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sunflowersandsapphires · 3 days ago

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What Goes Up

Small Creatures, Chapter 3

Series Masterlist Next Chapter

pairing: Matt Murdock x fem!reader

summary: Matt Murdock always assumed he’d never meet his soulmate. After all, who would want to end up stuck with a blind vigilante carrying enough baggage for a whole jet? Unfortunately for you both, his cursed love is closer than ever and determined to support him as his paradoxical life falls apart.

warnings: swearing, Matt being a grump, Matt doubting himself, mentions of canon typical violence, one very brief mention of vomit, fluff

a/n: HI EVERYONE! I am so sorry for being so absent this month. I dislocated my knee, spent 2 months getting a doctor to agree to fix my dislocated knee, and also bought a house. What a time. ANYWAYS here are two of my loves for you all to enjoy. This chapter is mostly Matt.

w/c: 4.1k

A soft breeze waltzed over your skin, making a skipping sound as it hopped around you. It whirled toward him, carrying the subtle powdery scent of your skin, the aroma left behind from various soaps and lotions.

It mingled with the smell of freshly cooked pasta, tomatoes and salt, the taste of potatoes bursting across his tongue. A source of deadly comfort, like the magnetic pull of unconsciousness when one is bleeding out. Warm and tempting–with a jagged, perilous edge.

Thudding steadily, your pulse looped through his ears. Too quick for his liking, but solid and real nonetheless.

“...did you feel it?” Your heart thumped consistently, providing a ticking rhythm underneath your question.

“Yes.” He murmured, in awe of your ethereal presence. Something about you seemed intangible and hazy, as if you were made of mist.

“So, that means we're...” Your pulse grew louder, booming in his ears as your body flooded with adrenaline. Inhaling sharply, Matt grimaced as the acrid taste of cortisol slipped beneath the weight of carbs on his tongue.

Across from him, you began to fold in on yourself, breath coming in rapid pants. Panic flared in his own chest. A shrill whistle somersaulted in his ears, piercing the soft tissue of his ear drum. The mouthful of pasta he had yet to swallow dissipated into tiny, ashen granules. As he took a harsh breath, his throat constricted, his lungs fighting for air.

“We’re…” You repeated, your mellow voice distorted by the thundering in your rib cage. With each sprinting beat of your heart, you trembled, bones rattling together like chattering teeth.

Someone was choking. He couldn’t tell which of you it was–too distracted by the sound of crackling, gasping breaths.

Continuing to hunch over, you backed away from him, afraid. The muscles in your legs creaked as you tensed up, desperate to escape him. Your terror was palpable, sticking to him with invisible barbs, forcing distance between you.

Oh Matty, He flinched as a gnarled hand gripped his shoulder. His former mentor’s hoarse, mocking tone freezing him in place. Don’t say I didn’t warn you. Love is a death sentence, nothin’ more.

Warmth spread over his fingers as a thick, crimson liquid seeped toward him. He scrambled away from the slick puddle, angling his head away from the metallic smell as it drew tears from his eyes. The blood wasn’t his. It wasn’t his.

With a jolt, Matt erupted out of bed, a gurgling echo repeating in his ears. His lungs ached as he fought to catch his breath. Clenching fistfuls of silk sheets, he rested his forehead atop his knees, exhales coasting over the goosebumps dotting his flesh. With a shudder, he ripped free of the tangled blankets, toppling out of bed.

Water. He needed water. Something to clear the charred taste of blood and flour from his throat.

Dragging himself into the kitchen, he fumbled for a glass with clammy hands, nearly dropping it in the process. Pull yourself together, kid.

His teeth ground together in frustration as Matt tossed back a mouthful of lukewarm tap water, ignoring the horridly familiar metallic taste. Carefully setting the cup on his counter, his pinky brushed against the edge of a scrap of paper before he recoiled guiltily.

Your business card. Rather, the card you’d given him “in case he needed to contact you.”

In a moment of overwhelming optimism, he’d scanned the sliver of cardstock with a screen reader, noting the number on his laptop. After a drink, or three, he’d mustered the nerve to call. It was possible the voices in his head were blowing your reaction out of proportion and you truly wanted him to reach out.

Or so he’d hoped, until reaching an automated “out of service” message instead of a politely nervous photographer. Twice.

Slamming a thumb down to end the call, he’d hurled the card across the room, where it had fluttered to a halt on his kitchen counter. He hadn’t been man enough to truly throw it away.

