The answer suggests that it's more of an intellectual exercise than the kind of experience with loss that Matt has had. He's not upset to hear it, because he doesn't wish any of the sort of monumental and affecting tragedies that he's had in his life on anyone, but it does feel like it's unlikely that they'll find a bridge to shared experience here.
He runs his fingers along the edge of the turntable to the arm and needle until music comes from the expensive speakers that he has connected. Matt Murdock is far from a snob about most things in his life, even at the cost of some comfort with his senses, but he doesn't cheap out when it comes to the way that he listens to music. He has no use for tinny speakers that distort and cool the warm gaps that the vinyl produces when it's perfectly transformed. Once he has the record on, he sets the sleeve aside on a stand that's intended to hold it for easy retrieval and picks up his wine again.
He walks to the sofa to sit down on the end closest to where Lonán has located himself in the living room. "Hm? Oh, it's a chess set. They make tactile ones and with pegs to hold the pieces so they aren't knocked over in the course of mapping the board by touch. I've had it since I was a kid."
The monumental and affecting tragedy of Lonán's existence has always felt inescapably plain. He can't hide it beneath a mask or conceal it under a pseudonym. No matter what he does, he fears he'll never outpace the story of his life that his body tells before he ever gets the chance to open his mouth. That Matt does not enjoy the direct sightline to it as others is a thing that has not fully occurred to Lonán. Distance from their interaction has not allowed him to properly consider the sheer number of missed cues or the need to either speak plainly or let himself enjoy one of the immensely rare opportunities he may ever be granted to have himself over-estimated.
Without the benefit of a conversational pathway, the bridge ahead will remain undiscovered.
Lonán hardly minds, as he finds himself settling into the first notes of guitar strings and the robust voice that follows. He's unfamiliar, but immediately taken by the earnest sound of the vocals and the weight of the words. He tips his head, letting it wash over him as Matt makes a place for himself on the near edge of the sofa. When he answers, it's with closed eyes. "I haven't played chess in ages. You'd think with three siblings there'd always be someone to rope into something, but they all hated board games."
Several moments of silence follow before he declares, "I like this song. Reminds me a little bit of Dylan. Doesn't sound like he's performing it; sounds like he's living it."
Matt tends to measure life's tragedies in the losses of people and love instead of by any other definition. It's probably because of the sheer number that have stacked up over the years that has left him with too many ghosts in his head. He listens too closely to the voices they carry in his imagination and in his worst moments and he sometimes envies those who have had simpler lives than his, even if he knows that many of those choices were his own. Ultimately, Stick might have made him a weapon but he chose to wield it and everything that has come as a direct result is on his shoulders. Sometimes it's a heavy burden to carry and made more so by the way that it now exists in the secret spaces between conversations. His confidants are gone.
"I can pull the board off the shelf if you want to play." It seems like a better lubricant for conversation than nothing at all. He hasn't played in a long time either, but his spare time is sacrosanct, to say the least, and it doesn't leave much time for board games even if he had someone worth playing.
"Yeah, he's good. Sometimes I like the simple stuff the most, depending on my mood." Maybe more often than not, these sad songs fill the air.
"I'm a little concerned I won't make a very worthy opponent for you," Lonán laughs, voice full of self-effacement. A beat passes, the music swells, and with no further encouragement needed he finds himself groaning with amusement. "Yeah, all right. Let's do it. I'm just going to be smart enough not to wager any stakes on the outcome. I think you've gotten enough of my hard-earned cash. For this week, at least."
He turns his attention to Matt as the man fetches the board off the shelf, giving him the space to pass. As they're settling into the arrangement Lonán pitches another casual request. "What would you say if we both played from the couch? My tailbone's about to go to war and I don't want my reach to spill any wine." It means trading in the opportunity for a quick escape, but Lonán hopes to do his part to keep this night from ending with either one of them wanting to storm out anyhow.
"I haven't played in a long time either, to be honest. There aren't enough hours in the day to add leisure on top of it. But don't worry, I don't tend to gamble so you're safe. I'd have to add to the list of sins at confession if I swindled you out of your money. The last time I earned it." He rises from his spot on the sofa and goes to the shelf in order to retrieve the box. It's placed on the coffee table and he starts to sort through the pieces and set them up on the board. They have a different appearance than the usual pieces to allow for the tactile differences but still lending to the fundamentals, he expects that Lonán will have no problems.
Admittedly, the thought didn't occur to him and he does feel like a moderately bad host as a result. "Sure. What do you need from me?" he asks. He can offer as much or as little assistance as is necessary but he doesn't want to make any assumptions either.
"Oh!" Lonán exclaims at that, raising his voice like he's talking to someone who's standing in the kitchen instead of right there in the room with them. "He thinks he's a wise guy, huh? He thinks he's got tricks? We'll see about that."
It does not escape the man's subconscious acknowledgement that Matt referred to a potential win on his part as a swindling. Lonán, of course, has no way of knowing what in either of their physiologies might lend itself to giving him the leading edge, but something in his spirit has picked up on the idea that his host, at least, thinks there is perhaps something, and he can't let it pass without comment.
The offer of assistance gives him momentary pause, but Lonán swipes his wine glass from the table and nudges the back of his holding grasp against Matt's palm. "Here's my wine. Will you put it somewhere over there that'll be out of your way? If I can have the right side of the couch that'd help my reach. I'll push my chair out of the way when I'm settled."
