This is how Matt prefers for people to be around him -- helpful enough to let him know where he can find what he needs, but hands-off enough to let him do things for himself. He shoots another fond smile in Clark's direction as he finds himself a bowl and transfers some noodles from the pot.
"Well, he's stopped talking about going back to the family butcher shop and telling me what a menace I am to rational people, so I think he's getting used to the idea." Matt has the decency to feel a little regret for forcing Foggy into this situation, but it's not like they hadn't already been planning to open their own firm. Just maybe not quite this soon.
The speed with which his toast disappears is evidence of how long it's been since he remembered to eat. So maybe having Clark around to think about things like food and sleep isn't the worst idea. "It's really important to us, this is the kind of work we want to be doing. Helping people who don't have all the resources that clients of firms like Landman and Zack would have. People who are just trying to live their lives. Maybe the pay isn't great, but that's not what matters."
The corners of his mouth pull up before he can stop it, and he nods in understanding-- not quite from a law perspective, if only because Clark Kent didn't have the balls for anything as life-threatning as speaking in front of people in a court of law, but because he'd gone into journalism for the exact same reason.
"I thought, um-- I thought the same thing, when I first applied for the Daily Planet." He takes a bite out of his sandwich, chews, and makes sure he's swallowed before he speaks again, polite to the end. "I could never... I could never do what you do, stand in the spotlight and-- and open my mouth. Just thinking about it, actually, makes me nervous." And he laughs, shaking his head. "I'm just, you know, I'm not a stand out kind of guy.
"But I do like to write, and writing doesn't need me to use my speaking voice. And it turns out when it's writing I'm a darned good reporter." He sounds embarrassed by this, though, like he doesn't know how to be confident even in things he knows for a fact he's good at. Then again, Clark's always been a thing of faith in most everything but himself. "You're... doing really good work, Matt. And I know I've said that before, but it's-- it bears importance, I think, to make sure you remember.
"My Pa always told me to fight for the truth and what's right with the gifts we were given. And it's funny how many people don't these days."
His expression softens. "...not you, though. You or Mr. Nelson, and I'm-- really grateful. Incredibly. Me and everyone in Metropolis who's cheering you on.
"So I hope... I hope you two don't forget you aren't alone."
It takes a certain kind of person -- and, Matt has to admit, a certain kind of ego -- to enjoy arguing in front of a crowd. He doesn't think any less of Clark for not wanting anything to do with it. "What you're doing is just as important, probably more important. You're making sure the truth gets uncovered, that people know and understand what's happening around them. I mean..." He gestures at the stacks of files they've been working through. "Where would I be without the news clippings and the investigative reports?"
But God it sure feels nice to be appreciated, and he's practically beaming at the praise. More than a few people have made it known how stupid they think he and Foggy are for giving up the chance at a fancy office and a six-figure salary. It's a relief to hear positive feedback for a change.
His smile turns just a bit melancholy at the mention of Clark's father, but he tilts his head at the man to listen, clearly interested in what he's saying. "I think my dad would've liked yours. He was big on the idea of never giving up, no matter what the odds against you are. And he never made me feel like being blind was gonna hold me back."
Jack Murdock loved the idea of his son becoming a lawyer. Matt hopes he's making the man proud now, with the choices he's making.
"I appreciate everything you've done, Clark. You've really been...inspiring. For me and Foggy."
Reaching his hand out, Clark rests it on Matt's shoulder, soft until the grip firms up, and hopefully Matt can hear him smile without having to see it. "Inspiration, I think, goes both ways. Chances are your father was just as inspired by you as you were of him.
"And that's why it's good not to go into these things alone."
His hand slips away, firmness disappearing before it moves as gentle as it had come, and Clark goes to pick up his fork to finish the last of the noodles in his bowl (and all the vegetables therein).
Still, there is warmth in him at the kindness of Matt sharing something about his family. About his father. It's knowledge Clark doesn't ask for more of, specifically, but knowledge that he holds close to remember, the smile still on his face even when he's finished his food.
"Mm... could you imagine, though, us growing up together because our fathers were friends?" The thought of it earns a soft chuckle, even if he may have never known Matt's father, and even if Matt has never known his. "Maybe I'd be, um, braver.
"Though I don't think my heart could handle growing up in the city at a-all... because you definitely strike me as a, uh, city boy."