Of course it was a fake number. You didn’t want him. Who on earth would ever want him? You felt obligated to thank a stranger because he’d saved you from serious harm. Isn’t that exactly what you’d said?

“I just wanted to show my appreciation for the other night.”

Matt should’ve known better than to let his hopes run wild.

Murdock men weren’t destined for love. They had the Devil in them, just like his grandmother always said, and there was no way anyone out there would ever choose the Devil.

Turning his palms to the ceiling, Matt squeezed his eyelids shut, hoping the motion would clear the disgusting gritty feeling he’d been battling for hours after the dream. Losing sleep always dried his eyes out, every blink irritating them further. Add another night without rest, and he started suppressing migraines. He was in for a treat this week, no doubt.

The solution was less simple than it seemed. He wasn’t choosing to lay awake for hours on end thinking about you. He’d much rather lose consciousness than relive the horrific sound of your voice cracking, your anxious pulse when he’d grabbed your hand without thinking. You were terrified of him. Rightfully so, he supposed. You’d had the misfortune of meeting him as Daredevil.

If things were different, if you’d met him as Matt Murdock, maybe it would’ve worked out. Maybe he could’ve locked the suit away, pursued another path. But that wasn’t God’s plan.

With an aching arm, Matt stretched towards his nightstand as he blearily fumbled for the compact plastic clock residing on it. Grasping it with one hand, he pressed the button along its side, grimacing at the mechanical voice that screamed back at him.

“SIX OH TWO A.M.”

A more reasonable waking time than when he’d checked two hours ago. Digging the heels of his hands into his eye sockets, he groaned as the muscles in his abdomen bulged against bruised skin. Dozens of broken blood vessels stretched with his torso as he sat up, protesting the whole way. He’d be lucky if he could walk without constant wincing. Foggy was going to kill him.

The short walk between his loft and the office cemented his sour mood. Navigating the city with a cane was frustrating on a good day–the infamous New York City apathy leading to people tripping over the thing, ramming into him from every direction, and screaming at him for using a mobility aid. Heaven forbid disabled people live in urban areas. Didn’t they know random Wall Street broker number 7 had places to be?

Gritting his teeth against every jostling movement and snippy comment, Matt nearly howled back when a massive dog tackled him against a shop window, barking angrily at him and slobbering all over his tie as the owner tried to pull the creature off his hips.

“He’s friendly, I promise!” She yelled over the deafening roar of the dog, dragging him away by the scruff of his neck.

Matt said nothing, stalking the final few blocks to their building, failing to ignore the ringing in his ears and lingering musk of the dog hair littering his shirt. Shoving at the exterior door with his shoulder, Matt narrowly avoided breaking his nose on the musty glass panel when the entrance refused to budge. Guess it was too early for maintenance’s opening shift.

Growling under his breath, he dug out his keys, unlocking the door hastily and stomping up the stairs.

Most days, stepping foot into the office filled him with a sense of pride. The ramshackle space was a representation of everything he’d accomplished, the payoff of years of hard work courtesy of both himself and Foggy. It wasn’t overly spacious. There was barely enough room for their daily onslaught of new clients–the excess body heat making the sputtering AC tremble with exertion. The suite was perpetually dusty and home to more than a few pests, but it was theirs. Most days, that was enough for Matt.

Today though, all Matt could focus on was the scent of mildew wafting up from the ancient carpet and the aggressive scrabbling of tiny claws in the building’s walls. Prying his tie from around his neck, he rolled his shoulders, collapsing into his second-hand office chair with a groan. Rifling through the files in his bag, he withdrew the flimsy folder containing their firm’s notes on an ongoing guardianship case.

This specific file wouldn’t lighten his mood in the slightest, but it had been nagging at him for days. The client had requested their assistance only about a week ago, looking for someone to help him revoke his court appointed guardian–his mother.

After an accident on the highway left him nearly entirely paralyzed, Mr. Sandoval had endured years of reconstructive surgeries and other invasive medical practices, unable to properly advocate for himself when his only known form of communication was ripped away from him. Contrary to the story his mother had pitched to the judge, he was capable of making his own decisions, he just required certain technological accommodations to speak his mind.