He angles himself with the free spot on the couch and sets his wheel lock to transfer from his chair onto the cushion. Lonán grips the back of the couch and comes to his feet briefly. He doesn't get entirely upright to his full 6'2", but Matt can no doubt get the sense that he's almost standing with the support of the couch. He settles down with a heavier sigh than he means to and unlocks the chair to angle it behind the couch and out of the way of everything but the record player.
"Fuck, okay. Sorry." He clears his throat and lets his breathing settle, returning mostly to himself save a few quiet winces he doesn't assume the other man can hear. "So, let me know how this works. Do you want me to call my moves?"
"You're the one who said you weren't going to be a worthy opponent," he points out when apparently it's taken as more of a challenge than initially intended. That's more than fine. By nature of being a lawyer who loves the courtroom, Matt is competitive by nature when he has reason to be and now he's just found that. If nothing else, it provides a backbone enough for whatever conversation might happen while they're playing that might allow for the avoidance of verbal minefields.
Matt takes the glass as asked and holds onto it while Lonán maneuvers and gets settled on the couch. Once he's seated on it, Matt extends his hand so he can take the glass back and place it where he sees fit. From there, Matt arranges the board between them in Lonán's new position and turns it so he's playing as black in order to grant his guest the first move. "That would be appreciated. It saves some time. I do have to touch the board for more than just the movement of my piece so it does take a little bit longer. Vision is a split second, touch not so much. So I can promise it's not cheating because you know I want to get into heaven," he says the last part with a crooked grin. Other than that, it's the same rules and all of that."
"I flunked out of occupational therapy more than twenty years ago. I could use the extra time myself." It's an admonishment of himself more than it is the process that Lonán speaks of it now in these less-than-adequate terms. Each time they'd brought him in to inform him they were discontinuing another service they'd presented it as a milestone — a graduation, even. If the vantage point on his progress takes into account where he'd started from, it is indeed cause for celebration. But if the measure of such things is full recovery, he considers himself a C- student at best.
He sets his glass on the edge of the coffee table and pulls his left knee onto the couch cushion so he can sit sideways and face his opponent with the board between them. "Okay," Lonán scans the pieces and his memory before pinching the bulb of his chosen pawn between his thumb and middle finger. The peg clatters a little across the board before there's the sound of it being fed into the small hole designed to catch it. "That was my D2 pawn to D4."
And since the mention of Heaven is right there on the table, Lonán puts his shoulder into the couch cushion and hunkers down, assuming a more casual posture. "Did you have a lot to confess before the service tonight? In this perfect moment, is your soul squeaky-clean, Matthew?" His voice is pure teasing amusement.
"I don't remember grades but then again, I was a kid so they probably were trying to protect my feelings about it," he answers. They had a different name for it when it came to the loss of vision and the assistance with relearning functions and adapting to a new reality but Matt presumes that somewhere in there, it contains some of the same core goals and structures. He picked up what he needed to know but it wasn't their therapy that really helped him, but that's a story that's filed away in a place that either will never be disclosed or will come only in mild broad strokes about someone coming into his life to help him really learn how to live in the world.
Matt's fingers come to the table and are quick to move out one of his pawns in kind. There isn't much to know about the board yet in either touch or memory.
"I think that's between me and my priest," he answers before pushing himself up to his feet in order to go to the kitchen island where he left the bottle and bring it over to the coffee table as a matter of future convenience. "I presume you didn't offer your confession. What about your sins? How are those faring these days?"
"What makes you presume that?" There's a defensive edge to Lonán's voice, though it's difficult to pinpoint exactly what part of the insinuation has him briefly guarding against the other man's scrutiny. He takes his move while Matt is up fetching the wine but waits until the other man's returned again to call it. He's not wrong in his assumption, but the fact he's given so little of his own explanation to Lonán's prompting makes the man want automatically to answer in kind.
Instead he breathes and kicks his right leg a little more in front of him, stretching his knee out straight. "You're right, though. Are you angling to take it now?" He draws a longer breath and lets a teasing smile filter into his voice. "Let's see: I've deliberately avoided giving confession on the last eight Holy Days. I've committed multiple acts of carnal union outside the dignity of marriage..." It's here that Lonán can no longer hold back his snort. He reaches for his glass of wine and lets the liquid roll around on his tongue before swallowing.
Matt arches his brow at the question and the tone that comes with it, along with a gallop of heartbeat that accompanies the response. He hadn't meant it as some kind of personal affront but it was seemingly taken that way. "I'd have presumed that if you had gotten there early enough to do so, you would have approached me prior to Mass instead of waiting to the end." Sometimes it's not really much more than a logical conclusion, though Matt also remembers the way that there were certain moments within Mass that had sparked a reaction out of Lonán so he has some assumption as well that there are other things at play.
"I didn't realize you needed a confessor. I just asked the question. Is there any particular reason you're avoiding doing it good and proper?" There seems to be, or else Lonán wouldn't be keeping track down to the number of Holy Days how many times he's missed it. "If this is Matthew Murdock's personal church and confessional, you should probably be aware that I don't count that one as much of a sin. Of all the things in the world, I have my presumptions of what God does or doesn't really care all that much about. I break with the Church in a lot of areas and while I'm solid in the Catholic guilt department for other things, I have no shame for what I am."
"Yeah." There's a reason, he thinks. Though it seems further from him tonight than it usually does, but Lonán feels his faith as an imperfect and ever-moving target. He's been waiting for something to grip him and set him back on the course to true belief. Unfortunately, others have tried to hold him captive to his faith for so long that it's had the opposite effect — the guilt of being forced to demonstrate appreciation for God's mercy has only driven him further and further away.