"There's all kinds of bravery, Clark. Don't sell yourself short on that." Standing up to a big company with deep pockets the way he is, taking it on himself to make sure justice is done...that's pretty brave in Matt's estimation.
But he likes the idea of their dads being friends, of having someone to grow up with. Somehow, he doesn't think Clark would have been the type of kid to give him a hard time about being blind, or being poor, or being an orphan. "I bet I'd have gotten in a lot fewer fights." Matt chuckles softly, thinking about the many gentle lectures meted out by Father Lantom.
Clark isn't wrong about where he grew up, either, and he nods his agreement over a mouthful of noodles. "Born and raised right here in Hell's Kitchen. Went to school at Columbia and then came straight back. Furthest away I've ever been is Midtown." He turns his face toward the window for a second, his smile full of both pride and nostalgia. "Used to do my homework at the gym while my dad worked out -- he was a boxer. Now I go work out there myself. Can't imagine ever living anywhere else."
It's nice listening to Matt speak about his life, about this love for his home that's stretched onward into adulthood. Clark feels the same way about Smallville-- as a young man he'd wanted to leave, to achieve the full potential that Jonathan Kent always believed he could, but these days, and with the loss of his wife? God, what he wouldn't give to have moved back there, to raise Jason in the same fields that Clark himself had run around in as a child.
"Do you box, too?" Clark tilts his head and considers Matt's physique, but given he's never seen him in particularly tight clothing, chances are there's some strength hidden underneath the comfortable fabric. For all his passion in justice being served (or, at least, as far as Clark can tell given this case they're working on), Clark likes to imagine he hits just as strong, with just as much daring.
It suits him, the concept of boxing. Clark wouldn't want to be caught in a ring with him, he decides.
Matt loves his city so damn much, he'd do anything to keep it safe. Or, well, his part of the city anyway. He knows better than to think one ordinary guy like him can make a difference in a big city like New York. But Hell's Kitchen? Yeah, he figures he can manage that.
It's a little ironic that the case he's chosen to strike out on his own for is to benefit someone else's home, but it's too worthwhile a cause for him to worry about that. This'll be a good way to cut his teeth, and then he can take on the problems of his own neighborhood. Besides, he's always been a sucker for a nice voice and a kindly-worded request.
Foggy says it's because Clark is 'nerdy-hot' and Matt is a hottie magnet, which is ridiculous obviously. Everyone looks like fire and shadow to him; Clark's no different. Although there's something solid and calm about him, despite his occasional outward nervousness, that really makes him pleasant to be around.
"Yeah. Dad didn't want me learning to fight, but." He shrugs a shoulder, because you grow up an orphan, you learn to fight. And Matt had more expert tutelage than most. "I'll take you by there sometime, if you want. It's real old-school. No tread mills or ellipticals."
And Matt's got a key so he can go after hours when no one's around to hassle the blind son of poor old Jack Murdock.
Clark laughs at the casual shrug of Matt's shoulders, the sound soft as he presses the side of his fist to his mouth to keep from being too rude. He doesn't need to hear the end of that sentence at all to know what he's trying to say, and the sentiment makes him a little bit more fond of Matt Murdock than he probably ought to be.
"'Real old-school', huh?" Count on that to be the bit that Clark Kent, old enough to have suffered the switch from tapes to laser discs to VCDs to DVDs to whatever the heck a "Blu-Ray" is (all he knows is his son likes the collect the anime kind), latches onto. He doesn't know what the concept of "old-school" is to Matt, but he decides he'd like to see it.
So he smiles when he says, "I'd love to see it, Matt." There is something so humbling about having this information shared, about having this opportunity offered. The gym Matt's father went to, the gym that Matt himself now goes to-- these are pieces of Murdock family history that Clark isn't sure he deserves to learn, but he keeps each piece close to him, holds them tight in the metaphorical hands of his heart.
He hopes Matt still wants to be his friend when all of this is over.
"Will you tell me about it, how you-- you sense it? Have you memorised the floor plan by now?" Clark puts his bowl of soup down, finishing the last of his bread. The next thing he does is rest his hands on his lap, nice and proper, and dip his head to shut his eyes. "Is it strange to ask, uh, what it smells like?"