While under the guardianship of his mother, he was intentionally kept from any text-to-speech tools and subjected to emotional, as well as financial, abuse that his parent claimed was punishment for driving under the influence. Mr. Sandoval had been stripped of his autonomy and dignity because of a rushed court order and blatant ableism from the court officials. Matt and Foggy had readily agreed to represent him when he challenged the existing ruling.

But the case was proving to be more frustrating than they’d first imagined. None of the judges within the jurisdiction were willing to sympathize with someone who had committed what they deemed as an immoral act. The fact that he was not simply the cause but the only survivor of the crash always sealed his fate. Yet Matt was determined to keep trying.

Persistence was one of his few remaining virtues.

He was so engrossed in the paperwork, fingers flying over the lines of braille repeatedly as he grew more enraged, that he didn’t hear the office door open.

“Mornin’ sunshine,” Came Foggy’s cheerful greeting.

Matt groaned in response, earning him a laugh. “I see someone woke up on the wrong side of the bed. If you ended up in bed at all last night. Geez, Matt, you’re carrying a family of suitcases under those eyes.”

“Good to know.” Matt muttered, not moving from his hunched position. “I’ll get right on that.”

“You know, for a professional liar, you need to step up your fibbing game, Murdock.” His friend exhaled forcefully, planting two palms on Matt’s desk as he leaned forward. “You look like microwaved crap.”

Chuckling in surprise, Matt flapped a hand over his chest in feigned gratitude. “You really know how to boost a guy’s ego, bud. Really lifting my spirits here.”

“Stop deflecting.” Foggy hissed, his glare surely intense enough to drill two parallel holes in Matt’s skull. “How late were you out last night?”

And that was the other half of the issue. After failing to reach you and properly introduce himself, he’d been too busy spiraling to fill his best friend in on recent events. Now, so much time had passed that the omission seemed deliberate. If he asked Foggy for advice now, would their firm survive another argument about honesty? Matt doubted it.

He could still hear Foggy’s trust being torn to bits in his living room, the other man’s voice quivering with hurt and thinly veiled fury as he interrogated Matt.

“What the hell do I know about Matt Murdock?”

Letting Foggy assume he’d been losing sleep over crime in the city seemed less harmful somehow.

Shuddering against the crowning mass of guilt in his abdomen, he shrugged.

“Late.” His reply was clipped, anything beyond curt would give away the battle raging within him. “Didn’t mean to be, it just happened.”

At least that much was true.

“For fuck’s sake, Matt, you’re going to kill yourself gallivanting around in those stupid pajamas–”

“Not pajamas.” Matt interrupted, not bothering to hide his smirk when Foggy grumbled over him.

“Getting stabbed by whatever low lives are lurking in the shadows. And I’m, what, supposed to pretend you aren’t scaring the shit out of me?” Skin chafed along denim as Foggy’s hands landed on his hips.

Fiddling with a torn corner of the case file, he swallowed the lump crawling up his throat. “Foggy, I’m–”

“You’re not, Matt!” His partner exclaimed, tossing his hands in the air with exasperation and worry.

“Not what?” A second voice asked, the question light and curious, rather than filled with weeks of resentment and strife.

Both men whirled towards the open door in surprise, no doubt giving Karen an amusing spectacle, jaws dropping to the floor as they stared toward her.

“Uh–” Foggy blurted out, head swishing between the pair of them indecisively.

“Well..” Matt grimaced, threading his fingers into his hair as he desperately sought out a response. Unfortunately for his quick wit, exhaustion had coated his brain–the metaphorical wheels within screeching to a halt. Before he could even close his gaping mouth, Foggy had come to his rescue.

“Not letting me pay for coffee! Seeing as he totally foiled my plan to get here before both of you and hold my diligence over your head for the rest of the day.” Foggy sighed wistfully, no doubt dreaming of the high horse he wasn’t able to hop on.

Hands stilling over a line of text, Matt gave an exasperated huff. “You’re relentless, you know that?”

“It’s been mentioned.” Foggy smiled, grabbing Matt by the elbow and towing him out of the office. “Karen, hold down the fort, will ya?”

Karen scoffed, slightly miffed as the two men made their escape. Still being dragged by the fabric of his shirt, Matt dug his heels into the gritty carpet, yanking free of his friend’s grasp.

“She’s not gonna just let this go, Fog.” Hand fumbling for the bannister, he began his trek down the creaky stairs, Foggy hot on his heels.

