
The hug was loathsome because now Matt's clothes were going to smell of Nelson's fear-sweat until Matt washed them, but it was necessary. Manic energy bubbled inside Matt, maddening in its enthusiasm, and this was its outlet.
"Foggy," Matt declared, opting for Nelson's chosen nickname as a signal of friendship, "I have been searching for you as the only interesting person in our year, and here you are! Under my nose the entire time, you sneak."
Foggy wrested himself out of the hug, or more like Matt let him go when he took a step away as he attempted to create distance.
"What? Since when do you call me Foggy?"
"Since now, unless you're taking back that offer you gave me on our first day to do so."
Foggy ran his hands over his face. "I'm so confused."
Matt grinned wide, showing off his teeth, and slung an arm around Foggy's shoulders. (No reason not to, given he already had Foggy's smell on him. And being collegial furthered Matt's agenda to cement this change in their status quo to one of mutual camaraderie.)
"Not to worry, my new friend. I could use some coffee. We'll grab a cup of joe, and I'll explain all," Matt said as he steered them outside and in the direction of a coffee shop he knew was frequented by Fisk's underlings.
Once on the sidewalk, he let go of Foggy and strode forward, leaving Foggy behind for the moment. In his right hand, his cane tapped an upbeat pit-a-pat as he walked away.
Then a huff escaped Foggy's lungs, and he moved his corpus in a clumsy jog until he reached Matt's left side.
Perfect. Just as Matt had wanted.
Author:
coprimeFandom: Spider-Gwen comics
Characters: Matt Murdock
Rating / Word Count: PG-13 / 2,917 words
Warnings: None.
Disclaimer: Spider-Gwen belongs to Marvel Comics.
Summary: First semester of law school brings an unexpected challenge for Matt Murdock: making nice with his classmates in order to build a base of power for the Hand. But Matt has his own thoughts when it comes to the task of selecting a friend.
Notes: Originally written for Daredevil & Defenders Exchange 2025 for
Click here for podfic version.
Download: MP3 (19.2MB) | (Alternate DL)Please right click and choose "Save As".
Length: 20:01
~Poison Creosote~
When the Hand sent him to New York to acquire a law degree, Matt felt like he was being punished. The short term plan of allying with Wilson Fisk in order to provide the man with an assassin/lawyer who took care of any of the Kingpin's issues while working towards goals which mutually aligned with those of the Hand—that was sound. Even sounder was the Hand's long term plan to depose the Kingpin and set their own agent in Fisk's place. Matt agreed with all of that.
But there was nothing for Matt himself in the city of his birth. It stank. It was all noise and pollution, and there was no getting away from any of it. It was familiar at the same time it was completely foreign to him. He and New York had changed in the years since they'd known one another. The disconnect gave him a need for ceaseless vigilance, even beyond that cultivated by his time under Stick and then with the Hand. He was alone here, without even the dubious support of his fellow Hand acolytes.
He'd spent his first month at ESU sleeping with one eye open, not because it did anything for him but in an attempt to unnerve any who thought they could take advantage of him in his sleep. Any means he could take to get the upper hand on his enemies—because there were always enemies to be found—was worthwhile in its pursuit.
Unfortunately, the sole person unnerved by his scheme had been his roommate Franklin Nelson, and he'd abandoned the ploy for the sake of Nelson's nerves.
Before he'd started at ESU, he'd been informed that Nelson was the son of Rosalind Sharpe, and he'd moved into the dorm with high hopes. Rosalind Sharpe was the biggest rival of Fisk's—she didn't run an operation like Fisk did, but as the preferred lawyer for any criminal with enough money to afford her, she knew all the worst dealings in the city and enjoyed making suggestions to those in charge in order to fuel her own ambitions. Fisk, Matt knew, wanted her gone or at least not to be beholden to her. Which was where Matt, as Fisk's personal lawyer, would step in once he'd received his degree and passed the bar.