"I can't receive forgiveness if I'm lacking in genuine contrition." Maybe it's not the conversation at all — it could just be the end of a long day's impact on his body — but Lonán can't seem to sit still. He keeps shifting on the couch cushions. "I don't feel sorry for expressing doubts. I don't feel sorry for seeking the wisdom and experience of non-Christian practitioners, and believing their stories at least as much as I believe God's."
If he wasn't already on a diverging path with the faith of his youth, Lonán's job certainly would've sent him there eventually. He sighs and moves another piece to finish the triangle in the middle of the board. "E2 pawn to E3."
He seems to have struck some kind of nerve. The fidgeting marks it, along with the change of breathing and heart rate that comes along with it. It makes him wonder why Lonán even agreed to go to Mass at all but he doesn't immediately ask it. "I don't think anyone was suggesting that you had reason to feel sorry about it," he answers with an arch of his brow at what feels like a divergence. Clearly something that has been on Lonán's mind that he has felt the need to cleanse in some form of paltry confession, even if it's only to Matt Murdock and not someone with any kind of religious authority.
He takes a sip of his wine before moving out his rook. "You seem particularly wound up about it. The invitation to my church was just that--an invitation and not a summons. So if it sparked something negative, I apologize for that but it obviously wasn't my intention." Lonán seems to be somewhere in the middle of either a crisis of faith or at least wrestling with parts of it and probably not helped along by Mass, especially if his unconscious response at the time was anything to go on. "Faith isn't supposed to be a stationary and unchanging thing. Nothing else in life is so there's no reason to think faith would be."
"No, that's not anything for you to apologize for." Beyond the earnest forgiveness, though, Lonán's sense of the way Matt is reading him is growing. His assumptions and the other man's life story have not yet converged in such a way as to give him a clear picture of his host's superhuman abilities, but Lonán seems aware that he's being read. Even in perfect conditions he naturally struggles to maintain eye contact. He can admit privately to himself that there's something about the lack of need for it here that had been a comfort to him, but now Lonán takes the chance to gaze at Matt full-on.
"I wanted to try it out. I've been away for a while, and sometimes I do miss it, you know? I miss the comfort and serenity of feeling so certain about the way I think. So sure that I'm on a righteous path. I appreciate you welcoming me." Not a word of this is a lie. Not a word of it is something Lonán is saying as a test for the other man. But he watches Matt as he listens to him and forgets for a time to take his next move.
Most people are easy enough to read. They carry tells with them in multiple ways and while Matt might not be able to see that Lonán is avoiding eye contact with him, there are other things he can pick up along the way that scream discomfort with the topic. The fidgeting is there, as is the tightening and release of muscles and the shift of pulse and breath that all paint a tapestry of tension. Matt gives away no hint of the fact that he knows what he knows in his expression that he schools first and foremost. One of the first things he ever learned about his gifts from Stick, after learning how to hone them, was ensuring that he could hide them.
No lies come, but it's not the kind of answer that would hold one anyway. The desire to recapture something that was lost is understandable and it's not unheard of when one makes a wayward return back to the Church.
The question isn't a surprise. "I get angry at God more than lose my faith in Him. I think there's a difference between the two. God is still God even if He turns his back on us, and there have been times when I've felt that. After I lost someone I loved a few years back, it was particularly strong. That's more the feeling that ebbs and flows than a question of belief at all."
"So you've questioned why God would allow certain things to happen, but you've never allowed that to make you wonder if He even exists at all?" Lonán extrapolates. To this day, these conversations remain difficult for the man. He can so clearly hear the voice of his own mother in the back of his mind, reminding him that it's a sin to question God's divine providence. There remains a piece of his subconscious that warns he's signing his own ticket to Hell every single time. Maybe it's that discomfort that Matt is flagging onto — the kind that's so engrained in who he is that Lonán can't even recognize it in himself any more.
He drains his wine glass and sets it between himself and the couch cushion to clear his hand and finally take his next move. "G1 knight to F3." He wedges the peg into its slot before resettling the empty glass on the table and moving to help himself to another portion.
"I know something exists beyond the physical body," he offers after he has. "Something eternal, like a soul. Totally unbound to the corporeal." Lonán shrugs, and finally drops his gaze from Matt's face back down to the wine glass in his hand. "I just think, given my work, it's hard to say for certain that whatever part of us exists after will only welcome us if we come to it through a single system of belief."
"Something like that. After my accident, I was angry at God and maybe there was some part of me that didn't let that go for a long time. It's a tide. Sometimes it's low and sometimes it's crashing," he answers with a shrug, "Anger is where my mind goes, not to disbelief or the apathy of a lack of belief. My grandmother always said the Murdock boys had the devil in them and maybe that's where mine sits. In that anger sometimes and sometimes that gets pointed at God. But in order to be angry at Him, I have to believe." He has made peace with that, particularly over the last decade as his rage has found a place to settle itself into something more constructive and he's found a purpose and meaning for the pain of his life. It's what brought him to the mask and to Daredevil.