The laugh earns Clark a warm grin, one which grows even wider at the response to his invitation. Fogwell's isn't a place he normally shares with other people, it's so personal. Even his best friend isn't completely aware of how far Matt's skills as a fighter extend.
But Clark...something about him is just so trustworthy. Like Matt could tell him anything, and not have to worry about it remaining confidential.
Which makes his explanation about how his senses work feel a lot more complicated than he'd normally offer.
"Not strange to me. Most people ignore their sense of smell completely, unless something really appeals to or offends them." God, he really feels the urge to let it all out, to give Clark the whole truth. And that's a scary feeling, because there's only one person in the entire world who knows exactly how Matt works.
It's probably obvious that he's uncertain, in the way he falls silent and starts to make his way back to the table where he'd fallen asleep, and then deviates his route to the couch instead. But he doesn't sit, not yet, just stands with his fingertips touching the battered leather. "Some of it's memorization. It's easier to get around places I've been before. But I also...I can get a feel for my surroundings through my other senses."
Chuckling softly, he ducks his head, stopping short of letting all his secrets out despite how strong the urge might be. "I wasn't born blind, so if I pay close attention, I can kinda get a mental picture of things."
Clark's brows furrow as he concentrates on his own sense of smell: he takes in the smell of butter and bread, the smell of the soup, the smell of the fabric softener in his shirt (he always adds it before the last rinse cycle so it sticks). These are all things that had faded away for him after he'd noticed them the first time, things that he forgot about because he'd had things to do, objects to see...
Matt's right. And when Clark opens his eyes once more only to see him hesitating, it's true that every smell he'd taken in suddenly fades away with the focus on the picture before him.
You don't have to say anything, is what Clark wants to say before Matt tells him he's overstepping, but Matt himself beats him to it-- beats him with an admission of the truth. Clark's own willingness to trust even total strangers aside, there's a way to how Matt speaks, to the pauses, to the softness of his expression and the movement of his body, that tells him two things: 1) this is honest, genuine, and true; and 2) it's knowledge that he wants Clark to hear, and it hasn't been forced out of him in the least.
Clark's teeth press into his lip. Now he knows about Matt's father, and the boxing, and the way he perceives the world, and goodness, he doesn't think-- he's not sure he's ever heard this much from one person at once, not since nearly all his friends died.
What else can you do with someone's precious parts besides keep them as safe as you can?
Clark goes to stand, too, retrieving his utensils as he lets out the tiniest chuckle. "Now that you've t-told me this, I'm thinking-- the apartment must've smelled amazing when you woke up."
Some people react weirdly when you let on that you've got better-than-average senses, that you're maybe not entirely normal. Of course he shouldn't have worried Clark would be like that, though. Matt's expression brightens again as he looks, eyes not quite connecting with the other man's face. "Yeah, it really did. Sometimes this city isn't the most sweet-smelling place in the world. I appreciate when I can get a noseful of something pleasant."
Maybe there's an explanation now too, for things like why a struggling young lawyer wears silk shirts and second-hand shoes. Or why his shampoo doesn't carry a scent and he never wears cologne. Matt does his best to present a competent but unremarkable front, but for anyone who takes the time to pay close attention, he's filled to the brim with odd quirks.
Exactly because a reporter would be type to look for things that others don't notice, Matt decides a change of topic is probably in his best interest. Even if he does practically itch with the desire to show off how he can catch a thrown object by the sound it makes moving through the air, or pick out the brand of fabric softener Clark uses. "So, a farmboy, huh? Must've been a lot different from New York, or Metropolis."
He realizes he doesn't even know enough about farming to ask questions, not ones that don't sound insulting in his head. "What'd uh...what'd you do for fun? Any brothers or sisters?"
It's nice to have a glimpse of how Matt perceives the world-- Clark Kent can't ever hope to be able to replicate the sensation, but it matters to him that he's found out. If ever he gives him a present, he'll get something fascinating to touch with a smell Matt would love. (Maybe one of those scented stress balls, because Lord knows Matt and his brand new firm would most likely need one of those things on hand.)
He's interrupted from his thoughts, though, at the mention of himself, and despite himself laughs at the concept of Smallville juxtaposed against two of the most high-density cities in America. "'A lot different' is an understatement," he says, though not without any malice. It's just such a frank description that it's hard for Clark not to be amused by it, is all.
