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capybaramurdock · 7 days ago

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♡ Chapter 6 ♡

"Through the Glass" (Matt's POV – 21 Days Until the Wedding)

“I tried,” she whispers to herself. “I tried to keep it together.” He steps forward slowly. Quiet. “You did,” he says.

Summary:

He hears her crying through the quiet of 2 a.m., her soft voice breaking over cookie dough and expectations. Matt told himself to keep his distance. But he can’t. Not when she’s unraveling. Not when she still makes cookies for a world that keeps asking too much. They’re trying. In their own broken, tired way. Even if love isn't spoken aloud yet… It's in the spaces between.

♡ Warnings: ♡

💔 emotional breakdowns, stress baking spiral at 2am, minor kitchen burn (be safe sweetie), emotional distance, toxic dad drama, public embarrassment, paparazzi/media tension, guilt-ridden Matt Murdock, unwanted flirting attempt (not reciprocated), soft moments in the wreckage, hurt/comfort but make it repressed, emotional exhaustion, daredevil angst edition, slowburn angst is the main course

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Want to read on ao3? Available there too! https://archiveofourown.org/works/64668514

divider by @dollywons

It’s two in the morning.

Matt knows he should be in bed. Rested. Ready. There’s a charity event later—one her father is parading as a fundraiser for her shelter, complete with photo ops, auction tables, and baked goods arranged like political pawns.

Another wholesome moment of hers was twisted into a marketing stunt.

He’s spent most of the night in his black suit, working through the lingering fury from dinner—the ring, the cameras, the look in her eyes when she said yes. Not because she wanted to, he thinks, but because she had to.

The city bled under his fists. A couple of Russians left with broken ribs and ruined egos. Not a single blow they landed did any damage. He barely let them touch him. That’s how much he needed the release.

And still, it wasn’t enough.

He should’ve gone home. Back to his empty apartment and hollow thoughts. But his body moved without asking.

And now he’s here.

Perched on the rooftop above her apartment, crouched in the quiet like some sinner praying for forgiveness.

At first, he doesn’t even mean to listen. He just… does.

The soft shuffle of feet on tile. The whir of an old electric mixer. The scrape of metal trays. The slow, rhythmic crack of eggshells and the steady muttering of someone trying desperately not to fall apart.

Then...

A sharp clang.

He hears the tray hit the counter harder than it should have.

Followed by her voice. Low. Broken.

“...God...come on, why can’t I just get it right....?”

Another crash. A tin measuring cup clatters across the tile.

“I forgot...I forgot the stupid cookies....forgot the whole damn event, and he’s going to say I’m unreliable, and then I’m going to...”

Her voice breaks.

A sharp inhale. A quiet, crumbling sound in the back of her throat.

Matt’s hands tighten into fists.

He shouldn’t be up here listening to her cry like this. He’d told himself he was going to keep his distance. He’d promised himself that after what he said in the car.

But he also promised her something else, didn’t he?

“If you let me, I’ll stand beside you.”

And here she is. Alone. At two in the morning. Standing in the wreckage of too much pressure and not enough support.

Her voice slips out again—barely above a whisper now.

“I just wanted to do one thing right. One little thing. Why can't anything I do go right for me?”

There’s a sniff. He hears her wipe her sleeve across her face.

“I used to love this. Why doesn't it feel right anymore?” she murmurs. “Baking used to feel…so safe. Quiet. Mine.”

She pauses.

Then, quieter still:

“Maybe I should have moved. Somewhere stupid and sweet. Somewhere safe, and just opened up that little bakery. I could have gotten away from him and every little damn thing he demands from me.”

Matt swallows hard, his throat dry.

She sounds so tired. So done.

And it hits him harder than anything the Russians threw at him tonight.

Because she’s not supposed to be like this. She’s not supposed to be breaking.

She’s the good one.

He doesn’t realize he’s leaning forward until the gravel under his boots shifts.

He stops himself.

He can’t go down there.

He has no right to.

But God, he wants to.

And he knows...

He knows he’s part of why she’s like this tonight.

He hates it.

He hates that his words, his distance, and his silence helped shatter something so soft.

The weight of her voice saying “I just wanted to do one thing right” presses harder on his chest than any villain’s blow ever could.

And that ring...

God, the ring she pressed back into his hand...it still sat heavy in his pocket like a curse, a reminder.

You said you’d stand beside her.

But instead, he just stood still.

Watched her break, more than she already is.

Said things he didn’t mean because he was scared of her, of himself, of how real this is.

He moves away from the edge.

