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superbreadsoul · 5 days ago

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DON’T BAIL ON ME

Matt Murdock x Reader

DISCLAIMER: The following story is purely fictional and is made for entertainment purposes. I do not own any of the characters mentioned in this story.

WARNING: Heartbreak, no happy-ending, Matt is emotionally constipated, Reader is unable to take responsibility as well. Elektra (cuz she’s hawt).

WORD COUNT: 5119 WORDS

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Matt’s voice trembled with concern as he heard her step through the door, sensing her eyes downcast, her posture tense. He had been pacing for what felt like hours, his mind running wild with worry. The clock on the wall mocked him with every passing second. He hadn’t heard from her all day. He hadn’t seen her since their plans had been set.

"Hey, sweetheart," he began, his tone more gentle than usual, but heavy with the weight of unspoken fear. "I was worried about you. Where have you been?"

Her response was quiet, almost reluctant, as if she was debating whether or not to let him in on the truth. "At the hospital."

The words hit him like a punch to the gut. His heart skipped a beat. "What? Why? Are you okay?"

His feet moved instinctively toward her, but she didn't meet his gaze. Instead, she stepped back, a wall of frustration and hurt suddenly building between them. He halted, sensing the shift, his worry now mingling with confusion.

"Yeah," she said, her voice tight. "I was visiting Barry."

There was an unmistakable edge to her words, and Matt froze, the weight of her response settling in. Barry. The name stung. He had heard about Barry—her ex, the doctor— the one she couldn’t quite escape, the one who always seemed to pull her back in. He had known this day would come. He just hadn’t expected it to feel so… personal. Little did he know, that wasn't what she was seemingly hesitant about.

"Oh," Matt said, his voice trailing off as he tried to keep his composure. He noticed a familiar scent around her, something sweet and floral. "You—smell nice."

She blinked, her lips tightening into a thin line. “Really?” she replied, her voice dripping with sarcasm. "Well, I wanted to smell nice for our date. Thanks for showing up, by the way.”

Matt’s heart clenched. The biting tone in her voice stung, but it was nothing compared to the way the truth had just hit him. His sightless eyes bounced, full of remorse and regret. His mind raced, desperately trying to piece together where everything had gone wrong.

"Oh sweetheart," he whispered, his words catching in his throat. "I’m so sorry. It… it slipped my mind. I’m so, so sorry."

He stepped forward, his hands reaching for her, but she pulled back slightly, the distance between them growing, thick with unspoken anger.

"Are you?" she asked, her voice trembling with a mix of hurt and disbelief. She glanced up at him, the vulnerability in her voice almost too much for him to bear. "Are you really sorry, Matt?"

Her question hung in the air, and for a moment, he was speechless. All he could hear was the rapid beat of his own heart, and the deafening silence that followed. He had forgotten their date. He had let her down. Again.

Matt’s breath hitched as he took another step closer, his voice dropping to a softer, more sincere tone. “Y/N, is something wrong?”

The words were tentative, but they were filled with an unspoken plea for her to let him in, to let him fix this, to let him make things right. But she only stood there, her arms crossed, her expression unreadable.

Matt had known her long enough to recognize the storm brewing beneath her calm exterior. But this—this was different. This was something deeper, something he couldn’t fix with an apology alone.

"Natchios."

The name dropped from Y/N's lips like a stone sinking into the silence of the room, heavy and uninvited. It echoed through the small space, reverberating off the walls and into Matt’s chest, where it lodged like a shard of ice. The very surname that had haunted him for years. The one name he thought he had left behind. The name of the woman who had once ruled his world in a storm of chaos and passion—and who, no matter how hard he tried, was never truly gone.

“What?” Matt froze, his blood running cold, his breath caught in his throat. The dread settled in, slow and suffocating. He had thought he could outrun it, that he had buried that past deep enough for it to never resurface. But now, standing before him, was Y/N, looking at him with eyes that said she knew, and with a smile that barely disguised the hurt and the bitterness.

Y/N tilted her head slightly, her lips curling into a bitter, almost rueful grin. “I was so caught up with the trial, I didn’t realise it at first. I’d never heard a name so unique. Then I thought, hey, actually, I have. I’ve only ever known one person with a name that unique. She had a pretty unique personality too. Elektra Natchios. Huh.”

Matt’s heart hammered in his chest, and he felt a cold sweat prick at the back of his neck. Her words stung deeper than he could have imagined. There was no hiding now, no pretending that this wasn’t happening. He couldn't see it but he knew that Y/N was no longer looking at him with the gentle affection of someone who had shared quiet moments of love. Now, she was looking at him with something else: pain. And the realization that everything he had tried to protect her from had come crashing down.

Y/N’s eyes narrowed at him, her gaze sharp and cutting, as she began to recall their past. “God, I hated that stupid Chevy Belair Coupe she used to drive around to pick you up. Then you’d get in the passenger seat with a big smile on your face, bunking all your classes.” She chuckled, but the sound was hollow, edged with something bitter and pained. “And I wouldn’t hear from you for days. Three days, Matt. I didn’t hear from you for three damn days.”

Matt opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came out. He wanted to apologise, to explain, but the words felt useless. How could he explain any of it without dragging her deeper into the mess that was his life with Elektra?

Elektra.

Just the thought of her made his stomach twist, but the worst part was the knowledge that Y/N had been right all along. He had never fully severed the connection with Elektra, and now, it was here, in front of him, like a spectre from his past.

Y/N’s eyes flashed with an icy determination. "She’s here, isn’t she? Like Stick? You can come out now.”

The words hung in the air, sharp and accusing. Matt’s breath hitched, and before he could protest or stop it, Y/N’s gaze flicked toward the door of the bedroom. The silence that followed was oppressive, and Matt’s heart sank as he knew exactly who would walk through that door, already hearing her heels clicking. He didn’t need to say a word. He didn’t have to.

From the shadows of the hallway, Elektra emerged.

“Hello, Y/N,” Elektra’s voice was smooth, almost amused, like she had been waiting for this moment, anticipating the fallout from Matt’s past finally catching up with him.

Elektra’s steps were confident, every movement exuding the kind of smug self-assurance Matt had never been able to shake. She stood tall in the doorway, her presence dominating the room even as she leaned casually against the frame. There was a faint, cruel smile playing at the edges of her lips as she looked past Matt to Y/N.

Matt’s stomach turned. Elektra had always had that way of walking into a room like she owned it, like everyone in it was just another pawn in her game. He hated that about her. He hated the way she always made him feel like he was nothing more than a fool to be played with.

“Elektra,” Y/N said, her voice tight with controlled fury. "I should have known you’d be here. Always lurking in the shadows, making everything more complicated than it needs to be."

Elektra’s eyes gleamed with something cold, calculating. “I don’t know what you mean. I’m just here to see Matthew, just like I always have been.”

Matt’s chest tightened. “Y/N, I—”

But Y/N held up a hand, the air shifting as she did, silencing him before he could finish. Her eyes, once soft with affection, now burned with a mix of pain and anger, and he realized, too late, that this was a breaking point. A fracture in their relationship that couldn’t be healed with empty words.

“What? You’re sorry?” Y/N asked, the disbelief thick in her voice. “For what, Matt? For still being tied to her after all this time? For letting her come back into your life, into our life, like nothing ever changed?”

Matt took a step forward, but it was like walking on a tightrope. Every word he tried to say felt heavier than the last, his voice faltering as he reached for her. “Y/N, it’s not what you think—”

“It never is,” Y/N snapped, her voice a mixture of frustration and grief. "You’re still lying to me, Matt. You’re still lying to me, even now.”

Y/N’s voice was calm, but there was an unmistakable edge to it, a sharpness that immediately cut through the tension in the room. “Matt and I need to talk, so I’m sorry, but I’d like you to leave.”

Elektra didn't flinch. She gave a soft, almost mocking smile, the same smile Matt had once found irresistible, traced it with his own fingers, now a twisted reminder of everything he was trying to move past. “Alright.” She didn’t hesitate, her heels clicking sharply against the floor as she turned toward Matt’s bedroom, making her way back into the shadows of his life.

But before she could slip out of sight, Y/N’s voice stopped her cold, the words laced with authority. “—The apartment.”

Elektra paused mid-step, a flicker of surprise in her eyes, but it was quickly masked by that same smug composure.

Matt opened his mouth, but his throat tightened as the reality of the situation began to settle in. He had never heard Y/N so resolute, and despite everything he wanted to say, he knew that this wasn’t his battle to fight. Still, he hated the feeling of being stuck in the middle. “Y/N—” he started, his voice soft, trying to diffuse the tension.

“—You speak when I ask you to speak.” Her voice cut through his words like a knife, leaving no room for argument.

Matt flinched, a sigh escaping him. His frustration built inside him, the weight of being trapped between the two women he cared about—one from his past, one from his present. He dropped his head, hands on his hips, trying to control the burning anger bubbling within him. The last thing he wanted was this kind of confrontation, but it was inevitable, wasn’t it? A situation of his own making.

Elektra, as if sensing Matt's turmoil, gave him one last smirk before she silently walked out, her footsteps echoing as she left the apartment. But even with her gone, the tension in the room was suffocating. Y/N stood there, arms crossed, her eyes trained on Matt, who didn’t move. The silence stretched between them like a chasm, filled with things unsaid.

“I’m not gonna have a one-sided conversation, so can you please turn around?” Y/N��s voice was stern, but there was an underlying hurt that Matt couldn’t ignore.

Reluctantly, Matt turned to face her. His jaw was tight, the weight of her gaze almost unbearable. For a second, he was relieved that he wouldn't have to see that scathing look on her face Foggy always talked about. He knew what was coming next, but it didn’t make it any easier to bear.

“Why didn’t you tell me earlier?” she asked, her tone softening only slightly as she tried to understand, but the confusion in her eyes was clear.

Matt opened his mouth, the words caught somewhere between guilt and frustration. “About what?” he asked, feigning ignorance, but even to him, the question felt hollow. He couldn’t pretend anymore.

Y/N’s eyes flicked to the door where Elektra had just left, and her voice was barely above a whisper as she listed out the things that had been gnawing at her. “About Stick. About Elektra. About everything that’s been hanging over us since the moment we got together. Why didn’t you tell me?”

Her words hit harder than she probably realised, and Matt’s breath faltered. The truth was, he hadn’t been able to bring himself to share it. Not because he didn’t trust her, but because he had hoped—no, he had needed—to believe that he could keep his past locked away. That Elektra, Stick, and all the messes of his old life would stay buried, far from Y/N. But he had been fooling himself. And now, here she was, asking him the one question he couldn’t dodge.

“Because you walked out on me before I could tell you,” Matt said, his voice thick with frustration, his hands clenched at his sides. His sightless eyes were wild, somewhat searching for hers—waiting so that she might tell him that she understood, or at least would understand, if he could just explain it all.

Y/N didn’t flinch at his words, but the hurt was unmistakable. She stood there, her arms still crossed, her gaze unwavering. She had always been so patient with him, so understanding. But this—this was too much.