"I don't have any siblings, no, but growing up my parents got me a puppy when I was ten." He chuckles at the memory. "I called him Brownie. I'm sure you can imagine what colour he was.
"We bathed him often, so if he didn't s-smell like grass, dirt, and sunshine, I... suppose you could say he smelled like dog shampoo." The memories are so old, so hazed over, that Clark takes a moment to recollect himself. "He wasn't very furry, but he was s-soft and warm and perfect, you know, for hugging.
"So I'd play with Brownie, for fun. I'd run in the fields a lot-- the grass was high, so it tickled, and the wind was fresh and, and sweet, and the sun was always so warm on my skin. Sometimes I'd climb the silo, or-- or sit on the roof of the house, just watching everything, listening..."
Embarrassed, momentarily, by how much he's spoken, Clark scratches at the side of his cheek. "...I s-suppose I've gone too long, haven't I?" He grins sheepishly, ducking his head even though he knows Matt won't see it. Not seeing doesn't make him any less sheepish about it, though.
Matt's pretty sure he'd have a nervous breakdown if faced with all of the alien sounds and smells of a rural area, but the way Clark describes it sounds amazing, so for a moment he indulges in wondering what it would be like. To run through tall grass, to chase a dog, to live in a place that smells of trees and earth and sunlight instead of asphalt and garbage.
"No." His expression is warm, maybe even a little bit regretful, but deeply fond. "It's such a different life from mine. I like hearing about it."
The love Clark has for his childhood is obvious, and Matt hopes it was mostly good, that the hardships life always brings held off until he was old enough not to be too damaged by them.
"You asked what the gym smelled like -- pretty much the opposite of your farm. It was like..." Matt closes his eyes, unconsciously tilting his head back as he dives into his memory. "Sweat. A lotta sweat. Leather and sawdust, blood, adrenaline. Antiseptic and alcohol, brick and old wood. It was probably my favorite place in the world."
Most of what Matt lists, Clark thinks, is easy to imagine, though he admittedly finds himself laughing at 'sweat' having to be said twice. That speaks volumes of the sort of place Fogwell's had been, and he thinks he understands the concept of 'old timey' more and more. He's not sure what Matt's father might have looked like, but he imagines a man that might have had Matt's nose and a similar build punching a bag with perfect form-- and then imagines it, next, on Matt instead.
"I don't know what adrenaline smells like," he admits. It's one of the limitations of Clark Kent's regular ol' nose, he supposes, but it's not something he's too cut up about, either. "Somehow..." Hand coming up, he rubs thoughtfully at his jaw. "I'm imagining Mountain Dew." Which is probably incredibly, immensely wrong, but that was what Jason always drank during his video game binges, which is as much adrenaline as Clark can probably handle.
He cocks his head Matt's way, curious. "Do you have a new favourite place now?" Matt had said was, after all. "Ah-- if I c-can ask that." And then, realising that he'd been standing with his used utensils sort of foolishly this entire time, Clark makes his way to the sink to start rinsing them.
"It's...hard to describe." Matt grins at the soda comparison, realizing that he might have come awfully close to saying something that would set off a series of questions he's not sure he should answer. Thankfully, Clark moves on quickly enough, and he's happy to talk more about emotions than senses.
"Fogwell's still really ranks up there, but..." He scratches at the back of his neck, doing nothing to hide the fact that he's weighing the pros and cons of an honest answer. At this point, he'd have to flat out admit to not wanting to tell, and that's not just rude, it's also not true. Matt's new favorite place is one he hasn't shared with anyone yet, but something about Clark suggests he might appreciate it. What it means to Matt if not the location itself.
Decision made, he hops to his feet, exhaustion giving way to a little spike of excitement, and he's still grinning as he retrieves a pair of worn running shoes from under the couch. "C'mon, I'll show you."
Instead of heading for the door, however, he climbs an open wooden staircase up to the narrow loft area and its dilapidated wooden door. A door that Clark soon discovers opens onto the roof of the building.
Every time Clark thinks maybe he should apologise and back off, Matt surprises him. His eyes widen-- show him? What on Earth could that mean? "Where are we going?"
He ends up putting the rinsed things into the sink instead of wiping them and hiding them away properly, patting his hands on his trousers to get them dried. He watches as Matt moves away from the front door and towards the staircase instead, and his own brows furrow before he follows up after him. The door that Matt eventually leads him to looks like it's seen better days, and he looks at him like Matt's going to explain, but gets a whole lot of nothing.