“Well considering that someone has a certain illegal alter-ego she can’t know about, I’m not quite sure what I can do to remedy that.” Foggy griped, footsteps harsher than normal as the pair descended to the lobby.

Matt’s teeth clenched together as the stiffness in his jaw grew increasingly tight. “I’m sorry, Foggy. Truly, I–”

“Yah, yah, you’re sorry. I got it.” Foggy snapped, whisking past him to open the lobby door. With a sigh, he extended his arm for Matt to grasp. “Just…promise me you’ll rest tonight? You and I both know it’s been quieter this month, and I’m not kidding, dude. You’re like a walking Ambien ad.”

Accepting Foggy’s elbow, Matt hummed thoughtfully. “For you, buddy? I’ll try.”

Matt was trying. He was.

In the interest of keeping his promise to Foggy, he’d planned on executing a quick loop around the kitchen before heading back to his loft to crash. Somehow, after his third useless tussle with a criminal, he’d actually followed through. Heaving trembling breaths, he stood on the roof of his building, rivulets of blood trailing down his limbs and onto the concrete at his feet. He had no idea if the crimson liquid was his or someone else’s. Probably both.

Cool air coasted over the tip of his nose, making his nostrils flare with a sigh. The tiny reprieve from the sweltering heat made him sink to the ground, following the trail of air desperately. His knees collided with concrete, sending a tremor through his bones. Head swimming, he flattened his palms along the rough surface, clenching his jaw against the roiling nausea in his stomach.

The Kitchen hadn’t been too active tonight, his last wild goose chase ended with him landing a well-aimed punch into a drunk man’s uneasy stomach, causing the guy to spill his guts across the pavement and Matt’s shoes. He’d have to throw this pair out. No amount of detergent or vigorous scrubbing would remove the scent of partially digested alcohol from the tightly woven fabric. Letting his own bile escape his sealed mouth would certainly not help the issue.

Swallowing roughly, he inhaled a slow breath, the devil whirling amidst the chaos within him. Starving for a fight, for a chance to be set free. Every cell within him was wound too tight, the primal need to unleash something strangling him, exacerbating the pounding in his head and sloshing in his gut.

On days like these, he missed her. His other half. The only person to witness his rage and accept it wholly, not shying away or asking him to dampen it. In fact, she encouraged it. Taking him to Fogwell’s, begging him to throw a punch her way, to surprise her.

That night in the ring, he’d shown her his mark. After they’d sparred–and practically devoured each other–during the brief moment of peace, he’d revealed the one thing he managed to keep from his childhood. And, with a kiss, Elektra had told him they were soulmates.

She believed it, too. At least, that’s what her heart had told him–so Matt was willing to do anything to stay with her. Indulge her every whim. Fail his classes and abandon his future if he had to, anything for her.

But it wasn’t enough. She still left. They always did. Whatever demon the clergy had failed to exorcize when he was a child had matured, mutated. Dripping fangs and barbed claws whirling around within him. Insatiable. Pushing her away.

She’d abandoned him. Leaving him alone, like his mother had his father. It was almost poetic, the way he followed in his dad’s footsteps.

His mother. His father. Stick. Elektra. Foggy had returned for now, but Matt would inevitably lose him and Karen too. Everyone he’d ever loved, gone because he was too much to bear.

A monster, a martyr, a pariah.

Nobody feels sorry for you and nobody ever will. Stick’s nasally voice taunted him, dancing around his head when he desperately shook it. He was wrong. Foggy and Karen cared. They did.

You sure about that, kid?

With a deep growl, he drew back a fist, driving it into the pavement. Knuckles quivering upon impact, he curled his other hand, mirroring the motion. The noise of the city faded into a distant hum, drowned out by the rush of blood in his ears. Hit after hit landed on the stagnant target, scraping away layers of skin and testing the strength of his bones. Without realizing it, his mouth opened, a barbaric roar tumbling from his vocal chords until they ached.

Relationships are a luxury men like you and me can't afford.

Stick was wrong. He had to be.

Hazy memories flowed over him, like a shallow current of water he was face down in, seeping into his mouth and lungs–ridding them of breath. A brief glimpse of his father’s smile, the feeling of a hand vigorously ruffling his hair. The press of plush, warm lips against his as a whiff of jasmine perfume made heat coil in his gut. The cool, clammy exterior of a beer bottle in his grip as Foggy and Karen bickered good-naturedly across the table.