“You think I walked out on you?” she asked, her voice tight, trying to keep the trembling anger at bay. “You think I just left? You’re the one who shut me out, Matt. You’re the one who didn’t trust me with the truth. You kept me at arm’s length, and now I’m supposed to believe it was just because you couldn’t find the right time to tell me?”

Matt took a deep breath, his chest rising and falling with a frustration that was barely contained. “It wasn’t like that,” he said, his voice lower now, softer but still heavy with regret. “I never wanted to hurt you. I never wanted to drag you into that world. But you—you wouldn’t have understood. You wouldn’t have accepted it.”

Y/N’s eyes narrowed slightly, and she stepped closer to him, her voice barely above a whisper. “You don’t get to decide what I can or can’t handle, Matt. You don’t get to keep things from me because you’re afraid of how I’ll react. I’m your partner. You tell me. You trust me.”

Y/N’s voice was laced with frustration as she tried to make him understand, but Matt could sense that her patience was starting to wear thin. “Besides, I was rightfully upset—”

“—Is there a point to this conversation?” Matt interrupted, his tone sharp, his shoulders tense. He didn’t want to fight. He didn’t want to keep spinning in this cycle of misunderstandings and hurt feelings. He just wanted it to go back to the way it was. He wanted everything to feel normal again.

Y/N blinked, her expression one of bewilderment and frustration. “What do you mean, ‘is there a point’? Matt, of course, there’s a point! I want you to talk to me!” She said the words with an exasperated urgency, as if she couldn’t understand why he wasn’t getting it.

Matt’s jaw clenched, and he turned away for a moment, trying to steady himself. “There’s nothing to talk about, Y/N. Besides, you made it clear yesterday that you didn’t want to talk to me.”

The hurt in his voice was unmistakable, and Y/N’s chest tightened. The memory of last night—the way she’d stormed out, the way Matt had closed himself off—was still fresh. It felt like a betrayal, but even more so, it felt like the same pattern she had been trying to avoid. He was slipping away from her, like he always did.

Her heart pounded as she stared at him, frustration bubbling up again. “See, this is exactly what I’m talking about,” she said, her finger gesturing towards him. “You just brush it all off. It’s like you won’t even try to understand why I’m upset!”

Matt’s eyes flashed, frustration building in his chest. He didn’t know how to explain it, how to make her understand that his silence wasn’t about her, but about the things inside him that he didn’t know how to talk about. “What?” he snapped back, unable to hide the rawness in his voice. “What do you want from me, Y/N?”

“God! It’s always one step forward and ten steps back with us!” she nearly shouted, her voice full of pent-up frustration. “It’s always the same thing! You do something, and I pull away. I do something, and you pull away. We can’t keep doing this, Matt! I can’t keep feeling like I’m the only one trying to hold this together.”

The words hit him harder than he expected, and for a moment, he didn’t know how to respond. He wanted to explain that it wasn’t just her—that it wasn’t always her fault. But the truth was, his own insecurities were starting to drown out the words. His fear of being abandoned, of losing her, was starting to seep into every crack of their relationship, and he didn’t know how to fight it.

“We talk, don’t we?” Matt said cynically, crossing his arms as he looked at where he assumed her eyes were, his expression closed off. “I’m right here standing in front of you.”

Y/N’s eyes narrowed as she shot back with a bitter laugh, the sting of his words landing harder than he’d realised. “As opposed to how lately, every conversation I have with you is towards your back?” she said, her voice full of incredulity. “You’re physically here, Matt, but you’ve been gone for a while now.”

Matt flinched at the accusation, the weight of her words cutting deep. He opened his mouth to argue, but the frustration in Y/N’s voice silenced him before he could speak.

“What the hell does that mean?” he snapped back, his confusion mixing with his growing anger.

Y/N’s words were sharp, cutting through the air between them like a blade. “It means you avoid me!” she deadpanned, her frustration bubbling to the surface. “It means your first instinct is to run away from me the second things get a little bit rough.” She pointed directly at him, her eyes narrowing as she squinted up at him in disbelief. She rocked her hand in the air, as if to emphasise how often he pulled away, how shaky he could be when things weren't easy.

Matt’s heart beat erratically in his chest as she spoke, the truth in her words hitting him like a freight train. She wasn’t wrong. He had always pulled away when things got tough. His instinct had always been to retreat into the safety of silence, of isolation, of not facing the things that scared him the most.

“I don’t run,” Matt muttered, his voice low and defensive. “I—”

“You do,” she interrupted sharply, cutting him off before he could finish. “I’m not an idiot, Matt. I can see it. You shut down. You turn away. You make yourself small, and you expect me to just stand here and wait for you to come back.”

Matt stood there, frozen for a moment, the words hanging in the air like a weight he couldn’t escape. His breath was shallow, his chest tight. The things Y/N was saying, the things she was pointing out, weren’t easy to hear, but they were the truth. And deep down, he knew it.

“I don’t run!” Matt growled stubbornly in denial.

Matt's chest tightened, his jaw clenching in anger. He couldn't stand hearing it, especially not from her. "Okay? That is neither here nor there," he snapped, immediately brushing her words aside, shaking his head in frustration. He was done with the conversation, or so he thought. He wanted to put the walls back up, to shield himself from the rawness of the situation.

Y/N raised an eyebrow at him, the sarcasm in her expression all too clear. "Okay, well, here we are, Matt," she said, her voice dripping with frustration and mockery. "What do you wanna do? How do you wanna handle it, huh? Do you wanna fight for us, or do you wanna bail?"

She pointed toward the door, her hand shaking slightly with the intensity of the moment, as if to punctuate her question. Her voice rose in frustration, her eyes flashing with a mix of anger and hurt. She paused, studying him as the weight of his silence seemed to hang in the air. But as she watched him, something softened in her gaze. She saw the vulnerable look in his eyes—the quiet uncertainty he wore so well. And despite the storm of emotions she felt, her heart ached for him.

With a heavy sigh, she took a deep breath, trying to steady herself. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to raise my voice,” she said quietly, the sharpness gone from her tone, replaced by something more tender. The fight was still there, but beneath it, there was love. She stepped forward, her hands trembling as she reached for him.

Y/N placed her hands gently in his, her touch soft and warm. She needed him to hear her, needed him to understand. “Listen to me,” she said, her voice steady now, but filled with a quiet urgency. “I want you, Matt. In all your sweet, yet rugged, devilish glory,” she said with a small, affectionate smile, even as her heart ached with the weight of everything unsaid. “I want to be here when your nights get rough, and I want to be the first thing you feel in the morning.”

She cupped his cheeks, her fingers soft against his skin as she looked into his eyes and feeling the intensity that made his breath catch in his throat. Her gaze softened, her eyes glistening with unshed tears. She sniffled, her voice trembling. "Look, you think your crazy life, your past, everything that’s happened to you, is going to scare me away or something… but that’s not true. You’re so wrong."

Her chest tightened, her heart aching at the sight of him—of the man who had always been so afraid of being too much, so afraid of dragging others down with him. “Because there’s nothing out there, nothing in here, that scares me as much as the thought of losing you.”

Her voice was barely above a whisper now, but the weight of her words struck him with the force of a wrecking ball. "Trust me when I say… people like you and me, we don’t get the chance to love like this, Matt. I stay. I don’t run. Because I love you."

The confession hit him like a punch to the gut. She had said it. She had finally said it, and her words hung in the air between them like a lifeline. She had chosen him, despite everything. Despite his fear, his past, the mess he carried around with him.

Y/N’s voice was soft, tender now, as she spoke again, the love in her tone so raw it made his heart ache. “I love you so much that all I can ever think about is you. There’s no version of my life that doesn’t have you in it.” Her hands tightened around his, pulling him closer, even as she sniffled again, the tears starting to break free from her eyes. “So I’ll stay right here. You can push me away all you want, but I’m not going anywhere. I’ll wait for you.”

Matt’s breath caught in his throat as he processed her words, the weight of her confession crashing over him. She was here. She was choosing to stay, despite the chaos, despite everything. He couldn’t remember the last time anyone had said something so raw, so real to him.

But even now, he found it hard to believe. He was so used to people leaving, to pushing others away before they could hurt him. The idea that she wouldn’t walk away, that she wanted him, despite his flaws and his broken pieces—it was a foreign concept.

He shook his head, as if trying to clear the fog in his mind, but the truth was, he was terrified. Terrified of letting her in, terrified of what would happen if he let himself truly believe that someone could love him—want him—after everything.

"I..." His voice cracked as he tried to speak, but words failed him. He reached up, touching her hands, still holding him so gently, and his gaze softened as he aimlessly searched where he assumed her face was in wonder, listening to her heart for any sign of doubt. But there was none. There was only love. A kind of love he had never known, never imagined he deserved.

Matt stood frozen, his heart hammering in his chest as Y/N’s confession lingered in the air between them. The weight of her words was suffocating, like a tidal wave crashing over him. He had never expected this moment to come, and now that it had, he wasn’t sure what to do with it. Her love for him, so pure and raw, left him paralyzed, caught between the fear of being loved and the fear of losing her.

His mind raced, his emotions a tangled mess. He wanted to say something, anything, but the words caught in his throat. His fears—his insecurities—gripped him like chains. Could he really let her in? Could he really let someone love him after everything he had done, everything he had become? And if he did, what would that mean for her? For them?

Y/N noticed the struggle in his sightless eyes, the way he seemed to shrink in on himself, and her heart sank. She had poured herself out to him—had told him, for the first time, how much he meant to her—and now, he couldn’t even return the sentiment. She frowned softly, her own pain growing as she took a small step back, her voice barely above a whisper.

“Matt?” She searched his face, looking for something, anything, that would tell her that he felt the same. “Did you hear me?” she repeated, the desperation creeping into her voice. “Say something. Please? Matt?”

The silence between them stretched on, thick with the unspoken. Matt’s brow furrowed, his hands trembling slightly as he struggled to find the words that felt right. But there was nothing—nothing that could explain the tangled mess of emotions inside him. He opened his mouth, but only half-formed words came out.

“I—uh—I can’t do this right now,” he finally said, his voice shaky with regret. “There’s a lot going on, and I—I can’t—” His words faltered, a deep ache filling his chest. It wasn’t that he didn’t feel the same way. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to be with her. But the weight of his dual life—the mask he wore, the life he led as Daredevil—was so heavy, and he wasn’t sure how to balance it with what Y/N was offering him. The fear of losing her, of not being enough, of the danger he brought to everyone around him—it all swirled in his mind.

Y/N’s heart dropped at his words. The dread that washed over her was instantaneous, a cold, sharp wave that made her feel small and foolish. She had laid herself bare, had trusted him with a part of herself she didn’t give to anyone else, and now—now he was pulling away.

"Oh," she whispered, the word barely escaping her lips as the weight of disappointment settled into her chest. A hollow ache took root there. She had given him everything she had, all her love, all her hope—and he couldn’t even say it back. The look in his eyes was enough to confirm the one thing she’d feared most: he wasn’t ready. He wasn’t willing to let her in.