"The priest I had growing up, he was a good man. He spent more time having these conversations with me than is probably required for the counseling of his wayward flock, but I think he enjoyed them on some level because argument necessitates reexamination and in that, he found that he continued to hold firm. Anyway, this was a topic we circled around on occasion and his thesis, and it's one that I similarly subscribe to, is that it doesn't matter what you have faith in, as long as you have faith in something. God in different translations, polytheistic ones, or just in people and the desire to do right by them. He thought that men are measured by their works and if those works would be pleasing to God, even if the man himself carries a different symbol around his neck or none at all," Matt reaches for the bottle of wine and adds a little more to his glass before setting it back down.
He moves a piece and takes a pawn. "I think there's still a place for God in a world of anomalies and monsters," he concludes.
It could be the wine or the strategy of the game — or both in combination with their conversation — but something feels like it's clicking into place. Lonán is no closer to the truth of the mystery that is Matthew Murdock, but he feels at once like he's gotten a better read on the man in the course of this one evening than in anything he's read up to this point. Certainly more than in their previous conversation. "'The Murdock boys have the devil in them,'" he repeats with a mirthless little chuckle aimed right down the bowl of his own glass. "That's got to make it a hell of a lot easier to find a legal defense for a man who dresses up like him and chucks criminals off rooftops."
Lonán can certainly relate to that simmering anger. If he's honest with himself, it's been with him a whole lot longer than his medical incident. Perhaps that gave a tidy justification for the flame, but it's not what sparked it. The only thing he can say for absolute conviction that his spinal infarction did was to reroute everything inward. It's a much simpler task to beat the shit out of himself mentally and emotionally than to try to turn that anger on anyone else.
He's easily guided back to the theological parts of their conversation, and Lonán smiles to find such a satisfying and tidy resolution in the other man's words. "I think if I had more witnesses for the faith like your priest I'd have an easier time with my own faith," he acquiesces.
"But let me ask you: what place do you think monsters and anomalies have in the world of God?"
There is little to hide in a conversation about his examination of God, except for the things that have tested him. The accident is obvious but there have been far more occasions over the years that have prompted that anger that he has described that are tied to events that he'll only ever be able to vaguely allude to when it comes to this conversation. That's fine and he's accustomed to a world lived in half-truths. "I haven't had to find a legal defense for Daredevil. He has not been apprehended by authorities in order to necessitate one. But in the instance mentioned, I will say that Benjamin Poindexter was an on-going threat that resulted in multiple murders that night so I doubt any jury would find cause to convict him for stopping an active shooter."
Putting on the mask itself had been an act of rage in the first night and though time has tempered it, it has probably only done so by a sense of accomplishment and a knowledge that he's doing the right thing that has also sometimes faltered but now remains steadfast since putting the mask back on again.
"I wish I could have introduced you. I miss him," he says of Father Lantom.
Instead of immediately answering, Matt rises to switch out the record because it has come to an end and the needle has stopped. "It's all part of His creation, so it would seem to me that there's plenty of room for those things to co-exist within a belief structure. Just because we don't understand it doesn't mean that God doesn't."
"With no legal authority or acting oversight from which to have made that decision. You told me during our first meeting that you'd feel more comfortable with Daredevil than with trained law enforcement officers based on track record alone, but use of what could have been deadly force is regulated and reviewed when committed by those who are trained to administer it. How do you justify that Daredevil is both untrained and unwilling to hold himself accountable to the same process of inquiry?"
It's asked with the same theoretical detachment as the questions about religion, so how much Lonán manages to keep entirely objective may be a point of some debate. Neither his heart rate nor his voice become elevated, though. He remains as even and as curious as with the rest. If it's a pointed or probing question, he's presenting it with a genuine desire to understand how a man who makes his living in criminal defense accounts for these kinds of situations.
When Matt moves to switch the record Lonán's attention is quick to divert itself. "Hang on, sorry." He swipes a left-handed reach for the push handle of the chair he's stashed back there to move it out of the way and comes up aggravatingly short now that he's seated. "My chair's in your way. You can just move it."
Though now he doesn't even think twice about the hard stare he's leveling at Matt, or the way his nerves jump like this suggestion is a hell of a lot more than what he's presented it as. Lonán's damn sure the other man means him no harm, and separating him from his chair is a good way to ensure he cannot easily leave if Matt ever sees fit to kick him out, but it nevertheless makes him realize how far he's trusted someone he doesn't even know to have good intentions.
Lonán swallows and tries to settle. "I'm glad to hear you refer to them as a part of God's creation. I was worried you might be one of those who claim they're the work of Satan."
"More people would have died if he hadn't made it. The math is simple enough and was obvious to everyone who was there to witness it. You're welcome to read the court transcripts from Poindexter's trial if you feel the need to satiate the theoretical concerns you have about Daredevil's actions. But put simply? It was my friend who died and my community that was hit and if he hadn't interrupted, that body count would have gone higher. Poindexter is a trained killer and a psychopath. He wasn't just going to give himself up to authorities." It touches a nerve, probably much more so because of who died rather than the actions Matt took at the time. He does wonder if he would have been able to live with himself if Poindexter had died, but it's a moot enough point for now.
Obviously Lonán has no real reason to think that this is anything but a thought experiment in some ways instead of being a highly personal topic. Matt doesn't and can't have the same kind of detached apathy with it, not only because of his own involvement but because the incident at the point of the discussion is the one where he lost everything that mattered.
By the time he's commenting on it and reaching, Matt is already starting to move the chair. Of course he's aware that it's there and in his own home, he's less guarded in the displays of what he does or doesn't sense, so he recognizes that he made a minor mistake there. "I've got it, thanks."