You’ll be the death of ‘em, Matty. Every one of ‘em.

His cry dwindled to a rasp as the scent of copper slid over his tongue, his blood staining the cement as the skin across his knuckles split. Heaving breaths shook his torso, pained whines shuddering through him as he crawled towards the half-wall, sinking against the cool brick.

It was all too much. The blaring horns and the stifling heat and the musty scent of half-charred cigarettes. The pulsating weight in his sinuses and the sharp tang of lingering vomit spilled over his shoes. The frustrations of a difficult case and a failing justice system, only made worse by sleep deprivation and overstimulation. He wanted it to stop, all of it. Just one moment where the world wasn’t turning and time wasn’t passing and he was allowed to catch his fucking breath. To exist without feeling like a goddamn burden. To love and be loved without it feeling wrong and full of tension.

His shoulders bumped against the stiff surface he had propped himself on, trembling with the movement of his lungs. He couldn’t quite tell if he was laughing or crying. Did it matter anymore?

The stern voice of his former mentor struck him like a branding rod.

Never were strong enough, were you?

His meaning was left unsaid, though Matt heard it anyway. Not strong enough to keep his mind from unraveling. Not strong enough to be a soldier for his war. Not strong enough to keep him around–not strong enough to keep anyone around.

Fists clenching against the despair building in his chest, he tilted his head up towards the heavens, silently begging for guidance. His prayer was rewarded by a pelting droplet smacking his forehead. Pure, untainted water began to weep from the sky, slinking through the seams of his suit and crawling over his skin. The moisture soaked into the suit, forcing the material to cling to him forcefully.

A hand flew up towards his chest as it clenched painfully, his breaths became shallow and quick, as if his body had forgotten how to process oxygen. He couldn’t do this anymore.

Staggering for the door to his loft, he heaved the slab of metal open, cringing as it slammed closed behind him. The suit was ripped off, piece by never-fucking-ending piece hitting the floor of his place with an echoing slap. Finding them all again would be tedious, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. As his thick-soled boots finally left the staircase, touching down on the floorboards below, his mind was buzzing as it tried to sort through the dozens of stimuli.

The static of a TV blaring through a busted speaker in an apartment down the hall.

The piercing scream of a baby being sleep trained a few blocks away, apparently not ready to self-soothe.

The patter of an anxious heartbeat darting past his window, the thrum mingling with the pounding rain. Familiar and absolutely haunting.

A pained cry escaped him, hands whipping over his ears as he tried to drown it out. He needed to focus on something else, anything else.

But it was too late. As if he’d been teleported back to that moment, he once again stood before his soulmate as she agonized over their bond. It didn’t matter that he was crumpled in a ball on the floor of his loft, he could still hear that same tuft of air careening toward him, carrying the scent of powdery soaps and saline. It mingled with the acidic smell of tomatoes draped over pasta, the taste of potatoes lingering on his tongue. Tantalizingly warm and comforting, but cursed all the same.

Your hesitant pulse looped through his ears, matching the one scurrying down the block. Too quick. Far too quick for his liking, but no longer solid or real. A figment of his imagination, taunting him with a life he’d never live.

“...did you feel it?”

This wasn’t happening. He wasn’t with you. Your heart wasn’t convulsing wildly, supplying a horrifying rhythm beneath your question.

“Yes.”

Only God could judge him for speaking the words aloud. He was too desperate to keep you near, to hold onto the last remaining sliver of your ethereal presence. You were fading from his grasp, falling through his outstretched fingers like grains of sand.

“So, that means we're...”

He braced himself for impact, for the booming stream of beats exiting your anxious heart. The same soundtrack that had been interrupting his sleep at night because he was practically sick from the crippling guilt and his own pathetic misfortune.

Instead of growing louder, saturating his brain until he could feel each contraction of your heart, your pulse began to fade–as if…

Gritting his teeth, Matt straightened his posture, trying to pinpoint the sound. It took a moment, his exhausted brain sorting through each stimuli like a slug sorting rocks, slowly and inaccurately. Eventually, he found it–a few blocks away now, accompanied by stifled sobs and shallow breaths as the person darted through an entryway.

This wasn’t a memory, this was real.

Unless Matt had lost the final ounce of sanity he’d managed to cling to all this time, it wasn’t some random woman barreling down the streets of Manhattan, just out of his reach. It was you. And every bone in his body was convinced that something was very, very wrong.

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