He should go, give her privacy.

But then...

A sharp hiss of pain.

“Shit...ouch...shitshitshit”

The tray slams down on the counter, hard. Louder than the first time.

His head whips back toward the sound.

Another muttered curse. Then water. Rushing. Too fast. Too cold.

He hears the sharp breath she tries to stifle. The sound of a sob that escapes free anyway.

Whimpers. Muffled curses. Words slurring together under the sound of the faucet. Like she’s trying not to cry and failing all over again.

She burned her hand.

She’s in pain, again...and still alone.

Matt’s heart twists in his chest.

He takes a step forward, just one.

He shouldn’t go down there.

But now all he can hear is her. Her pain. Her voice. Her breath.

He wants to be there for her, just like he promised, but would it really help anything at the moment?

“No, it wouldn’t help. It wouldn’t change anything.”

You already made it worse, dumbass.

He stays for just a few moments longer, making sure she at least treated her burn properly before he goes.

♡⋆⁺₊⋆☾⋆⁺₊⋆♡⋆⁺₊⋆☾⋆⁺₊⋆♡⋆⁺₊⋆☾⋆⁺₊⋆♡⋆⁺₊⋆☾⋆⁺₊⋆♡⋆⁺₊⋆☾

The next morning, Matt groans loudly as he gets out of bed.

His body protested immediately - tight, sore, bruised in places he hadn’t noticed until the adrenaline wore off.

He hadn't realized it in the moment, but yeah… he definitely overdid it with the Russians last night.

Not that he’d admit it to anyone.

Not even Foggy.

And especially not her.

Not that he’d tell either of them about his night job, what he does every night, or any of this.

He presses a gentle hand to his ribs as he gets up, fingers brushing the warm edge of a forming bruise.

He can’t stop thinking about her voice, cracked and quiet, so sad, whispering to herself in the dark.

He should’ve left sooner. Should’ve walked away instead of listening like a ghost haunting her from the rooftop.

But he didn’t.

And now the guilt weighs much heavier than the bruises.

He drags himself through his morning routine, methodical and mechanical, trying not to picture the burn on her hand or the sound of her sniffling through a tray of ruined cookies.

He already deals with so much self-loathing.

His finer suits, tailored to fit perfectly, are both out of commission for the next few days.

He’s worn them too recently for something this public.

So he goes with another one. Still nice. Still formal. Just…not quite right.

The jacket tugs at his shoulders more than it should, the fit looser at the waist, the sleeves almost too small and tight on his arms.

It feels like a metaphor, somehow—trying to wear something almost right. That almost fits. But doesn’t.

His phone blares out with a notification of a text in the quiet of his apartment, disrupting his thoughts.

Once he finishes pulling his dress shoes on, he checks it, hearing from one of her father's assistants that he sent a car for him and that it should be there any minute now with her ready and inside as well.

His fingers tighten around the phone. Of course, she’s already in the car. Of course, he’s late to this, too.

♡⋆⁺₊⋆☾⋆⁺₊⋆♡⋆⁺₊⋆☾⋆⁺₊⋆♡⋆⁺₊⋆☾⋆⁺₊⋆♡⋆⁺₊⋆☾⋆⁺₊⋆♡⋆⁺₊⋆☾

They don’t say much when he slides into the car beside her.

She doesn't even greet him like she did at the restaurant last night.

She’s staring out the window, hands folded in her lap, her expression unreadable. So tired, so distant. Still sporting the smallest, minuscule traces of flour near her knuckles. It’s faint, barely visible, but he can smell it.

He can sense the exhaustion rolling off her.

The silence extends, heavy and suffocating.

Not at all, like some of the comforting silences they've had between them before.

Then, Matt lightly reaches into the pocket of his suit jacket.

He doesn’t look at her when he does it. Just gently pulls her hand from her lap and cradles it in his, cautious not to brush against the bandage on her finger.

No explanation. No warning.

He gently slides the ring back on.

It settles into position like it never left. But they both know better.

His voice is soft, almost like an afterthought.

“Figured it’d be easier if we didn’t forget it.”

Like it’s practical. Like it’s not guilt twisting inside his chest. Like it’s not him desperately trying to pretend he didn’t break something precious just the night before.

He hopes it sounds casual. Like nothing. Like just a line.

But his voice is too quiet, too soft, even to his own ears.

She still doesn’t look at him.

But he sees the way her lashes lower. The way her fingers twitch slightly in his hand, like she’s thinking about pulling away, but doesn’t.

She lets him put the ring on.