Nelson, as Sharpe's son, should have been quick-witted. Ruthless. Someone whose temper was to be feared. Instead he was timid and equivocating, unable to commit to an opinion and always ceding the debate to his conversational partner. A disappointment through and through. Nelson was too soft to last, and Matt doubted he'd even make it to graduation.
Matt wrote him off within five minutes of meeting him, when Nelson had invited Matt to call him by the asinine nickname of "Foggy." He couldn't waste his time or his thoughts on anything—anyone—weak, or else he'd be made weak too. And weakness, in his experience, meant death.
With regards to the future in front of him, Matt would have been...content was as good a word as any to call it. Matt would have been content to go through school and come out the other side having made no more of a social splash than acquiring a handful of enemies he could test himself against. He didn't need or want anyone else. But three factors conspired against him.
One was Wilson Fisk, who was surprisingly hands-on with the implementation of his projects. (And Matt, much to his frustration, had an inkling Fisk had deemed him a pet project.) Fisk thought he should make connections, not enemies, while at school. ESU wasn't as prestigious as the Ivy Leagues, but what it lacked in renown it made up in local flavor. Matt's peers now were the children of the people Matt would treat with when Matt became more involved in the Kingpin's dealings, and there was future power in what Matt did now, or so Fisk pontificated. Matt did not need Fisk so interested in Matt's social life, and yet there Fisk was, giving him advice.
He could have ignored Fisk. After all, no one could make him do anything, but to ignore advice from Fisk was to get on the Kingpin's hit list, and Matt wasn't ready to show his hand—the Hand's hand—just yet.
The Hand was the second factor, reminding Matt that he was in New York in order to create a base of operations for them and they did not believe his being a loner served that purpose. The missive had been pointed about their dissatisfaction and left to the imagination what would happen to Matt if the leaders of the Hand continued to find his efforts lackluster. Correction, Matt knew, would not be enjoyable.
Matt had anticipated that Fisk and his own leaders would not leave him be for the years it took him to acquire the credentials he needed for their plans, though the direction of their concerns made him roll his eyes as if he were a rebellious teen and they his overbearing parents. Matt hadn't had parents in a very long time.
The third factor, an anonymous assignment for his Legal Writing class, had been the deciding factor in shaping Matt's response to the first two factors.
By now, Matt was well familiar with the intellectual acumen of his fellow law students as well as their lack thereof. Not a one of them was someone whom he would consider worthy of his time, which had left Matt with the task of picking either which of his cohort would be the least onerous to befriend or which would net him the most connections later down the line.
Except a fluke of serendipity had shown Matt a different path: unmask and befriend the author of Anonymous Submission #14.
The assignment for Legal Writing had been boring—write a defense of a topic, submit it anonymously, and then during lecture the class as a whole would pick apart each anonymous defense. While Matt had enjoyed the chance to excoriate what passed as logic for his classmates, and while it had been gratifying to kick back and listen to everyone else fumble in their attempts to do the same to his submission, it had all been humdrum until the last submission.
Anonymous Submission #14 had been beautiful. Well argued, with obscure cases to back up those arguments. Rebuttal arguments written in anticipation of what would be said in class. All wrapped up with a cunning artfulness that had left Matt grinning in the middle of class while the person sitting next to him edged their chair away from his.
This, here, was a person worthy of Matt's attention.
Matt just needed to discover who they were.
His first step, confronting his Legal Writing professor, turned up zilch. The man blustered through excuses, claiming commitment to the integrity of the assignment then respect for the privacy of his students, before finally admitting that the computer's anonymizing was too thorough and he had no way of tracing submissions back to their authors. The man's heartbeat said he wasn't lying, which was too bad because Matt would have enjoyed practicing his interrogation techniques.
Ah, well. As Matt strolled out of his professor's office, he hoped whichever Hand busybody had been assigned with overseeing his adherence to the long-term plan—Ōtomo most likely, their leaders did love assigning Matt to Ōtomo's watchful eye—was pleased with his self-restraint in not interrogating his professor anyway. Matt had no doubt his life in America was being observed: there was no trust to be found in the Hand, only obedience and swift punishment when obedience faltered.