"Is this the...?"
Clark gets his answer when he pushes the door open and feels cold air brush his face in a wash of greeting. He blinks, the surprise clearer now than ever, but makes his way out until he's standing in the nighttime chill and letting out a soft breath from between his lips. The wind ruffles his hair, making it stand even when it subsides, and Clark looks around and sees the lights of the city all around.
That's when he remembers-- Clark ends up shutting his eyes as soon as he's moved to face Matt again, smiling even when neither of them can see it.
It's a little nerve-wracking to drag someone he's barely familiar with up to the roof of a building like this, but it's not like it's some high rise. Certainly not the tallest Matt's ever been on. He takes care to keep a decent distance away from the edge, simply for Clark's sake. The point isn't to frighten anyone, but to share something that he finds exciting and beautiful.
At the question he's posed, Matt comes to stand next to the other man, smiling with his head lifted slightly, hair ruffled by the wind. "Everything." God, it feels inspiring every single time he comes up here and lets himself listen to the world around him. "The whole city's around us. I can hear it, and smell it, and taste it. You can't get that from the ground, or from indoors, not like this."
Sometimes all the constant sensory input still gets overwhelming, even after all these years and all of Stick's teaching. But on a crisp night, being up high and out in the open feels like he's standing at the top of the world.
Clark Kent has never wished more that he could understand what Matt was speaking of. To hear, and smell, and taste? Normal people shut their eyes and the sounds of the city are muffled, the smell of it obscured by impurities in the Earth, the taste of it more like-- like air, really, because all Clark Kent has is the aftertaste of their little snack...
But he cracks his eyes open, turns to look where Matt smiles like the whole world's opened up before him, and for all his inability to understand the experience, what he does understand is the reaction it evokes. Matt looks happy here, looks like he belongs, and it's that joy that warms Clark up from the inside out.
"It's beautiful," he murmurs.
It's cold, and Clark exhales shortly through his teeth as he shuts his eyes again. It isn't the same as whatever it is Matt's experiencing, he's sure, but up here on a blind man's special spot, it feels like he ought to have his eyes closed on principle. He listens as hard as he can, and understands that he's standing in Matt's home.
His hands shove into his pockets, trying to stay warm in them, and Clark lifts his head up towards the sky. He thinks of Smallville, of sitting on top of Ma and Pa's roof, and laughs.
"...so this is where your real home is. I knew you were holding out on me with the apartment."
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"Well, he's stopped talking about going back to the family butcher shop and telling me what a menace I am to rational people, so I think he's getting used to the idea." Matt has the decency to feel a little regret for forcing Foggy into this situation, but it's not like they hadn't already been planning to open their own firm. Just maybe not quite this soon.
The speed with which his toast disappears is evidence of how long it's been since he remembered to eat. So maybe having Clark around to think about things like food and sleep isn't the worst idea. "It's really important to us, this is the kind of work we want to be doing. Helping people who don't have all the resources that clients of firms like Landman and Zack would have. People who are just trying to live their lives. Maybe the pay isn't great, but that's not what matters."
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"I thought, um-- I thought the same thing, when I first applied for the Daily Planet." He takes a bite out of his sandwich, chews, and makes sure he's swallowed before he speaks again, polite to the end. "I could never... I could never do what you do, stand in the spotlight and-- and open my mouth. Just thinking about it, actually, makes me nervous." And he laughs, shaking his head. "I'm just, you know, I'm not a stand out kind of guy.
"But I do like to write, and writing doesn't need me to use my speaking voice. And it turns out when it's writing I'm a darned good reporter." He sounds embarrassed by this, though, like he doesn't know how to be confident even in things he knows for a fact he's good at. Then again, Clark's always been a thing of faith in most everything but himself. "You're... doing really good work, Matt. And I know I've said that before, but it's-- it bears importance, I think, to make sure you remember.
"My Pa always told me to fight for the truth and what's right with the gifts we were given. And it's funny how many people don't these days."
His expression softens. "...not you, though. You or Mr. Nelson, and I'm-- really grateful. Incredibly. Me and everyone in Metropolis who's cheering you on.
"So I hope... I hope you two don't forget you aren't alone."