He moves the chair out of the way with ease enough and returns to the turntable. "That's always been a more Evangelical read of the power of the devil for me and not one that I subscribe to. You're the one that has the experience with all of this though, so it's really your opinion that's probably more educated than my own on the matter."
"Huh. So where the Trolley Problem is concerned, you'd advocate active intervention in one death to preserve the lives of others over inaction?"
Perhaps it's because he's watching with such obvious and intense trepidation, but Lonán clocks the way Matt's reach comes before the first intervening sound has left his own lips. It's entirely plausible that the man could've very well made a mental note of where he'd left the chair when he'd transferred over to the couch, but there's no clear and definitive way to justify the sureness of his grasp. Lonán's chair is fitted to him exactly — the depth of the seat, the width of the frame, the height and slope of the backrest. It may have been a better fit for him some twenty pounds ago (it's incredible what chronic stress can do to slim a man's physique), but there's no universal standard for the height of push handles. Being taller than average and having a functional level that necessitates more trunk support, Lonán's sit quite a bit higher than any conceivable average for manual chair users. And yet Matt's reached for them without the slightest bit of hesitation or searching.
On the couch, Lonán feels his mouth go dry. "Be careful, please," he says in a low voice. Maybe to the other man; perhaps as a foregone reminder to himself. Possibilities are pinging in his mind and while not all of them are as disastrous as others, he's not sure which he'd rather have as truth. Perhaps the best answer is the one that paints him as ignorant, so when Matt joins him back on the couch Lonán chugs more wine and asks with his own heartbeat rushing in his ears:
"Would it be okay if I asked you a personal question?"
He's been doing this the whole damn conversation, so it's clear this one is probably a little bit different.
"No one died as a result of Daredevil's intervention. Poindexter has a reinforced spine so a couple of stories wasn't going to kill him." How much Matt knew at the time or cared is up for some measure of debate but it doesn't strike him as a particularly even trolley problem.
The movement of the chair is second nature enough because he recognizes where it is and how to get it out of the way with the most efficiency, which is something he allows himself maybe a little more freely than he should. He's easily capable in the way that he navigates the world but he does rely somewhat on the fact that people don't tend to stare out of some measure of social politeness that prevents them from looking too long at a man who can't look back at them. The warning is met with a faint smile, "I've got it, don't worry," he answers easily and leaves it at that.
Except obviously there's now something eating at Lonán and all of the tells give it away. He presumes to have some guess as to what it is, because it's something he's fielded in the past when he's been noted as being too capable in what should be the darkness of his world.
"You can. I reserve the right not to answer it," he replies before taking his glass in his hand once again.
"That's entirely fair." A reply to Matt's caveat, rather than to his justification of the harm that Daredevil could have easily caused.
It takes a few moments after Matt's settled and the music has started up again for Lonán to launch in. Perhaps unexpectedly — or perhaps as anticipated, since it's him after all — he starts with a little bit of unveiling of his own. A frankly unnecessary effort to even the playing field. "I think I told you I'm an incomplete quad before we met. You didn't ask any follow-up questions, so I figured you were either being polite or you already had some working knowledge of what that meant. I wasn't completely sure you weren't expecting Christopher Reeve in the bar that night, but if you were surprised by me you didn't show it. And again, you were either courteous or knowledgeable enough not to call me a fucking liar, like some people are wont to do."
Now it should be reasonably evident what Lonán is setting himself up to ask, if Matt weren't already fully aware. His heart rate is still ticking a little above his own average and it's apparent he's choosing his words carefully, but there's an obvious pathway he's already laid down to Matt's complete denial and disarmament of whatever else he may be thinking.
"The spinal infarction happened in my neck, at a pretty damn high level. But I can stand pretty good with support, and I can shuffle around a little in a walker. Doesn't make me less of a quadriplegic, though. But I'm realizing I made a presumption and you're probably so used to it that you didn't see a reason to correct it for similar reasons, or ones all your own. So answer or don't answer; that's entirely your prerogative. But I'm kind of wondering now how much functional vision you do have?"
"I do a fair bit of work with clients who have cases built around disabilities, such as ones that came as a result of a negligent workplace or by the exposure to chemicals or other carcinogens, including several clients who have, as a result, had to use wheelchairs so I am familiar with complete and incomplete spinal injuries. I'm well aware that there is a wide spectrum of types of cases and what would be classified as limitations as a result," he answers evenly. Of course he knows where all of this is going. While Lonán notes that Matt didn't call him a liar, he presumes that he's about to be called one in so many words.
On a level, he can understand it. He moved something that, presumably, he shouldn't have known where it was and that was his own fault. The nerves that Lonán is displaying suggest very much that he apparently thinks something is off here. This isn't the kind of question that would spark a rapid heartbeat from a normal conversation so he does have to wonder where, exactly, it's going. The question is asked in such a way that Matt's answer is not going to contain a shred of a lie and the even timbre of his voice indicates as much.
"None. There is no connection between my optical nerves and my brain. It was severed in the accident. I have no functional vision." To prove that point, he removes the red glasses that sit on the bridge of his nose. Hazel eyes don't follow anything and have no reaction to light or proximity. If he had any ability to see, there would be something there but there's nothing. He has other things and a way to view the world without seeing it, but that's nothing Lonán will ever know.
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He runs his fingers along the edge of the turntable to the arm and needle until music comes from the expensive speakers that he has connected. Matt Murdock is far from a snob about most things in his life, even at the cost of some comfort with his senses, but he doesn't cheap out when it comes to the way that he listens to music. He has no use for tinny speakers that distort and cool the warm gaps that the vinyl produces when it's perfectly transformed. Once he has the record on, he sets the sleeve aside on a stand that's intended to hold it for easy retrieval and picks up his wine again.