Let it sit there like it belongs.

And then, barely audible over the hum of the car:

“Right. Wouldn’t want to mess up the image.”

It’s not sharp. Not bitter. It’s worse than that.

It’s tired.

She pulls her hand back slowly, tucking it into her lap like it doesn’t mean anything. Like, he doesn’t mean anything.

And Matt doesn’t reach for her again.

She doesn’t look at him. Doesn’t even glance.

So he tries again.

Just one more time.

He shifts slightly in his seat, leans a little closer, not enough to crowd her, just enough to let his voice drop, warm and teasing, like it used to be before everything cracked open.

“You know… I’ve really missed your cookies since that first night I came to the shelter.”

It’s not just about the cookies. They both know that.

She’s quiet for a beat. Doesn’t look at him.

Then she says, voice even and brittle:

“Lucky for you, you’ll get to try one at the event.”

Matt swallows hard.

There’s no warmth in it. No smile.

Just quiet hurt tucked behind a perfectly measured line.

He leans back in his seat again, like the breath’s been knocked from his chest. She’s right there, but he’s never felt further away.

Yeah.

He deserved that.

♡⋆⁺₊⋆☾⋆⁺₊⋆♡⋆⁺₊⋆☾⋆⁺₊⋆♡⋆⁺₊⋆☾⋆⁺₊⋆♡⋆⁺₊⋆☾⋆⁺₊⋆♡⋆⁺₊⋆☾

Matt hears the camera clicks before they even step out of the car.

She hesitates when the driver opens the door. It’s so subtle, most wouldn’t catch it, just the briefest inhale. But Matt hears it. Feels it. Like the moment before a fall.

Then she steps out, perfect posture, her plastered-on polite smile, eyes a little too glassy.

He follows, keeping his hand near the small of her back, not touching, just close. A silent gesture. A ghost of protection.

She doesn’t acknowledge it.

They’re immediately greeted by flashes and soft greetings, the hum of well-meaning voices from people who have no idea what they’re witnessing.

She’s praised for her “incredible dedication.”

He’s praised for being “such a steady presence.”

The second they walk around the car and the driver opens the trunk, Matt smells the cookies. He's surprised he didn't pick up on the scent before now.

Sweet. Buttery. Vanilla and cinnamon cling to the crisp spring air.

He doesn’t need to see them to know she made them herself.

He knows the scent. Remembers it from the shelter. From that night.

But when she lifts the tray from the back of the car, balancing it with both hands, he falters.

Because the cookies aren’t just good. They’re flawless.

When the cookies shift slightly, he can sense the texture, the weight of them, and he hears her heartbeat increase in worry.

Perfect circles. Even spacing. Each one frosted in pale pinks and soft creams, little piped details added with obvious care.

And for the first time, he realizes...

He has no idea how long she was up last night finishing them.

He’d left the rooftop when her sobs had turned to silence and the water finally shut off. But that was hours ago.

How long did she keep baking?

How long did she push through the tears just to make sure this part of the day went right?

Did she actually even sleep? God, she probably went straight from making the cookies to getting ready for the event.

She carries the tray like it’s something sacred. Like if she can just get this one thing perfect, everything else will stay in place.

It guts him. Especially with now knowing what happens next.

They walk into the event. The venue is warm and glowing—twinkle lights strung across the ceiling like it’s all effortless joy. The sounds of music, clinking glass. A dozen conversations are happening all at once. Tables are covered in pastel linens, platters of sweets set out like offerings to some benevolent god of community and good press.

Matt can hear the light fluttering of a banner, too, likely with the name of the event that she came up with herself, "Comfort in Every Crumb."

She smiles automatically once more, thanking the volunteers, nodding graciously at guests. But Matt can feel it—the tension in her shoulders. The way she holds the tray just a little too tightly.

And then—

“Oh, those are yours?”

The voice comes from a woman with a champagne flute and a dripping, fake sweet-tea accent. A gold name tag hangs from her pearl-studded jacket: “Event Sponsor.”

Matt tilts his head slightly, listens.

“I mean, you didn’t make them all yourself, did you?” she continues with a half-laugh. “They’re so perfect. I just assumed someone helped you.”

The smile on her face falters.

Matt hears the shift in her breathing. The pause. The effort it takes for her to stay polite.

“Nope,” she says softly. “Just me.”

The woman hums. “Well, that’s impressive. But still, you really should thank whoever helped. It’s a lot of work for just one person.”

She still doesn’t snap. Just nods faintly, like the words are being absorbed rather than answered.