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But God it sure feels nice to be appreciated, and he's practically beaming at the praise. More than a few people have made it known how stupid they think he and Foggy are for giving up the chance at a fancy office and a six-figure salary. It's a relief to hear positive feedback for a change.
His smile turns just a bit melancholy at the mention of Clark's father, but he tilts his head at the man to listen, clearly interested in what he's saying. "I think my dad would've liked yours. He was big on the idea of never giving up, no matter what the odds against you are. And he never made me feel like being blind was gonna hold me back."
Jack Murdock loved the idea of his son becoming a lawyer. Matt hopes he's making the man proud now, with the choices he's making.
"I appreciate everything you've done, Clark. You've really been...inspiring. For me and Foggy."
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"And that's why it's good not to go into these things alone."
His hand slips away, firmness disappearing before it moves as gentle as it had come, and Clark goes to pick up his fork to finish the last of the noodles in his bowl (and all the vegetables therein).
Still, there is warmth in him at the kindness of Matt sharing something about his family. About his father. It's knowledge Clark doesn't ask for more of, specifically, but knowledge that he holds close to remember, the smile still on his face even when he's finished his food.
"Mm... could you imagine, though, us growing up together because our fathers were friends?" The thought of it earns a soft chuckle, even if he may have never known Matt's father, and even if Matt has never known his. "Maybe I'd be, um, braver.
"Though I don't think my heart could handle growing up in the city at a-all... because you definitely strike me as a, uh, city boy."
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But he likes the idea of their dads being friends, of having someone to grow up with. Somehow, he doesn't think Clark would have been the type of kid to give him a hard time about being blind, or being poor, or being an orphan. "I bet I'd have gotten in a lot fewer fights." Matt chuckles softly, thinking about the many gentle lectures meted out by Father Lantom.
Clark isn't wrong about where he grew up, either, and he nods his agreement over a mouthful of noodles. "Born and raised right here in Hell's Kitchen. Went to school at Columbia and then came straight back. Furthest away I've ever been is Midtown." He turns his face toward the window for a second, his smile full of both pride and nostalgia. "Used to do my homework at the gym while my dad worked out -- he was a boxer. Now I go work out there myself. Can't imagine ever living anywhere else."
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"Do you box, too?" Clark tilts his head and considers Matt's physique, but given he's never seen him in particularly tight clothing, chances are there's some strength hidden underneath the comfortable fabric. For all his passion in justice being served (or, at least, as far as Clark can tell given this case they're working on), Clark likes to imagine he hits just as strong, with just as much daring.
It suits him, the concept of boxing. Clark wouldn't want to be caught in a ring with him, he decides.
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It's a little ironic that the case he's chosen to strike out on his own for is to benefit someone else's home, but it's too worthwhile a cause for him to worry about that. This'll be a good way to cut his teeth, and then he can take on the problems of his own neighborhood. Besides, he's always been a sucker for a nice voice and a kindly-worded request.
Foggy says it's because Clark is 'nerdy-hot' and Matt is a hottie magnet, which is ridiculous obviously. Everyone looks like fire and shadow to him; Clark's no different. Although there's something solid and calm about him, despite his occasional outward nervousness, that really makes him pleasant to be around.
"Yeah. Dad didn't want me learning to fight, but." He shrugs a shoulder, because you grow up an orphan, you learn to fight. And Matt had more expert tutelage than most. "I'll take you by there sometime, if you want. It's real old-school. No tread mills or ellipticals."
And Matt's got a key so he can go after hours when no one's around to hassle the blind son of poor old Jack Murdock.
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"'Real old-school', huh?" Count on that to be the bit that Clark Kent, old enough to have suffered the switch from tapes to laser discs to VCDs to DVDs to whatever the heck a "Blu-Ray" is (all he knows is his son likes the collect the anime kind), latches onto. He doesn't know what the concept of "old-school" is to Matt, but he decides he'd like to see it.
So he smiles when he says, "I'd love to see it, Matt." There is something so humbling about having this information shared, about having this opportunity offered. The gym Matt's father went to, the gym that Matt himself now goes to-- these are pieces of Murdock family history that Clark isn't sure he deserves to learn, but he keeps each piece close to him, holds them tight in the metaphorical hands of his heart.
He hopes Matt still wants to be his friend when all of this is over.