Her hands instinctively pulled away from his, the absence of his touch like an icy wind. She couldn’t look at him, couldn’t bear to see the regret in his eyes. Instead, she looked away, her heart breaking with every passing second. She felt so stupid for believing, for thinking that maybe this time, with him, things could be different. That maybe, just maybe, he could love her back.

“I don’t—” Matt began again, but the words felt too heavy to say. He sighed deeply, his own heart aching as he heard the stutter in her heartbeat. He didn’t want to hurt her; glad he couldn't see that look of brokenness in her eyes. But he knew he had to do this—he had to finish what he started with Elektra, had to be Daredevil first. There was too much at stake. He was torn between the man he wanted to be for her and the one he had to be for the city.

“I have to go,” he said reluctantly, his voice low and filled with regret. His eyes softened for a moment, the weight of the moment heavy in the space between them. “I need to finish something. I need to... do what I have to do. I’ll come back, okay?”

The words sounded hollow to Y/N, and she felt her throat close up as the tears welled up in her eyes. She couldn’t look at him now, not like this. Not when he was so distant, so unsure. Her voice cracked as she whispered, barely able to get the words out.

“Okay.”

It was the only thing she could say, the only thing she had left. Her heart was in pieces, each one slipping further away from him with every word he spoke. She wouldn’t fight him. She couldn’t fight him. Not now. Not when he was already running.

She didn’t look up as he left, didn’t want him to sense the tears that slipped down her cheeks, the raw pain she could no longer hide. All she wanted was for him to stay, to choose her, but the cold reality was that she didn’t know if he ever would.

Matt hesitated at the door, his hand on the handle, but the moment lingered for just a second longer. He tilted his head, ear faced to her direction, his face a mix of regret and guilt, but he didn’t say anything more. He couldn’t.

And with that, he was gone, leaving Y/N standing in the quiet apartment, her heart aching with the realisation that love—real love—might not be enough to bridge the chasm between them.

The End.

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brokebonewritings · 1 year ago

Text

Still Here

Matt Murdock x Fem! Reader

Tags/Warning: 18+, Fluff, Mentions of Alcohol

Summary: Matt walks you home from a work event, you drunkly confess something to him that makes him think of both of your futures. Song: Dead Awake by JuttyRanx

Word Count: 1.8K

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You sat on the steps of the museum as you waited for your boyfriend to come walk you home. Matt was more than insistent on you getting home safely. Grumbling softly at him before you left that you ‘didn’t need to be babysat’ and ‘you could get yourself home safely’.

Boy were you so wrong. Turns out that being the head archivist at The Met meant you didn’t have a say on whether you drank at employee parties. You were expected to drink. Especially when you worked so hard at your job, your co-workers wanted you to let loose for once.

“I didn’t think you would actually wait outside for me.” Matt’s voice makes you jump from your dazed state.

You smile before responding. “It’s not the longest I’ve waited for you, Matty.”

“I know sweetheart, let’s get you home.” He reaches his hand towards you and you gladly take it. You falter just a bit as you attempt to stand. His arm catches your lower back and he helps you balance yourself.

As you walk down the dimly lit street, the alcohol in your system begins to take effect. You stumble slightly, causing Matt to wrap his arm around your waist and hold you steady.

“Careful there, sweetheart,” he says softly as he guides you down the sidewalk. It didn't feel odd that the blind man was leading you home. Though it probably looked that way.

You leaned your head against his shoulder, feeling his warmth radiating onto you. The night air was chilly, but his proximity was enough to keep you warm.

You could feel his muscles tense as a group of men passed by, their boisterous laughter filling the air. You couldn't see their faces, but you could sense their predatory stares on you. You shivered, feeling a wave of fear wash over you. Matt's grip on you tightened, and you felt his confidence seeping into you.

"Don't worry, sweetheart," he murmured into your ear. "I won't let anything happen to you."

As you walked, you felt the familiar landmarks around your apartment building. You could hear the sound of the breeze rustling through the trees and the soft hum of the street lamps illuminating your way.

The sound of your own breath was amplified, and you could feel your heart beating faster in your chest. You could only imagine what Matt could hear and sense too.

Finally, you arrived at the steps of your apartment building. Matt stills as you turn to walk inside causing you to stop in your tracks. Turning to him you reach out for his hand and he lets you take it into your own.

"Please come upstairs," You say, biting your lip. "I don't want to be alone tonight."

Matt's heart skipped a beat as he heard your request. But he couldn't let his desires get in the way of your well-being. As much as he wanted to be with you, he knew he had to be responsible.

"Sweetheart, are you sure that's what you want?" he asked, trying to hide the longing in his voice.

You nodded, leaning closer to him. "I'm sure. Please stay with me tonight. I need you."

Matt took a deep breath, trying to calm the storm inside him. He knew he had to put his own desires aside and think about your safety.

"Okay. I'll stay with you," he said his voice firm with resolve.

You smiled, relieved that he had agreed. You led him up the stairs to your apartment, fumbling with your keys to unlock the door. As you stepped inside, you felt a wave of dizziness. Matt caught your arm to steady your balance.

"Easy there," he murmured, and you leaned into him, letting the warmth of his body ground you.

You turned your head towards him, your lips inches away from his. You wanted nothing more than to press your mouth to his, to feel his lips against yours. Instead, you pressed a soft kiss to his cheek, feeling the roughness of his beard beneath your lips. You could feel the tension in his body ease at your touch, and a small smile tugged at the corners of his lips.

"Thanks, Matty, my knight in red armor." You slurred

He chuckles, that was a new one."I would do anything for you."

You made your way to the living room, collapsing on the couch and pulling Matt down beside you. You snuggled into him, your head resting on his chest as you listened to the steady thump of his heart.

The alcohol was making you tired, and you lifted your head to look into his sightless eyes. You traced your finger lightly over his lips, feeling the softness of them.

“I wish you could see me.”

Matt's face softened at your words. He knew you didn't mean them in a pitying way, but it still made him ache inside. Even with his heightened sense, he had to learn to see faces in a different way.

"But I can sense you," he said softly, his hand coming up to cup your cheek. "I can feel your heartbeat, your touch, your love. That's all I need."

"Thank you," you murmured, closing your eyes and letting yourself relax into his embrace. "You always know just what to say."

Matt smiled, his thumb stroking your cheekbone. "I just speak the truth, sweetheart."

You let out a soft sigh, feeling the tension in your body melt away. All the fuzziness in your mind was lulling you to sleep. He didn’t mind the drunken conversation. It could have been a lot worse than it was.

"I'm pretty sure I'm a size 8."

Matt stifles a laugh, "What for?"

"A ring, silly, I want you to know when you propose."

He knew he loved you, but the idea of marriage was a big step. He didn't want to rush things, but he also didn't want to lose you. He took a deep breath, his fingers playing with the ends of your hair.

"Sweetheart, I love you. More than anything in this world. And I promise you, when the time is right, I will propose to you. I just need to make sure I can give you everything you deserve."

You smiled, feeling a warmth spreading through your chest. "That's all I need to hear, Matty. I love you too."

You leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to his lips. It was gentle, yet filled with so much emotion. You pulled back, resting your forehead against his.

"Hold me just a little while longer, Matty."

Nodding, he pulls you close and wraps his arms around you. You felt safe in his embrace like nothing could hurt you.

He knew that he shouldn't be feeling this way, that it was wrong to want you in this way. But he couldn't help the way he felt. He had been in love with you for as long as he could remember, and being so close to you now was almost unbearable.

As he watched you sleep, he couldn't resist the urge to lean down and press a gentle kiss to your lips. It was a brief, chaste kiss, but it sent a shockwave through his body. He pulled back, feeling guilty for giving in to his desires.

It was just, he never had anything like this before. Someone to love, to come home to. Marriage scared him in all honesty. Maybe a little more than he'd like to admit.

But he couldn't deny the way his heart fluttered at the thought of spending the rest of his life with you.

He shifted slightly, trying to calm the storm inside him. He couldn't risk losing you, not when he had finally found someone who loved him for who he was, someone who didn't see his disability as a hindrance. Not that it was to any extent.

Where to even begin? He pressed a soft kiss to your forehead, feeling the warmth of your skin against his lips. His heart swelled with love for you, and he knew that he would do anything to keep you safe.

As he lay there, holding you in his arms, he made a silent promise to himself. He would do everything in his power to make you happy, to be the best partner he could be.

He closed his eyes, feeling the steady rise and fall of your chest against his. He took a deep breath, savoring the scent of your skin. Drifting to sleep himself, he began to dream of a life you both could share together.

The next morning, you woke up to the sound of birds chirping outside your window. You stretched, feeling the warmth of the sun on your skin. Looking towards the end of the couch, you noticed Matt was still asleep.

You smile to yourself, he looked at peace. Nothing bothering him at the moment. Getting up, you made your way to the kitchen to start some coffee, the sweet aroma filling up the room. As you sat at the table, sipping your coffee, you couldn't help but try and recollect the events of last night.

As if on cue, Matt walked into the kitchen, his hair still rumpled from sleep. He made his way to the table, pulled out a chair, and sat down across from you.

"Good morning," he said, his voice still gravelly with sleep.

"Good morning," you replied, smiling at him. "I'm glad I didn't scare you off."

He leaned forward, his hand reaching across the table to take yours. "Nothing can scare me off, if anything that's my job."

"How did you sleep?" You ask while taking a sip of your coffee. Noticing the lack of a cup in front of him, you get up to pour him a cup as well.

"Thanks," He says as you set the mug in front of him. "Not comfortably, but I wouldn't change it for the world."

You raise an eyebrow at him, curious. "Why's that?"

"Because I got to wake up next to you," he replies, a small smile tugging at the corners of his lips.

A warmth spreads through your chest at his words, and you feel your cheeks flush. "You're such a charmer, Matt."

He chuckles, taking a sip of his coffee. "I just say what's on my mind."

You spend the rest of the morning in comfortable silence, enjoying each other's company. As the day goes on, you both know that you have to face the real world again. But for now, you're content to just be with each other.

As you walk Matt to the door, he turns to face you, his hand coming up to cup your cheek. "I'm glad I got to make sure you were home safe last night."

"I know you would have made sure anyways," you reply, smiling up at him. He leans in, pressing a soft kiss to your lips. It's gentle but full of love. "Thank you for staying, I didn't want to be alone."

"I know, sweetheart," he says. "I'll always be here for you though. Both versions of me."

“Of course. I’ll take any version of you I can get.”

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theetherealbloom · 23 days ago

Text

NOTRE DAME - CH. 8

Chapter 8: We’re Nothing But Myths Now That Neither Of Us Believe In

Summary: In the rafters of Clinton Church, a mysterious reader with magic and the power of illusion manipulation silently watches over Matt Murdock, the blind vigilante known as Daredevil. As danger engulfs Hell's Kitchen, their unlikely friendship blossoms into a bond of trust and longing, intertwining their fates in a battle against darkness that tests their resolve. Will their connection illuminate a path to salvation in a city of darkness or lead them deeper into the abyss?