He walks to the sofa to sit down on the end closest to where Lonán has located himself in the living room. "Hm? Oh, it's a chess set. They make tactile ones and with pegs to hold the pieces so they aren't knocked over in the course of mapping the board by touch. I've had it since I was a kid."
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Without the benefit of a conversational pathway, the bridge ahead will remain undiscovered.
Lonán hardly minds, as he finds himself settling into the first notes of guitar strings and the robust voice that follows. He's unfamiliar, but immediately taken by the earnest sound of the vocals and the weight of the words. He tips his head, letting it wash over him as Matt makes a place for himself on the near edge of the sofa. When he answers, it's with closed eyes. "I haven't played chess in ages. You'd think with three siblings there'd always be someone to rope into something, but they all hated board games."
Several moments of silence follow before he declares, "I like this song. Reminds me a little bit of Dylan. Doesn't sound like he's performing it; sounds like he's living it."
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"I can pull the board off the shelf if you want to play." It seems like a better lubricant for conversation than nothing at all. He hasn't played in a long time either, but his spare time is sacrosanct, to say the least, and it doesn't leave much time for board games even if he had someone worth playing.
"Yeah, he's good. Sometimes I like the simple stuff the most, depending on my mood." Maybe more often than not, these sad songs fill the air.
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He turns his attention to Matt as the man fetches the board off the shelf, giving him the space to pass. As they're settling into the arrangement Lonán pitches another casual request. "What would you say if we both played from the couch? My tailbone's about to go to war and I don't want my reach to spill any wine." It means trading in the opportunity for a quick escape, but Lonán hopes to do his part to keep this night from ending with either one of them wanting to storm out anyhow.
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Admittedly, the thought didn't occur to him and he does feel like a moderately bad host as a result. "Sure. What do you need from me?" he asks. He can offer as much or as little assistance as is necessary but he doesn't want to make any assumptions either.
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It does not escape the man's subconscious acknowledgement that Matt referred to a potential win on his part as a swindling. Lonán, of course, has no way of knowing what in either of their physiologies might lend itself to giving him the leading edge, but something in his spirit has picked up on the idea that his host, at least, thinks there is perhaps something, and he can't let it pass without comment.
The offer of assistance gives him momentary pause, but Lonán swipes his wine glass from the table and nudges the back of his holding grasp against Matt's palm. "Here's my wine. Will you put it somewhere over there that'll be out of your way? If I can have the right side of the couch that'd help my reach. I'll push my chair out of the way when I'm settled."
He angles himself with the free spot on the couch and sets his wheel lock to transfer from his chair onto the cushion. Lonán grips the back of the couch and comes to his feet briefly. He doesn't get entirely upright to his full 6'2", but Matt can no doubt get the sense that he's almost standing with the support of the couch. He settles down with a heavier sigh than he means to and unlocks the chair to angle it behind the couch and out of the way of everything but the record player.
"Fuck, okay. Sorry." He clears his throat and lets his breathing settle, returning mostly to himself save a few quiet winces he doesn't assume the other man can hear. "So, let me know how this works. Do you want me to call my moves?"
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Matt takes the glass as asked and holds onto it while Lonán maneuvers and gets settled on the couch. Once he's seated on it, Matt extends his hand so he can take the glass back and place it where he sees fit. From there, Matt arranges the board between them in Lonán's new position and turns it so he's playing as black in order to grant his guest the first move. "That would be appreciated. It saves some time. I do have to touch the board for more than just the movement of my piece so it does take a little bit longer. Vision is a split second, touch not so much. So I can promise it's not cheating because you know I want to get into heaven," he says the last part with a crooked grin. Other than that, it's the same rules and all of that."
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He sets his glass on the edge of the coffee table and pulls his left knee onto the couch cushion so he can sit sideways and face his opponent with the board between them. "Okay," Lonán scans the pieces and his memory before pinching the bulb of his chosen pawn between his thumb and middle finger. The peg clatters a little across the board before there's the sound of it being fed into the small hole designed to catch it. "That was my D2 pawn to D4."
And since the mention of Heaven is right there on the table, Lonán puts his shoulder into the couch cushion and hunkers down, assuming a more casual posture. "Did you have a lot to confess before the service tonight? In this perfect moment, is your soul squeaky-clean, Matthew?" His voice is pure teasing amusement.
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Matt's fingers come to the table and are quick to move out one of his pawns in kind. There isn't much to know about the board yet in either touch or memory.
"I think that's between me and my priest," he answers before pushing himself up to his feet in order to go to the kitchen island where he left the bottle and bring it over to the coffee table as a matter of future convenience. "I presume you didn't offer your confession. What about your sins? How are those faring these days?"
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Instead he breathes and kicks his right leg a little more in front of him, stretching his knee out straight. "You're right, though. Are you angling to take it now?" He draws a longer breath and lets a teasing smile filter into his voice. "Let's see: I've deliberately avoided giving confession on the last eight Holy Days. I've committed multiple acts of carnal union outside the dignity of marriage..." It's here that Lonán can no longer hold back his snort. He reaches for his glass of wine and lets the liquid roll around on his tongue before swallowing.
"C1 bishop to F4."