And then, like fate is laughing, the woman reaches forward to grab one from the tray, her bracelet catching slightly on the edge.

A smudge of blue frosting smears across the front of her pretty pastel dress.

“Oh! Whoops!”

Too loud. Too bright. Too fake.

It was obvious she did it on purpose.

“Oh my gosh, I’m so sorry! Here—” She rubs at it with a cocktail napkin, which only makes it much worse. Everyone knows you should dab at a stain, not rub. “You really should’ve let someone carry that for you, sweetheart.”

Matt hears the breath catch in her throat.

She steps back, just one step, but it’s enough.

“I-It’s fine,” she says quickly. Too quickly. “Really. Um. It’s fine.”

Her eyes blink too fast.

Her grip tightens on the tray. One of the cookies slides a little too close to the edge.

She doesn’t cry.

But Matt hears it. That tremble beneath her voice. That deep, desperate push to keep it together. The sound of the tray in her hands setting down too fast.

And that’s when the flashes start.

Cameras. Phones. Lights.

She’s not sobbing. She’s not yelling. She’s not breaking in any loud, dramatic way.

But she’s unraveling. And she knows it.

All of the cameras catch the moment. Her ruined dress. Her expression. That flicker of something raw and real in her eyes.

The society guest just laughs. “Aww, don’t worry! You still look absolutely precious.”

And that’s it.

Matt moves the second he hears her footsteps retreating toward the back hall, too fast. Too stiff. Her shoes clicking against the tile like a heartbeat in freefall. However, he pauses for just a moment, his hands gripping his cane tightly.

He wants to storm after her and fix whatever he can. But he can’t, not quite yet.

Because the guest is still laughing.

Still wiping her fingers on a napkin like this is some silly, forgettable moment. Like it wasn’t the final crack in someone already struggling to hold herself together.

“Such a sweet girl,” the woman says absently. “So polite. Bit quiet for the scene, though. Probably a relief you’ll be doing all the talking in your marriage, hmm?”

Matt’s jaw tightens.

He forces his hands to stay on his cane.

“You know,” the guest purrs, stepping a little closer, “if things ever get too suffocating—public image and marriages, y'know, all that—you can always come to these events solo. We’d make sure you had fun.”

She presses it like it’s a joke.

But there’s nothing playful in her voice. Just entitlement.

And something worse, like she sees him as a trophy. Something she could steal.

Like the woman she just belittled isn’t even real. Even though she's the one worth much more in this whole scenario.

Matt turns his head just slightly toward her. He doesn’t smile.

“Thanks for your concern,” he says coolly. “But I prefer to stand next to the woman who actually did the work.”

The woman blinks. Surprised.

He doesn’t give her time to recover.

“You smeared frosting on her dress. You didn’t apologize. And you tried to erase everything she made with a single comment.”

A pause.

“I can’t tell if that’s jealousy or insecurity, but either way, don’t come near her again.”

She gasps, offended, scandalized. But Matt’s already walking away.

He doesn’t wait for her response.

He’s done playing polite.

Now he just has to find the one person in this building who’s always been worth protecting.

Luckily, he hears her and finds her quickly, just outside the catering area, her breathing uneven, her back pressed against the wall.

“I tried,” she whispers to herself. “I tried to keep it together.”

He steps forward slowly. Quiet.

“You did,” he says.

She jumps. Matt is too quiet when he moves, she hadn’t heard him coming.

“M-Matt?...” Her voice cracks.

“Let’s get out of here,” he says softly.

“But the event-”

“They already got what they wanted and needed,” he murmurs. “So did your father.”

She looks at him, eyes shining, face flushed with embarrassment, and something in her finally breaks out loud:

“I didn’t even want to come to this, he made me think up an event for the shelter.”

He nods once, voice low. “I know.”

And that’s when Matt makes the call for both of them, steps outside, calls for the car, keeps her close but doesn’t crowd.

They can hear the flashes of paparazzi going off when they're found again.

They try to ask her questions about what happened with the sponsor and about the event in general, but she doesn't say anything, she can't.

She just lets Matt guide her into the backseat. She's too exhausted to put up much more of a fight.

Matt whispers instructions to the driver, doesn't tell her where they're going.

Because he already knows.

She's coming home with him.