Paring: Matt Murdock x Fem!Reader

Warnings: Hurt to Comfort, ANGST, strangers-to-friends-to-lovers, Religion, Canon-Typical Violence, Fluff, Anxiety, PSTD, Nightmares, Catholic Guilt, Amnesia, Violence, Blood, Dark Undertones, Eventual SMUT, Shy Reader, Mentions of Abuse, Criminal Activities, Mobsters/Mafia, Character Death, Slowish Burn (I lied it’s a SLOW BURN), Disassociation, Magic, Superpowers, Insecurities, Guns, Bullets,

Word Count: 7.3k

A/N: WELCOME TO S2!!! I TOOK A LONG ASS BREAK FROM THIS STORY IM SORRY!! At some point, I got stuck and was so scared to keep writing… ANYWAYS “Started making it… had a breakdown… Bon Appetit. 🙂”

Song: Hurt by Sleeping At Last

Previous Chapter | Next Chapter | Series Masterlist | Main Masterlist

A FEW MONTHS LATER…

KAMAR-TAJ, NEPAL — SUNSET

"Again."

Your frustration boiled over as you let your hands fall to your sides, the faint shimmer of your magic fading into the morning air. With a heavy sigh, you cast an irritated glance skyward, then towards Ancient One's patient gaze meeting yours.

"Again," she repeated, her tone unwavering.

Months had passed since the apprehension of Wilson Fisk, yet your progress in mastering the art of teleportation remained agonizingly slow.

"What if I just throw myself off the temple?" you quipped, a trace of exasperation in your voice.

"Perhaps you should. Sometimes, the greatest lessons come from unexpected places," came the Ancient One's cryptic response.

You groaned audibly, clearly expressing how frustrated you were. "This is hopeless. We’ve been at this for months, and I can barely teleport across the courtyard."

"You need to focus. It's a miracle you didn't end up scattered across the multiverse on your first attempt at teleportation without a sling ring," the Ancient One remarked, her voice tinged with a blend of patience and admonishment.

Your eyes closed in frustration, a heavy sigh escaping your lips as you hung your head, shoulders weighed down by the burden of your struggles. Sensing your inner turmoil, the Ancient One regarded you with a penetrating gaze.

"Is this about Matthew?" she inquired, her tone gentle yet probing.

Your arms folded defensively across your chest, you shot her a guarded look. "I do not want to discuss my personal life with you," you retorted.

Undeterred, the Ancient One raised an eyebrow, prompting you to relent. With a resigned grimace, you approached and seated yourself beside her on the steps of the temple courtyard.

"I haven't told him yet," you admitted, the pressure of your unspoken truth evident in your troubled expression.

"And I'm terrified of what comes next. I have a feeling that our encounter with Fisk was merely the beginning of something far greater than any of us," you confessed, anxiety lacing your words.

The Ancient One regarded you with a pitying expression, her gaze fixed upon you as she spoke, her voice carrying an otherworldly resonance. "Prophet girl, anointed by the One Above All," she began, her words imbued with a sense of ancient wisdom. "Do you hear the gods muttering their faint starlight words? Destined daughter, muttering insanities no one believes,” she continued, her tone tinged with sorrow. "Do you regret taking the vow?"

Your jaw clicked with tension, but you remained silent, unable to muster a response. As the Ancient One turned to leave, her form blending seamlessly with the shifting rays of the setting sun, you were left alone with your thoughts. The golden hues of twilight painted the landscape, casting long shadows across the temple courtyard as the day drew to a close.

A WEEK LATER…

2624 BROADWAY, NEW YORK — EVENING

The golden portal sealed shut with a soft hum as you trudged through the alleyway, the cool air of the night enveloping you. Casting a cautious glance around, you found the dimly lit alley deserted except for a stray cat rummaging through a nearby dumpster.

Though you could have requested to be sent back to the church, you opted for a solitary stroll to clear your head, despite the lingering soreness in your muscles. With a resigned sigh, you rolled your shoulders back and stepped onto the bustling streets, seamlessly blending into the flow of pedestrians.

The silence was broken abruptly by the cracking sound of gunfire coming from behind you and a terrified cry from a lady. Whipping around, your senses heightened as you spotted a group of armed robbers clad in ski masks, each clutching a silver briefcase tightly in one hand and brandishing a gun in the other. Reacting instinctively, you extended your arm, swiftly maneuvering bystanders out of harm's way as the robbers barrelled past.

Moments later, the urgent wail of police sirens pierced the air, signaling the arrival of law enforcement. Two officers darted into view, hot on the heels of the fleeing robbers. Yet, before they could apprehend the criminals, a sudden gunshot rang out, causing one of the officers to stagger and fall to the ground.

Amid the chaos, you swiftly directed one of the bystanders, your voice firm and authoritative, as you dashed past them in pursuit of the fleeing robbers. "Call 911! And apply pressure on that wound!" you instructed urgently, your words punctuated by the urgency of the situation.

Navigating through the bustling streets with purposeful strides, you veered into a nearby alley, utilizing it as a shortcut. With a deft flick of your hand, you manipulated the fabric of your clothes, transforming them into a cloak that billowed around you as you emerged from the shadows. Spotting a police officer kneeling on the ground, vulnerable to the imminent threat posed by the robber's gun, you felt a surge of energy course through you.

With swift precision, you seized the assailant from the shadows, pulling him into the confines of the alleyway. The dim light cast eerie shadows across your features as you unleashed a flurry of strikes, each blow calculated and purposeful, momentarily subduing the robber.

However, your solitary vigilante act was short-lived, as the distinctive presence of Daredevil materialized beside you, his imposing figure radiating an aura of determination. With a fluid motion, he intervened, swiftly incapacitating the assailant with a decisive blow before turning his attention to the pursuit of the remaining robbers.

"I was wondering when you would show up," you remarked, your voice tinged with the subtle distortion of your powers. Daredevil's lips curled into a smirk, a hint of amusement dancing in his eyes as he regarded you.

"Missed me, angel?" he teased, his voice laced with a playful undertone.

Tilting your head slightly, you lowered your hood, revealing a fraction more of your face as you shrugged nonchalantly. "And if I did?" you countered, your tone laced with a hint of shyness.

His lips curled into a charming smile, a glint of mischief in his tone. "Then I'd have to kiss you," he quipped, his tone playful yet suggestive.

You responded with a playful roll of your eyes, a smirk playing at the corners of your lips. With a light bump of your hip against his, you teased, "Let's deal with these guys first, and then we can discuss dinner plans."

You and Daredevil dashed into the bustling kitchen of a Chinese restaurant, slipping through the backdoor with practiced ease. In perfect synchrony, you swiftly engaged the assailants, each movement calculated and precise. With a surge of power, you ignited your hands, the iridescent glow casting an ethereal light as you delivered a series of decisive blows, swiftly incapacitating your opponent and leaving them to the restaurant staff as they began to gang up on him.

You and Matt burst back onto the chaotic streets, a whirlwind of action and determination. Matt swiftly dealt with one of the robbers with a decisive blow, rendering him unconscious as you raced past. You spotted the final assailant, his grip tight around the arm of a woman conversing with her friends outside a building. Without hesitation, he dragged her hostage, disappearing into a nearby church.

You cast a glance at Matt, his breath heavy as he stands at your side, his red suit a stark contrast against the dimly lit alleyway. With his billy clubs gripped firmly in hand, he appears every bit the vigilante defender Hell's Kitchen has come to rely on. As you peer ahead at the imposing doors of the church, doubts gnaw at your resolve. How much longer could you maintain the facade? The fear of his disappointment weighs heavily on your mind, threatening to unravel the fragile balance between truth and secrecy.

You push aside the gnawing fear, burying it deep within as you trail behind the Devil's imposing figure into the solemn sanctuary of the church. With a swift strike, he shatters the light, the echo of glass breaking resonating through the sacred space. Gunshots ring out, a chaotic symphony of danger, as the robber unleashes a barrage of bullets, blindly firing into the darkness. But in the middle of all the turmoil, the flickering lights created an ethereal glow that highlighted the two of you standing guard at the door, your silhouettes a sharp contrast to the darkness.

Two shots pierce the air, but you and Matt evade them effortlessly, a dance of survival in the dimly lit church. With practiced precision, he swiftly disarms the robber, while you, with a gentle touch, render him unconscious, the power coursing through your fingertips quelling the threat. As the assailant falls, you offer a comforting squeeze to the girl's shoulder, a silent reassurance amidst the chaos. With a shared nod, you and Matt ascend to the rooftop, vanishing into the cover of night as the wails of police sirens herald their arrival.

PARK AVE & E 118TH ST, NEW YORK — DAY

"You ever wake up in the morning…" Foggy begins with a heavy sigh, his tone laden with fatigue. "From the second you get out of bed, it's like… every molecule in your body hurts?"

"No, never," Matt responds with a playful smirk, his hand resting on the crook of your arm as you guide him through the bustling streets, Foggy walking alongside.

"I'm in agony, dude," Foggy groans, eliciting chuckles from you and Matt alike.

Matt's smile widens. "What, did you go back to the gym?"

"Hell, no. Do I look capable of making healthy life choices?" Foggy retorts, prompting a raised eyebrow from Matt.

"Why am I even here?" you interject teasingly as you look between your two friends.

"Because you missed us.” Matt grins and then continues, “And you wanted to grab some supplies for the church by the store near the office, and you said you wanted to help in the office today after you heard about what had happened to Mrs. Almeida," Matt explains patiently.

"Oh, right, okay, gimme a sec, I’ll be right back," you reply, darting into the store to retrieve your items.

As you engage in conversation with the kind lady at the register, the voices of Matt and Foggy continue in the background, their discussion gradually fading into a distant murmur. Through the glass doors of the store, you catch glimpses of them still deep in conversation, their expressions earnest as they deliberate over matters that could range from Matt's nighttime activities to the recent client who sought refuge at Nelson & Murdock.

The name Zuly Almeida comes to mind, bringing back memories of the recent troubles that had shaken your workplace. Her desperate plea for help had come in the dead of night, her life dangling by a thread as she recounted the horrors of her situation. You had helped her find safety with Matt's help, recommending the shelter for battered women where you volunteered, only to learn of the news that he woke up in a hospital with two broken arms and a restraining order safety pinned to his chest.

Exiting the store with your paper bag in hand, you catch Foggy's smile directed at you, a warmth in his eyes mirrored by Matt's grin. You inquire, "What's going on?"

"Foggy's got me swearing on my life," Matt replies, his hand finding its familiar place on your arm.

"Don't mock me," Foggy retorts, his tone laced with playful seriousness, while Matt's chuckle punctuates the air as he forms a cross over his heart. "I swear."

"Alright, you guys need to get to work before Karen loses her mind," you agree, adjusting to the heaviness of the bag in your hand.

"Yeah, this heat's killing me," Foggy continues, sounding a little uncomfortable with the weather.

NELSON & MURDOCK ATTORNEY’S AT LAW OFFICE – MORNING

“Good morning, guys. You take the scenic route this morning?” Karen says while popping a hip out and you take note of the crowded waiting room in the office.