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"I didn't realize you needed a confessor. I just asked the question. Is there any particular reason you're avoiding doing it good and proper?" There seems to be, or else Lonán wouldn't be keeping track down to the number of Holy Days how many times he's missed it. "If this is Matthew Murdock's personal church and confessional, you should probably be aware that I don't count that one as much of a sin. Of all the things in the world, I have my presumptions of what God does or doesn't really care all that much about. I break with the Church in a lot of areas and while I'm solid in the Catholic guilt department for other things, I have no shame for what I am."
He moves out another pawn in response.
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"I can't receive forgiveness if I'm lacking in genuine contrition." Maybe it's not the conversation at all — it could just be the end of a long day's impact on his body — but Lonán can't seem to sit still. He keeps shifting on the couch cushions. "I don't feel sorry for expressing doubts. I don't feel sorry for seeking the wisdom and experience of non-Christian practitioners, and believing their stories at least as much as I believe God's."
If he wasn't already on a diverging path with the faith of his youth, Lonán's job certainly would've sent him there eventually. He sighs and moves another piece to finish the triangle in the middle of the board. "E2 pawn to E3."
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He takes a sip of his wine before moving out his rook. "You seem particularly wound up about it. The invitation to my church was just that--an invitation and not a summons. So if it sparked something negative, I apologize for that but it obviously wasn't my intention." Lonán seems to be somewhere in the middle of either a crisis of faith or at least wrestling with parts of it and probably not helped along by Mass, especially if his unconscious response at the time was anything to go on. "Faith isn't supposed to be a stationary and unchanging thing. Nothing else in life is so there's no reason to think faith would be."
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"I wanted to try it out. I've been away for a while, and sometimes I do miss it, you know? I miss the comfort and serenity of feeling so certain about the way I think. So sure that I'm on a righteous path. I appreciate you welcoming me." Not a word of this is a lie. Not a word of it is something Lonán is saying as a test for the other man. But he watches Matt as he listens to him and forgets for a time to take his next move.
"Have you ever lost your faith, Matt?"
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No lies come, but it's not the kind of answer that would hold one anyway. The desire to recapture something that was lost is understandable and it's not unheard of when one makes a wayward return back to the Church.
The question isn't a surprise. "I get angry at God more than lose my faith in Him. I think there's a difference between the two. God is still God even if He turns his back on us, and there have been times when I've felt that. After I lost someone I loved a few years back, it was particularly strong. That's more the feeling that ebbs and flows than a question of belief at all."
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He drains his wine glass and sets it between himself and the couch cushion to clear his hand and finally take his next move. "G1 knight to F3." He wedges the peg into its slot before resettling the empty glass on the table and moving to help himself to another portion.
"I know something exists beyond the physical body," he offers after he has. "Something eternal, like a soul. Totally unbound to the corporeal." Lonán shrugs, and finally drops his gaze from Matt's face back down to the wine glass in his hand. "I just think, given my work, it's hard to say for certain that whatever part of us exists after will only welcome us if we come to it through a single system of belief."
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"The priest I had growing up, he was a good man. He spent more time having these conversations with me than is probably required for the counseling of his wayward flock, but I think he enjoyed them on some level because argument necessitates reexamination and in that, he found that he continued to hold firm. Anyway, this was a topic we circled around on occasion and his thesis, and it's one that I similarly subscribe to, is that it doesn't matter what you have faith in, as long as you have faith in something. God in different translations, polytheistic ones, or just in people and the desire to do right by them. He thought that men are measured by their works and if those works would be pleasing to God, even if the man himself carries a different symbol around his neck or none at all," Matt reaches for the bottle of wine and adds a little more to his glass before setting it back down.
He moves a piece and takes a pawn. "I think there's still a place for God in a world of anomalies and monsters," he concludes.
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Lonán can certainly relate to that simmering anger. If he's honest with himself, it's been with him a whole lot longer than his medical incident. Perhaps that gave a tidy justification for the flame, but it's not what sparked it. The only thing he can say for absolute conviction that his spinal infarction did was to reroute everything inward. It's a much simpler task to beat the shit out of himself mentally and emotionally than to try to turn that anger on anyone else.
He's easily guided back to the theological parts of their conversation, and Lonán smiles to find such a satisfying and tidy resolution in the other man's words. "I think if I had more witnesses for the faith like your priest I'd have an easier time with my own faith," he acquiesces.
"But let me ask you: what place do you think monsters and anomalies have in the world of God?"
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Putting on the mask itself had been an act of rage in the first night and though time has tempered it, it has probably only done so by a sense of accomplishment and a knowledge that he's doing the right thing that has also sometimes faltered but now remains steadfast since putting the mask back on again.
"I wish I could have introduced you. I miss him," he says of Father Lantom.
Instead of immediately answering, Matt rises to switch out the record because it has come to an end and the needle has stopped. "It's all part of His creation, so it would seem to me that there's plenty of room for those things to co-exist within a belief structure. Just because we don't understand it doesn't mean that God doesn't."
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It's asked with the same theoretical detachment as the questions about religion, so how much Lonán manages to keep entirely objective may be a point of some debate. Neither his heart rate nor his voice become elevated, though. He remains as even and as curious as with the rest. If it's a pointed or probing question, he's presenting it with a genuine desire to understand how a man who makes his living in criminal defense accounts for these kinds of situations.
When Matt moves to switch the record Lonán's attention is quick to divert itself. "Hang on, sorry." He swipes a left-handed reach for the push handle of the chair he's stashed back there to move it out of the way and comes up aggravatingly short now that he's seated. "My chair's in your way. You can just move it."