"Will you tell me about it, how you-- you sense it? Have you memorised the floor plan by now?" Clark puts his bowl of soup down, finishing the last of his bread. The next thing he does is rest his hands on his lap, nice and proper, and dip his head to shut his eyes. "Is it strange to ask, uh, what it smells like?"
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But Clark...something about him is just so trustworthy. Like Matt could tell him anything, and not have to worry about it remaining confidential.
Which makes his explanation about how his senses work feel a lot more complicated than he'd normally offer.
"Not strange to me. Most people ignore their sense of smell completely, unless something really appeals to or offends them." God, he really feels the urge to let it all out, to give Clark the whole truth. And that's a scary feeling, because there's only one person in the entire world who knows exactly how Matt works.
It's probably obvious that he's uncertain, in the way he falls silent and starts to make his way back to the table where he'd fallen asleep, and then deviates his route to the couch instead. But he doesn't sit, not yet, just stands with his fingertips touching the battered leather. "Some of it's memorization. It's easier to get around places I've been before. But I also...I can get a feel for my surroundings through my other senses."
Chuckling softly, he ducks his head, stopping short of letting all his secrets out despite how strong the urge might be. "I wasn't born blind, so if I pay close attention, I can kinda get a mental picture of things."
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Matt's right. And when Clark opens his eyes once more only to see him hesitating, it's true that every smell he'd taken in suddenly fades away with the focus on the picture before him.
You don't have to say anything, is what Clark wants to say before Matt tells him he's overstepping, but Matt himself beats him to it-- beats him with an admission of the truth. Clark's own willingness to trust even total strangers aside, there's a way to how Matt speaks, to the pauses, to the softness of his expression and the movement of his body, that tells him two things: 1) this is honest, genuine, and true; and 2) it's knowledge that he wants Clark to hear, and it hasn't been forced out of him in the least.
Clark's teeth press into his lip. Now he knows about Matt's father, and the boxing, and the way he perceives the world, and goodness, he doesn't think-- he's not sure he's ever heard this much from one person at once, not since nearly all his friends died.
What else can you do with someone's precious parts besides keep them as safe as you can?
Clark goes to stand, too, retrieving his utensils as he lets out the tiniest chuckle. "Now that you've t-told me this, I'm thinking-- the apartment must've smelled amazing when you woke up."
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Maybe there's an explanation now too, for things like why a struggling young lawyer wears silk shirts and second-hand shoes. Or why his shampoo doesn't carry a scent and he never wears cologne. Matt does his best to present a competent but unremarkable front, but for anyone who takes the time to pay close attention, he's filled to the brim with odd quirks.
Exactly because a reporter would be type to look for things that others don't notice, Matt decides a change of topic is probably in his best interest. Even if he does practically itch with the desire to show off how he can catch a thrown object by the sound it makes moving through the air, or pick out the brand of fabric softener Clark uses. "So, a farmboy, huh? Must've been a lot different from New York, or Metropolis."
He realizes he doesn't even know enough about farming to ask questions, not ones that don't sound insulting in his head. "What'd uh...what'd you do for fun? Any brothers or sisters?"
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He's interrupted from his thoughts, though, at the mention of himself, and despite himself laughs at the concept of Smallville juxtaposed against two of the most high-density cities in America. "'A lot different' is an understatement," he says, though not without any malice. It's just such a frank description that it's hard for Clark not to be amused by it, is all.
"I don't have any siblings, no, but growing up my parents got me a puppy when I was ten." He chuckles at the memory. "I called him Brownie. I'm sure you can imagine what colour he was.
"We bathed him often, so if he didn't s-smell like grass, dirt, and sunshine, I... suppose you could say he smelled like dog shampoo." The memories are so old, so hazed over, that Clark takes a moment to recollect himself. "He wasn't very furry, but he was s-soft and warm and perfect, you know, for hugging.
"So I'd play with Brownie, for fun. I'd run in the fields a lot-- the grass was high, so it tickled, and the wind was fresh and, and sweet, and the sun was always so warm on my skin. Sometimes I'd climb the silo, or-- or sit on the roof of the house, just watching everything, listening..."
Embarrassed, momentarily, by how much he's spoken, Clark scratches at the side of his cheek. "...I s-suppose I've gone too long, haven't I?" He grins sheepishly, ducking his head even though he knows Matt won't see it. Not seeing doesn't make him any less sheepish about it, though.