“Morning to you, too.”

“Morning, Karen.”

“I tried to make them walk faster.” You loudly whisper to Karen as you hand her a coffee and some croissants.

"Thank you, I appreciate you helping," Karen says, her smile warm and grateful. You return the smile, then turn to Matt and Foggy, a touch of humor in your voice.

"Alright, you're all fed and caffeinated," you say briskly. "I’ll take my leave now. I need to head over to the shelter and then stop by the DA’s office to sign and drop off some papers. I’ll catch you guys later."

You’re just about to turn when Karen calls out, "Wait!"

You pause, eyebrows raised as you meet her gaze. "Yeah?"

"Will you swing by Josie’s with us later? Grab a couple of drinks, maybe play some pool?" Karen asks, her expression hopeful. You glance at Foggy and Matt, who are both watching you expectantly, waiting for your reply.

You hesitate for a moment, juggling your commitments in your mind. "Uh… yeah, sure," you finally say with a smile. "I’ll see if I can swing by if nothing comes up."

Karen’s face lights up, and she lets out a little cheer. "Okay! Yes! Great, thank you!"

You wave them off with a quick goodbye, heading for the door. As you step outside, the cheerful chorus of farewells from your friends follows you, their voices muffled as the door swings shut behind you.

You linger in the hallway just outside the door, the soft hum of the fluorescent lights overhead filling the silence. Taking a deep breath, you let it settle into your lungs, grounding you. You try to collect your scattered thoughts, brushing off the creeping exhaustion that’s taken root in your bones.

After a moment, you turn, making your way down the narrow, dimly lit staircase. The wooden steps creak under your weight, each sound echoing off the walls, like a heartbeat reverberating in the quiet of the old building.

As you reach the bottom, your gaze catches on the worn, slightly faded sign mounted on the wall: Nelson and Murdock, Attorneys at Law. You feel a familiar pang, an ache in your chest that comes from memories and ties that run deeper than you sometimes care to admit.

You let out a slow, deliberate breath, steeling yourself as you reach out, brushing your fingers across the lettering. It’s a quiet promise to yourself—a way to remind yourself why you’re here, why you keep coming back despite the burden of secrets, the ever-growing distance between you and the people you care about.

Cut the costs, limit the feeling, you tell yourself. It’s become a mantra of sorts, a shield you wear to keep from getting hurt, to keep from hurting anyone else. And yet, standing here, it feels thinner than ever, as if one wrong move could tear it apart completely.

But you push that thought down, lock it away. There’s no room for weakness. Not here. Not now.

With one last glance at the sign, you straighten up and step out onto the bustling street, letting the noise of the city swallow you whole.

JOSIE’S BAR – EVENING

The bar’s packed, dim lights casting a hazy glow over the bustling crowd. Shots are passed around, laughter mingling with the sounds of clinking glasses. You’re standing by the pool table with Matt, Karen, and Foggy, the familiar warmth of camaraderie thick in the air.

Karen lines up her shot, her focus intense as she takes aim, the pool cue sliding through her fingers with practiced ease. The ball sinks into the pocket, and Matt chuckles, holding his beer close.

“See, I don’t know, that definitely sounded like cheating to me, Miss Page,” he says, his voice laced with a playful skepticism.

Foggy scoffs, gripping his own cue stick, a mischievous gleam in his eye. “Matt, are you sure we’re not being hustled here?” he stage-whispers, glancing at Karen with faux suspicion.

“As sure as Josie’s AC is busted,” Foggy adds, shrugging.

Right on cue, Josie appears with two pitchers of ice water, a smirk on her face as she overhears them. “What AC?” she snorts, setting the pitchers down with a thud.

Karen moves to grab one, but the three of you shout in unison, “Oh!”

Matt and Foggy quickly interject, words tumbling out in a rush.

“No, you don’t wanna do that,” Foggy warns, his tone almost grave.

“You can’t drink the water here,” Matt adds, an amused smile playing at his lips.

“Josie’s pipes… they’ve got issues,” Foggy continues, and Matt chimes in with a knowing nod. “Rust, mold.”

Foggy leans closer to peer into the pitcher, feigning horror. “I think I can actually see the bacteria floating in there.”

Karen pulls her hand back with a shudder, wrinkling her nose. “Oh, ew. Ew.”

Matt chuckles, taking a swig of his drink. “That’s why we keep our cocktails neat.”

You sip on your ginger ale, hiding a grin as Foggy laughs, “Just pretend you’re abroad, someplace exotic. No mojitos, though—Josie just throws mint in the beer.”

Matt’s laughter echoes softly, and then Foggy nudges you with his cue stick, raising his brows in mock anticipation. “Come on, your turn.”

You raise a skeptical eyebrow, holding up your hands. “I don’t know how to play.”

“Right,” Foggy sighs, smirking as he hands his cue to Matt. “Take over, buddy. I gotta hit the head. And don’t let her out of your four working senses. She’s as quick as she is beautiful.” He pauses, casting you a cheeky grin. “Reminds me of myself.”

Foggy ambles off to the bathroom, and as you stand between Matt and Karen, you notice the way she leans in close to him, her laughter soft and genuine. There’s a lightness in her expression, an ease that somehow feels like it belongs.

Something twists in your chest. You clear your throat, mumbling, “I’m gonna go grab another ginger ale… be right back.”

You weave through the crowd, slipping up to the bar, where Josie hands you a fresh ginger ale without a word, just a quick, knowing nod. Leaning on the bar, you steal a glance back toward the pool table, watching as Karen leans over, adjusting Matt’s grip on the cue stick. She’s laughing, he’s smiling, and there’s an undeniable spark that hangs between them.

“Aren’t they something to admire?” Josie murmurs over your shoulder, her voice low, and it takes all your willpower not to let the sting show.

You force a tight smile, nodding. “Yeah. They are.”

As you shift your weight, you accidentally bump into someone standing nearby—a man with shaggy blonde hair, a heavy coat clinging to his shoulders despite the stifling warmth in the bar. He looks like he’s been sweating bullets, and his gaze darts around, uneasy.

“Sorry,” you murmur, offering a quick nod.

He merely grunts in acknowledgment, his eyes flicking past you, but something about him feels… off. Years of working in shelters have taught you how to read people, and he wears the tension of someone with something to hide.

“Hey, you new around here?” you ask, giving him a careful once-over.

He swallows a sip of his drink before replying, voice low and gruff. “No, actually.”

Before you can press further, you feel a gentle yet firm grip on your elbow. Turning, you see Matt beside you, his face calm but his expression etched with a subtle concern that only you can read.

“You okay?” he asks, his hand lingering as if ready to pull you away.

You give him a reassuring nod. “Yeah, I’m fine. Just…” You glance back at the stranger, then decide to offer a word of caution. “Hey, it’s all right. Just letting you know, this place has good people. Lots of places a guy like you could drink. Just saying.”

The man shakes his head, a slight smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “It’s not what you think. I got business here. With Nelson and Murdock.”

Matt’s grip on your arm tightens, his posture shifting ever so slightly, like he’s readying himself for a confrontation. He subtly angles himself between you and the man, his body language protective, a silent barrier.

The man’s gaze slides to Matt, his eyes narrowing as he takes him in. “You must be the blind one,” he mutters, a hint of a sneer in his voice.

Matt’s expression doesn’t falter, his jaw set as he holds his ground, his presence an unspoken warning. You can feel the tension simmering between them, thick and charged, as the crowded bar fades into the background.

JOSIE'S BAR – NIGHT

The bar hums with low chatter and the clinking of glasses, but the quiet tension at your table cuts through it all. You, Matt, Foggy, Karen, and the stranger—sit in a tight circle, leaning in to hear his story, his voice rough and hurried, carrying the weight of something horrific.

“Fifteen men,” he says, looking each of you in the eye, his gaze darting from face to face. “Tough Irish. Armed. All of them blown away. It was a massacre. We weren't hit by any rival family there. I'm telling you, we were… hit by an army.”

Foggy raises an eyebrow, leaning back slightly as he holds his beer. “That’s quite the story,” he says, tone skeptical but edged with curiosity.

“It’s a fact.” His voice drops to a near growl, his hand clenching the edge of the table. “And believe me, you can go see for yourself. Burren Club, 47th and 10th. Can’t miss it. It’s the… part of New York that looks like a goddamn war zone.”

Karen leans forward, her eyes narrowing as she studies him. “What’s your involvement in their organization?” she asks, her voice steady, probing.

The stranger’s gaze shifts, a flicker of hesitation crossing his face. “Who are they?” he asks, eyeing both you and Karen with suspicion.

Foggy doesn’t miss a beat, his tone hardening. “Answer the question.”

The man sighs, seeming to deflate just a bit. “Brannigan. I’ve run with them for a long time. I don’t deny it. Pick-ups, drop-offs… sometimes doing things I shouldn’t be.” He rubs a hand over his face, guilt flickering in his eyes. “No question, I’m… I’m no choir boy. I’m tellin’ ya, I just skirt the surface. Unlike the men I work for, and the guys that did this. I’m telling ya, I had nothing to do with that massacre.”

You glance over at Matt, watching as he tilts his head, focusing in that subtle way he does when he’s listening more intently than anyone else at the table. After a moment, he gives a slight nod to Foggy, the confirmation unspoken but clear— he isn’t lying.

Matt leans in, his voice calm but firm. “Assuming you’re correct, and the Irish were hit by a powerful crime syndicate tonight… if you’re the only one who survived, your good fortune’s gonna rub some dangerous people the wrong way.”

He snorts, his expression a mix of fear and frustration. “No shit! I got a pack of killers gunning for my men. My people think I’m a traitor or a rat.”

Foggy nods slowly, tapping his fingers on the table. “So, what can Nelson and Murdock do for you, Mister…”

“Grotto,” he says, cutting in quickly. “Just Grotto.”

Matt’s brow arches, unimpressed. “Grotto what?”

“Just Grotto.” He sighs, his voice dropping, almost pleading. “Witness protection. You guys need to get me the hell out of here before I end up in the only place hotter than this… permanent.”

Matt shakes his head slightly. “We’re a private law firm,” he points out, though there’s a trace of sympathy in his tone.

“Yeah, but a trustworthy one. You got quite a reputation after you took out Wilson Fisk.” Grotto’s gaze shifts, desperation settling into his features.

Foggy sighs, shaking his head. “The DA’s office is the only place that can make a deal.”

Grotto’s jaw tightens. “Yeah, well, I’m not walking to the DA without representation. I know a lot. I’ve seen a lot. I’ll give the cops anything to get me out of Hell’s Kitchen.”

Matt’s expression hardens. “We have a reputation for representing the good people of Hell’s Kitchen, not for negotiating on behalf of career criminals.”

Grotto’s shoulders slump, and he casts a weary glance at each of you, his voice breaking just a little. “What if a criminal wants to… change his career? A second chance, that’s all I want. I know I’m only coming here with my word. I got nobody to vouch for me, but I can… barely cover your fee. But word is… that Nelson and Murdock put their faith in people. And I need a little of that right now.” His gaze turns pleading, desperate. “Please.”