♡⋆⁺₊⋆☾⋆⁺₊⋆♡⋆⁺₊⋆☾⋆⁺₊⋆♡⋆⁺₊⋆☾⋆⁺₊⋆♡⋆⁺₊⋆☾⋆⁺₊⋆♡⋆⁺₊⋆☾

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kaythefloppa · 1 month ago

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RE: The 200th Episode + S7

So a while back I made this post, which analyzed an interview with Martin Kratt around Season 7, which at the time, had just premiered on PBS Kids. In that interview, Martin said that Season 7 will air Episode 200 of Wild Kratts. Pretty exciting shit, right?

Turns out that may be outdated.... like, VERY outdated.

An article by current.org that I found a while ago described Season 7 having 20 episodes, with there being 16 left following the season's four-episode premiere.

"Some shows in the 20-episode season are devoted to animal classification. Others focus on the different roles of animals in the wild, such as predators versus prey. One looks at the boundary-breaking mudskipper, a fish that actually spends much of its time on land. " With 16 more episodes left to air in Wild Kratts’ seventh season — including the series’ 200th — there are plenty more creature adventures to come. New episodes will premiere on PBS Kids through 2025, according to DeWitt, who adds, “We do not have an update on season 8 at this time.”

Now yes, that article does mention that the series 200th will air in Season 7, but there is no mathematical way for a 20 episode season to add up to 200.

Because as of this week, there have been 16 episodes of Season 7 released: Bringing the show to 174 episodes. Episode 20 of the season will bring the series to 178 episodes of the overall season. It would take 22 episodes afterwards to get to the 200th episode.

I'm not entirely sure what exactly is the case here, whether Martin was incorrect, making assumptions, or there was some change in the amount of episodes ordered for the season, but it does not look like we'll be getting the 200th episode this season.

This leads to my next point: We are actually way closer to the end of Season 7 than we think.

One-hour specials in the show are classified as two episodes, since they're double the length of regular episodes, and thus double the production thereof.

Season 4 was commissioned 26 episodes, with Animals Who Live To Be 100 Years Old as the 100th of the series - for those numbers to add up, A Creature Christmas and Creatures of the Deep Sea would need to be two episodes each (otherwise S4 would have only 24 eps and AWLTB100YO would be episode 98). Similarly, Season 5 had a 20 episode order that would bring the overall number count to 138: Meaning the season premiere "Alaska: Hero's Journey" and the Halloween special "Creepy Creatures" would have to be counted as two episodes each (4 episodes, plus the 16 regular length episodes).

If we apply this to the other one-hour specials (including Our Blue and Green World and Activate Kid Power) then that means that we are currently 16 episodes into Season 7 as of this week. And if the current.org article is correct, then that means that only 4 episodes remain.

And seeing as how 4 new episodes often air in one batch, (whether it's a double-length episode and 3 regulars, or 4 individual episodes airing daily), and with how a modern WK season takes 2 years to finish (added with the article saying the season will premiere through 2025) this indicates that the next batch of episodes following this week will be the last of the season, and that one of these episodes will be the Season 7 finale.

Yup, Season 7 is most likely ending this year.

Now I could, on some level, be wrong, (and frankly I hope I am because it's kinda shitty that all of that hype around Ep. 200 could've possibly been for nothing). But so far, so many signs point to Season 7 having 20 episodes and not a minimum of 40 as we initially thought. I've seen bootlegs of Wild Kratts live where the new episodes are announced and the number of episodes they announce in future is not the amount that would give the season enough episodes to break the 200 milestone. Hopefully more information will come out (likely in an interview with the Kratts as a tie-in to the next batch of episodes) but all signs point to the end of Season 7 being upon us:

#wild kratts #pbs kids #kratt brothers #martin kratt #chris kratt #2d kratt brothers #irl martin kratt #wild kratts season 7 #wk s7 #wild kratts fandom #wk season 7 #wk #I seriously hope I'm wrong #half of the hype that was generated for S7 was because of that announcement #Like #An extended hiatus and then the show comes back with a new season AND on that SAME WEEK the 200th episode is confirmed for that season?#A literal feast for WK fans that were following the show - or at least it seemed like such #I still remember all of the theories/excitement/prediction/anticipation for what could've been the best season of the series since Season 3 #And to be clear I still have really good thoughts on Season 7! The interesting direction + experimental writing + fluid animation #I still stand by the fact that it was worth waiting over an entire year #But realizing that the number 1 source of hype for this season since the day it premiered may have been just a piss in the wind ->#-> makes me feel like the victim of a 2 year long practical joke: Four years if you count the 22 month hiatus beforehand #Especially knowing that the season will likely be over before the year ends #where has the time gone #We'll have to wait and see near the end but right now I would not hold my breath for S7 reaching 40 eps or Episode 200 airing this season

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