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"No." His expression is warm, maybe even a little bit regretful, but deeply fond. "It's such a different life from mine. I like hearing about it."
The love Clark has for his childhood is obvious, and Matt hopes it was mostly good, that the hardships life always brings held off until he was old enough not to be too damaged by them.
"You asked what the gym smelled like -- pretty much the opposite of your farm. It was like..." Matt closes his eyes, unconsciously tilting his head back as he dives into his memory. "Sweat. A lotta sweat. Leather and sawdust, blood, adrenaline. Antiseptic and alcohol, brick and old wood. It was probably my favorite place in the world."
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"I don't know what adrenaline smells like," he admits. It's one of the limitations of Clark Kent's regular ol' nose, he supposes, but it's not something he's too cut up about, either. "Somehow..." Hand coming up, he rubs thoughtfully at his jaw. "I'm imagining Mountain Dew." Which is probably incredibly, immensely wrong, but that was what Jason always drank during his video game binges, which is as much adrenaline as Clark can probably handle.
He cocks his head Matt's way, curious. "Do you have a new favourite place now?" Matt had said was, after all. "Ah-- if I c-can ask that." And then, realising that he'd been standing with his used utensils sort of foolishly this entire time, Clark makes his way to the sink to start rinsing them.
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"Fogwell's still really ranks up there, but..." He scratches at the back of his neck, doing nothing to hide the fact that he's weighing the pros and cons of an honest answer. At this point, he'd have to flat out admit to not wanting to tell, and that's not just rude, it's also not true. Matt's new favorite place is one he hasn't shared with anyone yet, but something about Clark suggests he might appreciate it. What it means to Matt if not the location itself.
Decision made, he hops to his feet, exhaustion giving way to a little spike of excitement, and he's still grinning as he retrieves a pair of worn running shoes from under the couch. "C'mon, I'll show you."
Instead of heading for the door, however, he climbs an open wooden staircase up to the narrow loft area and its dilapidated wooden door. A door that Clark soon discovers opens onto the roof of the building.
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He ends up putting the rinsed things into the sink instead of wiping them and hiding them away properly, patting his hands on his trousers to get them dried. He watches as Matt moves away from the front door and towards the staircase instead, and his own brows furrow before he follows up after him. The door that Matt eventually leads him to looks like it's seen better days, and he looks at him like Matt's going to explain, but gets a whole lot of nothing.
"Is this the...?"
Clark gets his answer when he pushes the door open and feels cold air brush his face in a wash of greeting. He blinks, the surprise clearer now than ever, but makes his way out until he's standing in the nighttime chill and letting out a soft breath from between his lips. The wind ruffles his hair, making it stand even when it subsides, and Clark looks around and sees the lights of the city all around.
That's when he remembers-- Clark ends up shutting his eyes as soon as he's moved to face Matt again, smiling even when neither of them can see it.
"What's up h-here, Matt?"
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At the question he's posed, Matt comes to stand next to the other man, smiling with his head lifted slightly, hair ruffled by the wind. "Everything." God, it feels inspiring every single time he comes up here and lets himself listen to the world around him. "The whole city's around us. I can hear it, and smell it, and taste it. You can't get that from the ground, or from indoors, not like this."
Sometimes all the constant sensory input still gets overwhelming, even after all these years and all of Stick's teaching. But on a crisp night, being up high and out in the open feels like he's standing at the top of the world.
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But he cracks his eyes open, turns to look where Matt smiles like the whole world's opened up before him, and for all his inability to understand the experience, what he does understand is the reaction it evokes. Matt looks happy here, looks like he belongs, and it's that joy that warms Clark up from the inside out.
"It's beautiful," he murmurs.
It's cold, and Clark exhales shortly through his teeth as he shuts his eyes again. It isn't the same as whatever it is Matt's experiencing, he's sure, but up here on a blind man's special spot, it feels like he ought to have his eyes closed on principle. He listens as hard as he can, and understands that he's standing in Matt's home.
His hands shove into his pockets, trying to stay warm in them, and Clark lifts his head up towards the sky. He thinks of Smallville, of sitting on top of Ma and Pa's roof, and laughs.
"...so this is where your real home is. I knew you were holding out on me with the apartment."