There’s a moment of silence. Matt sighs, the tension in his expression softening slightly, and he shares a look with Foggy. Finally, Foggy nods, his voice firm but reluctant. “Lie low. We’ll look into it.”

Matt leans forward, his tone cautious. “You have somewhere you can stay?”

But before Grotto can respond, his face goes ghostly white. His hand trembles as it knocks against his glass, which slips from his grasp and shatters on the floor. In the same instant, his body slumps, collapsing to the ground with a heavy thud.

Instinct takes over, and you’re the first to move, rushing to his side. You kneel down, your fingers pressing against his neck as you check for a pulse. He’s clammy, unresponsive. Your hand brushes aside his coat, revealing a dark, wet stain spreading across his shirt—a wound, still bleeding.

“Guys, he’s bleeding,” you say, urgency sharp in your voice as you look up at the others. “Someone call 911.”

The world around you fades to the background as you work, your focus narrowing in on Grotto, who’s barely holding on. The bar’s noise, the patrons, everything else becomes a distant hum, your mind honing in on one thing—keeping him alive long enough to get help.

Matt, Karen, and Foggy exchange tense looks before Foggy fumbles for his phone, dialing with shaky fingers. Time feels like it’s slipping through your hands, each second marked by the faint, unsteady rhythm of Grotto’s heartbeat under your fingertips.

BURREN CLUB — NIGHT

The humid evening air clings to your skin as you, Matt, and Foggy make your way through the crowd gathered outside the Burren Club. The blue and red lights from NYPD cruisers flash, casting long shadows across the grim faces of onlookers. People crane their necks, desperate for answers, while the officers keep them at bay. You catch sight of Brett Mahoney by the police tape, managing the restless crowd. His expression is hard, tired, as he fields questions from civilians.

“The paramedics said he’s stable,” you say, wiping your sweaty palms on your jeans. Your voice is steady, but the adrenaline from earlier hasn’t fully faded. “They’re taking him to Metro-General Hospital. I told Karen to text me when he woke up.”

Just ahead, you hear a man’s frantic plea. “Hey, I just need to know if my brother’s in there!”

Brett shakes his head, holding his ground. “Step back, please. I’m sorry, sir, but I can’t answer that right now.”

Foggy lifts his hand, calling out, “Hey, Brett!”

Matt’s hand grips your arm as he maneuvers his cane with his other hand, letting you guide him around the clusters of people and the scattered debris. You glance at the scene unfolding before you—a forensics team combing through evidence, cops sectioning off the area, the dull murmur of a distressed crowd. The entire place is bathed in tension, thick as the heat that presses down on the night.

Brett turns to see you all approaching, and his expression barely softens. Foggy gives him a small shrug. “I would say it’s good to see you, but under the circumstances…”

Brett’s brow lifts, unimpressed. “Would you please step aside, sir?”

“We just have a couple of questions, Brett,” Matt says, his voice calm but purposeful.

Brett sighs, rolling his eyes. “If you’re here to chase ambulances, you might notice there are none.”

Foggy forces a casual chuckle, but his eyes stay sharp. “Any leads on what happened?”

Brett doesn’t give an inch. “Oh, you wanna know what went down? Read about it in the papers like everybody else.”

“We’re not everybody else, my man.” Foggy tries to lighten the mood, his attempt landing with an awkward chuckle.

Brett cocks an eyebrow, unimpressed. “Did you just say ‘my man’?”

Foggy looks mildly wounded but presses on. “All right, we get it. You can’t talk about an active crime scene. However… what if… hypothetically speaking… we may have recently acquired a new client that could help… shed some light on this investigation?”

Brett’s gaze sharpens, scrutinizing him. “How recent?”

“Farm fresh,” Foggy replies smoothly, a hint of a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth.

Brett’s lips twitch into something that might be amusement. “Was he here?”

Foggy shakes his head, giving him a diplomatic look. “Client privilege.”

Brett lets out a low chuckle, though there’s no humor in his eyes. “Well, uh, Mr. Nelson, if that was true… hypothetically speaking… I’d tell you that withholding your client from the NYPD would be obstructing governmental administration, and I’d probably just arrest your ass myself. In theory.”

You can’t help but arch a brow, smirking just a little as you reply, “Guess we really can’t help each other after all.”

Matt shifts closer to Brett, his voice dropping to a low murmur, almost lost in the ambient noise. “It’s over 100 degrees out here tonight, Sergeant. Why would an Irish mobster wear body armor to a private meeting inside his own club?”

Brett’s eyes widen just a fraction, momentarily thrown off balance. You can see him recalculating, a spark of realization glinting in his eyes. He shoots a warning look over his shoulder toward the bustling crime scene, then mutters to a nearby officer, “Hey, tell those guys to keep it down in there, or someone’s getting written up.”

He turns back to you, his stance shifting, the guarded walls dropping slightly. “I help you… you help me?”

Matt gives him a small, reassuring smile. “That’s all we want.”

Brett hesitates, glancing around before lowering his voice. “There’s a total clampdown on any of this getting out to the press. I’d like to keep it that way.”

“Brett… you can trust us,” Matt says, the sincerity in his tone carrying weight.

Foggy grins, attempting a charming smile. “We’re lawyers.”

Brett rolls his eyes but gestures for you all to follow him. “Come with me over here. Come on.”

He leads you past the police tape, around the perimeter of the crime scene, to a quieter corner near an NYPD vehicle. The flashing lights cast ominous shadows against the nearby walls, and as you step further into the restricted zone, the air feels heavier, thick with the secrets and violence that hang over Hell’s Kitchen.

The heat lingers in the air, thick and oppressive, pressing down on every breath you take. The faint sounds of sirens and agitated murmurs from nearby cops create a gritty symphony, underscoring the heavy tension surrounding the Burren Club. Brett's face is a hardened mask as he turns back to the three of you, lowering his voice just enough to keep this conversation from prying ears.

“DA's going batshit trying to figure it out,” he mutters, glancing around as though the very walls might betray him. “This isn’t the first hit that matches this MO. Call it massive gang-on-gang overkill. Downtown office thinks we got new players in Hell’s Kitchen, and whoever they are, we’re talking some kind of paramilitary-type organization with the training, knowledge, and hardware to take out half the city.”

You exchange a look with Matt and Foggy. The implications sink in, heavy and sharp. Whoever’s out there, they aren’t playing by the same rules as the usual scum in Hell’s Kitchen.

Matt, calm but intense, tilts his head in Brett’s direction. “What do they want?”

Brett exhales, the lines on his face deepening. “That’s what’s driving the DA nuts. We don’t know who they are. We just know who they’re not.”

Foggy gives a dry, humorless chuckle. “I’d say they’re definitely not fond of the Irish.”

Brett’s jaw tightens, his eyes steeling over as he nods. “You think?” His voice lowers, tone shifting to something darker, more personal. “Now, we got history, so I’ll tell you as a friend: stay out of this shit. If you got a witness, the smart move is to turn him over and walk away. Hell’s Kitchen is about to explode.”

With that, Brett gives one last look, something almost like a warning in his eyes, before he turns and walks back toward the swarm of uniforms, resuming his duties among the controlled chaos.

There’s a beat of silence as you, Matt, and Foggy stand there, absorbing Brett’s words.

Foggy breaks the silence with a faint grin. “Did you hear that? He called me friend.”

You roll your eyes playfully, giving him a nudge. “Try not to let it go to your head, Nelson.”

As the three of you start to walk away from the crime scene, the reality of what Brett said hangs in the air, dense and heavy. You lower your voice, casting a cautious glance around. “I told you guys this morning that I was gonna swing by the DA’s office. When I was there, it was… busy as hell. People working overtime on some case. Couldn’t get all the details, but one of the biker gangs—Dogs of Hell—they were hit too.”

Matt’s brow furrows, his expression contemplative as he processes the information. Foggy’s face reflects a mixture of confusion and worry, the wheels turning as he tries to piece it all together.

Before you can say more, a buzz from your pocket snaps you back to the present. You pull out your phone, glancing at the lock screen to see a text from Karen. It’s brief, but urgent.

You bite your lip, the weight of it all sinking in as a sudden tension tightens your chest. “I gotta go,” you mutter, slipping your phone back into your pocket and taking a few steps back. “Grotto just woke up.”

Foggy’s eyebrows shoot up in surprise, worry flickering across his face as he realizes what that could mean. “Hey! You be careful, alright?” His voice is firm, an edge of protectiveness lacing his words as he watches you turn to go.

Beside him, Matt’s grip on his cane tightens. His fingers curl around it, knuckles turning white, as though holding himself back. He stands silent, but the way he angles his head, listening, tells you everything. You can practically feel his attention zeroing in on the situation, calculating, strategizing. You know him well enough to understand that he’ll be up all night, digging for answers in his own way, likely stalking rooftops and alleyways before dawn even thinks of breaking.

You meet Matt’s gaze behind his lenses for just a heartbeat, exchanging a look of silent understanding. A small, knowing smile touches your lips as you nod. “You too.”

And with that, you turn and disappear into the night, leaving Foggy and Matt behind in the wash of streetlight and shadow. As you walk away, you can feel their eyes on your back, both of them watching, each in their own way, knowing that you’re all stepping into something none of you fully understand yet—but can’t walk away from.

METRO-GENERAL HOSPITAL — EVENING

The fluorescent lights hum softly in the quiet hallway as you approach Grotto’s room. You knock lightly, almost hesitant, and after a moment, the door cracks open to reveal Karen’s face. She offers a quick, tense smile and steps aside, letting you slip into the dimly lit room. She shuts the door behind you, sealing the three of you in this small, sterile pocket of safety—for now.

You exhale slowly, steadying yourself as your eyes settle on Grotto. He’s lying in the hospital bed, looking more irritated than wounded, though the medical equipment surrounding him says otherwise. Wires and tubes attach him to various monitors, which beep softly, a reminder of his fragility despite the rough edge in his glare.

Karen steps closer, her voice barely above a whisper as she updates you. “Bottle sliced through his flesh. Multiple lacerations into the muscle, but no vessel damage.” She glances at Grotto with a mixture of relief and amazement. “Nothing that a few weeks of physical therapy can’t cure. It’s… exactly as you said.”

You pull the chart from the foot of the bed, scanning over the notes with a practiced eye. Grotto’s file confirms what Karen just told you. Bruised but alive, and somehow, still intact despite the hell he walked through. You smirk, setting the chart back as you mutter, “Well, I’ll be damned, ‘Steve.’ Got real fuckin’ lucky.”

Grotto glares at you, irritation flashing in his eyes. He shifts in bed, wincing slightly as he adjusts against the pillows, his voice a low, rough grumble. “It’s not safe for either of you to be here.”

You cross your arms, raising an eyebrow, meeting his defiant stare with a calm resolve. “We’ll manage.”