Matt at least walked away from the meeting with a copy of Submission #14 in his e-mail's inbox. And he'd left his professor with a vague wariness because even if he hadn't interrogated the man, he was perfectly capable of intimidation—discreetly, with his victim none the wiser as to where this creeping sense of dread had come from. It was a petty victory, but one Matt reveled in. All he had at the moment, stuck in school as he was and spinning his wheels til he could get out, were petty victories.
Nelson was in the dorm room when he returned, but Matt ignored him in favor of turning on his computer, putting on headphones, and bringing up Submission #14. Surely within it there was a way forward in his quest, and he was determined to find that way.
Nelson cleared his throat.
Maybe there was an odd turn of phrase he could pin to a particular classmate or an erudite word only one other person used.
Nelson did it again.
Something, anything, Matt would take if he could simply find the clue he needed.
Nelson again. Matt paused his screen reader and faced his roommate.
"Are you getting sick, or are you trying to catch my attention?" he asked.
"The...the latter."
Matt waited for more, waited for Nelson's rabbit-quick heartbeat to slow its nervous prattle, but when nothing else seemed forthcoming, he said, "Well, you have it."
"I just...I couldn't help but notice you've got our Legal Writing assignment on your screen. And—is it your assignment? I don't recognize it."
That last statement was a lie. Nelson's heart practically tripped over itself as Nelson pretended not to recognize the writing on Matt's screen. Matt grinned a Cheshire cat grin: here was a clue for him to investigate.
"No, it's not mine. I'm studying it."
"But...why? There must be other, better things people wrote that you could study over that one."
A rare rebuttal of Matt's actions from Nelson. Nelson never argued with Matt, and here he was telling Matt not to bother with Submission #14. What did Nelson know about this submission that gave him such bravery?
"No, Submission #14 was the clear victor in the battle of wits set on us by our professor, even above my own submission, much as it pains me to acknowledge it."
Nelson seemed on the edge of saying something but was too timorous to out with it. Matt could hear the wet squelching of his throat and tongue as he swallowed and re-swallowed in preparation of opening his mouth but never did. Maybe Matt needed to lay it on thicker to encourage Nelson to say whatever was stuck on that tip of his undulating tongue.
"Truly, it was a masterwork of argument, of rationality and the fine art of running circles around your opponent. The most stunning prose I've encountered this semester."
Okay, maybe that was thicker than Matt had intended at the outset of that mini-tribute, but Matt had a goal here.
Also, the squeak in Nelson's voice as he went, "Oh?" was a gratifying sign that Matt's stratagem had life to it. "Really? I, um...."
"Hm?" Matt kept his voice light, trying not to spook Nelson. His roommate required a different approach than his professor. If Matt could drag whatever Nelson knew out of him physically, Matt wouldn't hesitate to unsheathe his sword from his cane, slice open Nelson's stomach, and dig through his intestines till he found what he wanted.
But, alas and alack, Nelson's knowledge was not printed in braille on his innards for Matt's convenient perusal, and instead Matt was forced into patience if he wanted to achieve his goal.
Matt reminded himself of the opening sentence of Submission #14, of its succinct summation and subtle sarcasm towards its opposition. He reminded himself of Fisk and the Hand breathing down his neck, that the single choice allowed him was the person with whom he chose to socialize. And even that would be removed if he dawdled.
And more than that, he wanted— Someone on his side. The Hand had their machinations, and he followed their cause. They'd remolded him to fit their needs, taking what Stick had started and bending it to their purposes, and now he was too misshapen to fit anywhere else but as part of the Hand.
So be it. He was alive still, which was preferable to dead. But maybe he could bow Submission #14's author so that they were misshapen like him, in a way that fit together with him. Reclaim one part of this city that had birthed him, one person, for himself.
If only Nelson would spit it out and tell Matt what he knew.
Nelson whispered, "Thank you."
Matt's mind skidded and overturned like a semi truck jackknifing, his thoughts overshooting themselves as he tried to align Nelson, his pusillanimous roommate, with Submission #14's anonymous author, the only one of his peers with a brain. It was like filling a missing hole in a jigsaw with a piece from an entirely different puzzle, and yet finding, once the facts had been jammed together, that the different piece fit neatly in its new home.