Though now he doesn't even think twice about the hard stare he's leveling at Matt, or the way his nerves jump like this suggestion is a hell of a lot more than what he's presented it as. Lonán's damn sure the other man means him no harm, and separating him from his chair is a good way to ensure he cannot easily leave if Matt ever sees fit to kick him out, but it nevertheless makes him realize how far he's trusted someone he doesn't even know to have good intentions.
Lonán swallows and tries to settle. "I'm glad to hear you refer to them as a part of God's creation. I was worried you might be one of those who claim they're the work of Satan."
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Obviously Lonán has no real reason to think that this is anything but a thought experiment in some ways instead of being a highly personal topic. Matt doesn't and can't have the same kind of detached apathy with it, not only because of his own involvement but because the incident at the point of the discussion is the one where he lost everything that mattered.
By the time he's commenting on it and reaching, Matt is already starting to move the chair. Of course he's aware that it's there and in his own home, he's less guarded in the displays of what he does or doesn't sense, so he recognizes that he made a minor mistake there. "I've got it, thanks."
He moves the chair out of the way with ease enough and returns to the turntable. "That's always been a more Evangelical read of the power of the devil for me and not one that I subscribe to. You're the one that has the experience with all of this though, so it's really your opinion that's probably more educated than my own on the matter."
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Perhaps it's because he's watching with such obvious and intense trepidation, but Lonán clocks the way Matt's reach comes before the first intervening sound has left his own lips. It's entirely plausible that the man could've very well made a mental note of where he'd left the chair when he'd transferred over to the couch, but there's no clear and definitive way to justify the sureness of his grasp. Lonán's chair is fitted to him exactly — the depth of the seat, the width of the frame, the height and slope of the backrest. It may have been a better fit for him some twenty pounds ago (it's incredible what chronic stress can do to slim a man's physique), but there's no universal standard for the height of push handles. Being taller than average and having a functional level that necessitates more trunk support, Lonán's sit quite a bit higher than any conceivable average for manual chair users. And yet Matt's reached for them without the slightest bit of hesitation or searching.
On the couch, Lonán feels his mouth go dry. "Be careful, please," he says in a low voice. Maybe to the other man; perhaps as a foregone reminder to himself. Possibilities are pinging in his mind and while not all of them are as disastrous as others, he's not sure which he'd rather have as truth. Perhaps the best answer is the one that paints him as ignorant, so when Matt joins him back on the couch Lonán chugs more wine and asks with his own heartbeat rushing in his ears:
"Would it be okay if I asked you a personal question?"
He's been doing this the whole damn conversation, so it's clear this one is probably a little bit different.
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The movement of the chair is second nature enough because he recognizes where it is and how to get it out of the way with the most efficiency, which is something he allows himself maybe a little more freely than he should. He's easily capable in the way that he navigates the world but he does rely somewhat on the fact that people don't tend to stare out of some measure of social politeness that prevents them from looking too long at a man who can't look back at them. The warning is met with a faint smile, "I've got it, don't worry," he answers easily and leaves it at that.
Except obviously there's now something eating at Lonán and all of the tells give it away. He presumes to have some guess as to what it is, because it's something he's fielded in the past when he's been noted as being too capable in what should be the darkness of his world.
"You can. I reserve the right not to answer it," he replies before taking his glass in his hand once again.
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It takes a few moments after Matt's settled and the music has started up again for Lonán to launch in. Perhaps unexpectedly — or perhaps as anticipated, since it's him after all — he starts with a little bit of unveiling of his own. A frankly unnecessary effort to even the playing field. "I think I told you I'm an incomplete quad before we met. You didn't ask any follow-up questions, so I figured you were either being polite or you already had some working knowledge of what that meant. I wasn't completely sure you weren't expecting Christopher Reeve in the bar that night, but if you were surprised by me you didn't show it. And again, you were either courteous or knowledgeable enough not to call me a fucking liar, like some people are wont to do."
Now it should be reasonably evident what Lonán is setting himself up to ask, if Matt weren't already fully aware. His heart rate is still ticking a little above his own average and it's apparent he's choosing his words carefully, but there's an obvious pathway he's already laid down to Matt's complete denial and disarmament of whatever else he may be thinking.
"The spinal infarction happened in my neck, at a pretty damn high level. But I can stand pretty good with support, and I can shuffle around a little in a walker. Doesn't make me less of a quadriplegic, though. But I'm realizing I made a presumption and you're probably so used to it that you didn't see a reason to correct it for similar reasons, or ones all your own. So answer or don't answer; that's entirely your prerogative. But I'm kind of wondering now how much functional vision you do have?"
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On a level, he can understand it. He moved something that, presumably, he shouldn't have known where it was and that was his own fault. The nerves that Lonán is displaying suggest very much that he apparently thinks something is off here. This isn't the kind of question that would spark a rapid heartbeat from a normal conversation so he does have to wonder where, exactly, it's going. The question is asked in such a way that Matt's answer is not going to contain a shred of a lie and the even timbre of his voice indicates as much.
"None. There is no connection between my optical nerves and my brain. It was severed in the accident. I have no functional vision." To prove that point, he removes the red glasses that sit on the bridge of his nose. Hazel eyes don't follow anything and have no reaction to light or proximity. If he had any ability to see, there would be something there but there's nothing. He has other things and a way to view the world without seeing it, but that's nothing Lonán will ever know.
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