A flicker of something—fear, maybe regret—crosses his face, but he quickly masks it, casting his gaze out toward the window where the night stretches dark and endless beyond the glass. Karen looks between the two of you, worry etched into her features, but she stays silent.

The room’s tense silence is shattered by a shrill scream echoing from the hallway. You and Karen freeze, your heads snapping toward the door, the distant sound of chaos prickling down your spine.

“Oh, God,” Grotto mutters, his voice low and laced with terror. He clenches his fists, his face pale. “What was that?”

Karen glances at him, alarm widening her eyes. “What’s going on?”

Grotto’s gaze darts between you both, panic setting in. “No, no, no, no, no,” he hisses. “Someone's come to finish the job. Shit.”

Karen takes a step toward the door, but you hold up a hand, stopping her. “Shh! Don’t move,” you whisper sharply, placing a hand against her shoulder to keep her back.

But Grotto is already unhooking himself from his IV line, the heart monitor beeping wildly as he yanks the wires away. “No, to hell with that,” he mutters, adrenaline overtaking fear.

You edge closer to the door, cracking it open just enough to get a glimpse of the hallway. Your heart races as you spot a figure moving through the chaos—a man, bulky, gripping a shotgun. His face is shadowed, but his intentions are clear as terrified hospital staff scatter, screaming, desperate to escape his path.

You whirl back around, your voice urgent. “We gotta go. Now.”

Karen grabs Grotto by the arm, and together, you three bolt out of the room, slipping into the flow of fleeing doctors and patients. Karen leads the way, practically dragging Grotto, who’s stumbling along, while you bring up the rear. The shotgun’s blast rings out again, deafening, tearing through the air as people scatter in panic, and Karen lets out a startled yelp, shoving her way toward the stairwell with the assailant close behind.

The three of you burst through the stairwell door, taking the steps two at a time, adrenaline propelling you forward as the sounds of gunfire and shouting echo above. Reaching the ground floor, you push your way outside, lungs burning. Karen fumbles with her keys as you spot a parked car nearby.

“What? You… You don’t have the right keys?” Grotto yells, a note of hysteria creeping into his voice.

“Shut up! Shut up!” Karen snaps, frustration flashing across her face. Grotto’s eyes widen in disbelief.

“Is this even your car?”

Karen shoots him a withering look, unlocking the door with a quick flick. “Belonged to a friend.”

“Where’s he?” Grotto demands.

Karen doesn’t miss a beat. “He’s dead.” She yanks the door open, gesturing to the passenger seat. “Get in!”

But you’re already moving, shoving Grotto into the passenger seat and slamming the door shut. Without a second thought, you bolt to the driver’s side, your voice low and firm as you lean in through the open window. “I’ll meet you at the precinct. Go!”

Karen calls out your name, worry flashing in her eyes, but you’re already sprinting toward the nearest alley. She curses under her breath, hitting the gas and disappearing into the night. The distant roar of her engine fades as you duck into the shadows, feeling the energy course through your veins. You close your eyes, letting the familiar glow shimmer over your skin as you pull your mask and suit into place.

With a deep breath, you focus, teleporting yourself up to the rooftop of the hospital. The world blurs for a moment, and then you’re there, the wind whipping against your face as you land. Your hunch was right—the assailant is crouched on the roof, sniper rifle aimed at the street below, ready to take the shot.

“Hey!” you call out, your voice slicing through the night air like a blade.

The man’s head snaps toward you, eyes narrowing as he quickly raises his weapon, aiming straight at you. But before he can pull the trigger, a dark figure swoops in from the shadows. Daredevil, silent and precise, lands a brutal kick to the shooter’s head, knocking him back. The assailant stumbles, but he’s far from finished.

You dart forward, instincts flaring, but keeping your power in check. Every move feels calculated, the electricity pulsing at your fingertips, begging to be unleashed. The shooter swings at Daredevil, and Matt ducks, his movements fluid, barely missing a beat. You try to find an opening, heart pounding, adrenaline coursing through your veins.

The assailant shifts, pulling a pistol from his side, aiming point-blank at Daredevil. There’s a flash, the sound of the gunshot cutting through the night. "Bang."

Time slows as you watch in horror. Matt’s head snaps back, his body teetering dangerously at the edge of the rooftop. You scream out but he’s already falling, the darkened streets below yawning open to swallow him whole.

Without thinking, you dive after him, launching yourself over the edge, arms outstretched as you chase the falling figure through the night air. The wind whips past, cold and unforgiving, as you reach out, fingers brushing against his chestplate just as the ground rushes up to meet you both.

TAGLIST: @scoliobean @thychuvaluswife @pantrashtic @ofmusesandsecrets @c-losur3 @coco-karfunkel @lunaticgurly @loves0phelia @theclassicvinyldragon @iusedtofloat @megara0224

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petertingle-yipyip · 1 year ago

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mad at god (season 3) - matt murdock

season 1 // season 2 // season 2b // punisher spin-off

pairings: dex x livia, matt x livia, daredevil x exodus

summary: round and round she goes. just when she feels her life is on track and her emotions can occur without her own interference, her old enemy of Wilson Fisk begins to play games. Forced to choose between new friends and old, play the part or stand alone, life or death, things become as dangerous as they’ve ever been.

(1) house of memories: Times have changed since Midland Circle, so has Livia. As she attempts to move forward, relationships are strained and circumstances are less than favorable. Can she cope on her own or will she fall back into old habits?

(2) all around me: Looped back in, Livia has to make sure she holds on to what is starting to matter again. With rumors swirling of a copycat Mask, that grip gets desperately tighter.

(3) memories - Bridges burned and opportunity lost. Day by day the game against Fisk shifts more in his favor. How can Livia fight back, protect her friends, and keep her career all at the same time?

(4) lavender haze - Betrayal and reunions. For Exodus, seems one can’t exist without the other. All relationships are tested when it all turns into something bigger.

(5) aimed to kill - Pages turn and bridges burn as Ex realizes the extent that she’s behind. When sentiment thrives amongst the chaos between her and her first love, question becomes whether they can fix their hearts with the lips that have left scars on each other.

(6) lover of mine - The constant circles and playing different parts grows more and more dizzying as events continue to unfold. Alliances tested and lives endangered, Ex and The Man in the Mask take a stand against the new Daredevil.

(7) as the world caves in - What feels like the final night alive, recovering from Dex’s latest attack feels almost impossible while trying to save everyone. The world continues to cave in around Ex while subconsciously adopting Matt’s old moral code, finding light in the dark.

(8) im not sorry -Moves and countermoves. The cat and mouse game nearly draws to a close as Nelson and Murdock reunite in a last ditch effort to finish things from the right side of the law.

(9) vigilante shit - Ladies always rise above but when one lady’s simply had enough, revenge takes human form in Hell’s Kitchen’s Exodus. With her rightful partner beside her, they take on the Kingpin and his former Bullseye.

Epilogue - all i wanted - Speaking from the heart, a good man is laid to rest and good friends are reunited. Plans for the future are scribbled on a new napkin and everything seems like it’ll be okay.

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allllium · 2 months ago

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y'all what nickname do you think Matt would use with a partner?

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writingfics-passingtime · 2 years ago

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Off the Record (Part 3/3)

Synopsis: The clock is running out and the leads are going cold. Desperate to expose the truth, you, Nelson, Murdock, and Daredevil hatch a dangerous plan.

Required reading: Part 1 - Part 2

Word Count: 22,000

CW: swearing, innuendo, murder, injury, assault (not sexual), mentions of crimes against children (not sexual), abusive marriage, mentions of suicide, making out

Author’s Note: There are over 70,000 words in this story, and it’s finally done. Thank you for sticking with me. I hope you like the end as much as I do. Not beta-read, all mistakes are mine.

Several dozen white roses had been paraded through your office on a fateful Monday morning, and they had long since wilted. The crisp, snowy petals lived out the remainder of their beauty in an old beat up dumpster beside your office building.

It was now five weeks since the Reynolds article printed and it had mostly been buried. Sure, it was the buzz of the journalism community… for a week or so… until the Avengers blew up Sokovia and created a massive refugee crisis that The Stark Foundation was scrambling to rectify. Vera had just handed over Stark Watch to the next person on the list, an old guard named Manny who thrived on superhuman drama, so she escaped relatively unscathed.

You? You were just happy to get the promise of a year-end bonus and for all the Reynolds gossip to get overshadowed; it was much easier to investigate when people weren’t thinking about him.

However, five weeks on, you were running out of leads, and running out of reasons to talk to Murdock.

Once or twice a week you’d meet in person, usually at his office. Keeping him at an arms length was becoming easier and that was its own special kind of grief. Not one you’d really processed. You’d stopped asking about the cuts and bruises on his fists and lips after he’d brushed it aside the first couple of times. He seemed so blasé about so much and you tried not to feel hurt when he’d dodge a question. On lonelier nights, you let yourself imagine that it was simply the distance being too much for him too.

He was still like the first sip of coffee on a rainy morning.

Still, he was something you looked forward to. Something you craved. Murdock, with eyes like fresh new earth and a gaze that saw straight through you. His touch, now almost always accidental, still felt like galaxies colliding under your skin.

He was still here.

It didn’t take long for you to realise that you hadn’t withdrawn completely. There may well be a line in the sand but you hadn’t quite commanded the retreat. Instead you stayed in the ring, circling each other, wondering who would duck under the ropes first. You didn’t know. All you knew is that the struggle between you wasn’t the one blooming dark purple hues behind his glasses.

You didn’t like the unsteady ground. How you knew he could read your unsaid frustration in your foot’s idle tap against the couch in his office, and then in how you would consciously stop it. How you’d sometimes hesitate when he asked if he should order dinner. Now, five weeks on, you’d stopped staying for dinner. There wasn’t enough new information to talk through to justify staying.

But you were still here.

Maybe you needed a vacation. Somewhere warm, like Cancun. Or fucking Venus.

Ophelia’s End was sitting in a long-term storage locker an hour out of town. It cost an arm and leg to move but you needed it gone. The key to the unit was bright red so you had to take it off your keychain and hide it in a drawer because every time you saw it you were reminded of everything you still didn’t know.

At least Harold Avery made bail for the bodega fire. The cops either thought he did it, or they were just desperate to be tougher on crime. Either way, the state was handing out indictments like Halloween candy and Avery’s charges were going to trial.

And Reynolds? Radio silence.

Reality hung over you like an impending storm, making the air thick and muggy but not giving you any sort of relief. A droplet. Anything. Just one hint in the right direction was all you needed. But Reynolds’ charitable accounts were public and clean, all the schools and customer service lines associated with his charity were friendly and scripted. Too friendly and too scripted, mind you, and the sort that felt impenetrable.

So now, five weeks on, you finally admitted to yourself that ego was no friend.

It was time to ask for help from a real one.

Trying hard to not drudge through the doorway, you eased into a break room chair next to Vera as she scrolled on her phone and nursed a peppermint tea. She didn’t look up.

“Okay,” you sighed.

"Okay, what?" She let out a curt breath through her nose, lips ever-so pursed, eyes fixed to her phone. "Okay, you've decided what you want for lunch or okay, you're finally going to tell me what's been bothering you for the past month and a half.”