Nelson was the author Matt was seeking. It was the one answer that made sense given Nelson's responses, but Matt still found himself wanting direct confirmation.
"What." Matt's voice cracked down hard on the final sound, disbelieving.
"Uh, never mind, it's nothing." Nelson's chair squeaked as he turned back to his desk. Away from Matt. "I'll just leave you to your business."
Matt scrambled. Nelson was once again retreating, giving way and refusing to engage, and Matt needed that not to happen. Not if Nelson really was the person he was searching for. He was Matt Murdock, and he would not let this opportunity slip through his fingers because he did not lose, not anymore.
Swiftly, Matt grabbed the back of Nelson's chair and swung his roommate back around. He leaned in, close enough that Nelson's pungent sweat—now beginning to smell like fear—blocked out the rest of the student body they shared a building with.
Nelson blurted out, "Please don't hurt me."
Matt cocked his head and tried on a grin that was, in all honesty, more menace than mercy if the way Nelson attempted to put distance between him and it were any indication. Matt didn't care; if he were right, he could teach Nelson when a smile of his was meant as a threat once they were friends.
"I won't hurt you so long as you answer my question: is Submission #14 yours?"
Well, perhaps he did mean it—at least a little—as a threat. But what was a (potential) friendship without a bit of intimidation between its fellows.
Nelson gulped. "Yes? I'm sorry."
Matt's smile turned...not genuine, of course, but more affable as he sprang up and threw his arms wide. "Wonderful!"
With this testament, Matt penned Nelson's name back into his mental ledger of important people. Somewhere, buried deep underneath all that hesitation, Nelson had a talent—one Matt could nurture to his own aims. The possibilities for Matt stretched out before him.
Given Nelson's merely adequate grades and this submission's anonymous attribution, Matt was the only one who knew of Nelson's potential. As Rosalind's son, he sat outside Fisk's domain. Fisk would be happy Matt was cultivating a way to destroy Rosalind's influence from the inside. The Hand would be happy Matt was creating a wide power base for when they stepped up their activities in New York. It was beautiful, all the requests on him met by doing just this one thing.
And best of all? Matt would have an ally that was his own, no loyalty to the Hand or Fisk. Matt was convinced that any sway Rosalind Sharpe had over her son—if any, she did not seem to factor into Nelson's life currently as far as he could tell—he could supplant with his own influence.
Matt swept Nelson up out of his chair and bodily hauled him into a hug.
"Eep!"
The hug was loathsome because now Matt's clothes were going to smell of Nelson's fear-sweat until Matt washed them, but it was necessary. Manic energy bubbled inside Matt, maddening in its enthusiasm, and this was its outlet.
"Foggy," Matt declared, opting for Nelson's chosen nickname as a signal of friendship, "I have been searching for you as the only interesting person in our year, and here you are! Under my nose the entire time, you sneak."
Foggy wrested himself out of the hug, or more like Matt let him go when he took a step away as he attempted to create distance.
"What? Since when do you call me Foggy?"
"Since now, unless you're taking back that offer you gave me on our first day to do so."
Foggy ran his hands over his face. "I'm so confused."
Matt grinned wide, showing off his teeth, and slung an arm around Foggy's shoulders. (No reason not to, given he already had Foggy's smell on him. And being collegial furthered Matt's agenda to cement this change in their status quo to one of mutual camaraderie.)
"Not to worry, my new friend. I could use some coffee. We'll grab a cup of joe, and I'll explain all," Matt said as he steered them outside and in the direction of a coffee shop he knew was frequented by Fisk's underlings.
Once on the sidewalk, he let go of Foggy and strode forward, leaving Foggy behind for the moment. In his right hand, his cane tapped an upbeat pit-a-pat as he walked away.
Then a huff escaped Foggy's lungs, and he moved his corpus in a clumsy jog until he reached Matt's left side.
Perfect. Just as Matt had wanted.