"Vera-"

"Don't Vera me," she snipped. You deserved it. You hadn't been the greatest friend while being so consumed by... well, everything. Even so, she tapped a button and her screen became a black mirror. "You've been off."

"I know."

"Is it a man?

"A few, in fact."

She raised an eyebrow at that, but there was no smile in her glance so you sighed and digressed. “Reynolds is a snake in the grass. And there’s no proof.”

“What do you need?”

“A lead,” you leaned forward and held your forehead against both palms, releasing the tension of keeping this inside for so long. The pressure mounted behind your eyes and you swore under your breath, desperately not wanting to cry but the sleepless nights were adding up.

A gentle touch met your forearm. “How can I help?”

You sniffed, thankfully holding in the tears, and clasped your hands on the table in front of you. You looked at your fingers, intertwined to ward off fidgeting, not bearing to look up at your friend when you knew your eyes would have the beginnings of glassiness Vera would pick up on.

“You don’t know anyone in Haiti, do you?” You almost laughed, albeit bitterly, because it was such a long shot that-

“I do, actually.”

Angels may as well have been singing in the room. Not caring about your reputation, you looked her dead in the eye in a beg for her to continue. “A guy I went to college with. Jorge… something, I can’t remember his last name, but we’re definitely still connected on socials. He works for an NGO based out of Port-au-Prince.”

“Vera,” you all but gasped and reached out for her, catching her forearm, tangling you two together. “Please, I need to talk to him now.”

“Sure,” she nodded, but her face contorted into something worried, something in conflict. “Right after you tell me what’s going on.”

Information for information. It was a trade made often enough to not be unexpected but it still felt hard when it came to this. You knew it wasn’t healthy to keep it all in like you had been. So you nodded and sat back in your seat.

Where to begin? Where did this mess start?

You could start with Avery, the bodega fire, the gala, the Thai food and faded basketball shorts. Murdock’s hands and the safety of his touch. How it opened your heart, your mind, dulled your sensibilities. How he unwittingly left you prone for Reynolds. How desperately you wanted to shut yourself off, for nothing to reach so far inside your heart and mind and sensibilities ever again.

Right now, all you wanted to do was call Jorge with the forgotten last name and ask if he knew anything. To see if people down there were suspicious. Maybe you’d have to go down there yourself.

But for now, you looked over your shoulder to make sure you two were alone in the break room. Then, you hung your head and sighed again.

“Remember that guy who I said was too good?”

She nodded. “Let me guess, too good to be true?”

The grief of the Almost hit you like a thunderclap, striking hard across your chest, sending a surge of numb resignation coursing through your skin and bones. You shook your head and bit down hard on the side of your tongue in an effort to stop the tears before realising you were too full of static to cry in that moment. At least that was a corner of respite in this whole situation. Even talking about him you felt prone, vulnerable, it was too much and not enough all at once.

“No,” you croaked out and then cleared your throat. “He’s every bit as good as I thought when I met him for the first time. Briefly, two years ago, outside a court in mid-town,” you admitted. You’d been thinking a lot about that day, recently. Maybe it was some last-ditch effort to hold onto memories of him as you drifted and let life pull you apart. Still, it’d been on your mind. “He’s a defence attorney.”

A kaleidoscope of memories flashed across your mind, bringing a sad half-smile to your lips. As quickly as it came, it went, and you felt your face screw into something uncomfortable.

“I’m in the thick of it, V,” you sniffed again. “Can we talk when this Reynolds thing is done? I promise I’ll tell you everything over an expensive bottle of red and-”

“Of course,” she ducked her head to catch your eye, so you looked at her, still feeling numb but now feeling the very real threat of tears. She picked up her phone, “Let me get you Jorge’s number.”

“Thank you,” you whispered, nodding, looking back at your lap.

“Don’t cry here.” Her advice was firm and kind; she knew the sharks were circling. They always were in a place like this.

“I won’t,” you blinked them back, then saw your phone light up with a shared contact from Vera. “Thank you,” you said again and stood. Before it could get too awkward and emotional, you left the room, retreating to your office with a call already outgoing to Jorge’s number.

Jorge Estrada worked for an NGO based in Haiti’s capital, focused on rebuilding and strengthening the city’s infrastructure as they faced increasingly intense climate and weather events. Jorge was in charge of marketing, communications, finding funding, the like, and you were convinced he was your lifeline.

He didn’t seem at all surprised to hear that someone thought a charity was up to something shady in that part of the world. “You’d be surprised how hard it is to get things done,” he’d told you, “Even though the whole island’s at stake, corruption and cartel violence regularly gets in the way of us helping people.” Jorge also quickly dismissed the idea of you visiting by rattling off several names of journalists who were never seen alive again after poking around in all the corruption business.

While on the phone, you sent him a dossier on all of Reynolds’ known activities in Haiti, and talked about your conversations with the charity offices. He said he’d do some subtle digging, shielded by the local relationships he’d formed, and get back to you when he could.

Seriously. A lifeline.

Filled with a renewed energy, you typed notes from your call with Jorge, already thinking of a thousand more questions you had when you and he talked next. You were so engrossed in the work that you almost missed it when your phone lit up with a text.

In fact, you did miss the first time it happened. And the second.

Thankfully, Jonah was a triple-text kind of guy.

GUESS WHAT?!

GUESS WHO’S COMING IN TODAY?!?!

TAKE ONE GUESS

The shock of the out-of-the-blue message forced you to your feet, snatching your phone in your hand. You tried calling Jonah but he declined it after one ring. The slacker must be in a meeting. You typed as fast as your fingers would let you.

Izzy Reynolds

BITCH YES

When?

2. She has a meeting with my dad.

Jonah… I love you.

I’m taken.

You scoffed a laugh and checked the time. 1:34pm. There was time to talk to Murdock. Time to tell him the events of the morning.

With your thumb hovering over his name, you made the impulsive decision to click your screen to black and do this on your own. It felt like an important first step, considering the circumstances between you and him. Or maybe it was an excuse to talk to him more later. To have more to say, to have a reason to stay for dinner.

Almost on autopilot, you grabbed your coat and made your way down to the lobby to wait for Izzy.

The towering ceilings of the downtown building always seemed like an unnecessary waste of space but added a sense of looming power to the structure. Besides, the lobby wasn’t to be enjoyed - if it was, the couches would be more comfortable - instead, it was to make an impression; the people here have money to spend. They can burn the cubic feet of central New York real estate and fill it with modern chandeliers that matched the blocky backless leather couches dotted around the swirling marbled floors.

It always echoed so intensely, it was hard to get a quiet thought in here. Hell, you’d had no time to prepare. You had no idea what you were going to ask, or whether or not you’d even get the chance to be alone with her.

You pretended to take a call while you scanned the room for the form and face of one of New York’s most in-demand models. If you timed it right, you’d finesse your way onto the same elevator as Izzy Reynolds made her way to the top floors for a meeting with her financial advisors.

As two o’clock approached, heads began to turn.

A tall, slender woman walked confidently through the lobby, ignoring all the stares and whispers she was sure to be used to. Her porcelain skin, a trademark feature, practically glowed in a way you didn’t think was possible in a building like this. Her hair, currently platinum blonde and impossibly long, moved and shimmered along with everything about her.

Izzy had dressed for the occasion, in a white tailored pantsuit and a black leather bag you were pretty sure was made just for her. At least, one of the articles you’d read had mentioned something about Gucci’s new creative director using her as a muse. Her dark brown, almost black, doe eyes were hidden behind large-framed sunglasses.

Not wanting to waste a second, you stood still and kept the phone to your ear, trying to look as casual as possible as you matched her step towards the security desk. If you called an elevator while she was being cleared, she might trust the look of you enough to get on the same lift with you. I mean, it’s not like you looked at all threatening… right?

With tunnel vision, you set out towards the elevators. The blood rushed around your ears, the breath shallow in your chest as you made sure to not look too hard at one of the best leads you’d had in weeks.

Within feet of Izzy, you mumbled some nonsense into your phone about “billable hours” or some other bullshit, and tapped your keycard against the sliding gate.

You stepped past security just seconds before Izzy.

She was alone.

You continued on and called the elevator.

After “hanging up” the phone your eyes slid to the chrome double doors, two steps to your left, that had immediately opened. Without looking in Izzy’s direction, you walked over and stepped inside. She followed.

She fucking followed!

Your heart beat a mile a minute. You pressed your floor button, and she pressed hers on the keypad on the other side of the elevator and then slotted her sunglasses into a case she’d pulled out of her purse.

The doors closed at a pace you were convinced was a thousand times slower than usual.

Close. Fucking close, you urged it silently, begging the universe and Murdock’s god that no one would ruin this. They slid closed, your heart all but stopped, waiting to see if anyone would catch the second or two of delay and crush every dream you’d formed in the past half an hour.

But they stayed shut. And the elevator started moving.

There wasn’t a second to waste.

You turned, without a hint of wavering in your voice.

“Izzy, I need to talk to you.”

She was intimidatingly tall, almost all tall as her ex-husband, her stare intense as it met yours with a sort of ice you hadn’t been anticipating. Annoyance, you’d maybe thought, but not hatred. Her dark brown eyes held no warmth towards you as her ruby lips curled into a sneer. “Tell Arthur to fuck off,” she seethed, turning to face you to bear her height over yours. “I haven’t talked to any journalist and he has no right to-”

“I’m a journalist,” you interrupted, realising what was going on. “I think that’s me he’s talking about- please,” you held out your hands to calm her, watching as her expression quickly changed from anger, to realisation, to fear.

“Stop,” she whispered. “You have no idea what he’ll do if he thinks I talked to you. I can’t- I can’t do this,” she shook her head. “Not right now. I can’t risk it with him leaving so soon, he might-…”

“He’s leaving?”

“To London,” she snipped. “In like, a week. He…”

“And he’s threatening to take Malcolm with him, isn’t he?” You let your voice fall. Her eyes flashed in fear and you nodded. “I know about Malcolm. Izzy, he doesn’t want you to talk to me because he knows I’ll believe you. Whatever you say, I’ll believe you.”

“How could I even help you?” She choked out, looking up and around the elevator for cameras. They were hidden. She wouldn’t see them, which felt unfair. “He never let me in on his business.”

“Anything,” you breathed out, dropping your hands. Your floor was approaching. “A name, a word, anything I can look into.” She shifted uncomfortably so you risked it: “That little nagging thing that just popped into your head? That’s the thing you should tell me.”

The elevator began to slow for your floor. You pled with your gaze, knowing you were asking her to risk too much for someone she’d never met. But maybe Reynolds telling her to keep her mouth shut would work against him. Maybe he showed his hand, and maybe, just maybe, she’d have a little faith in the woman who rattled the man she so clearly hated.

She winced and looked up, then looked back at you with a level stare. “OneWorld.” She seemed close to tears of anxiety but she held them back. “He was only ever nervous about OneWorld.”

You nodded and didn’t patronise her with a smile as the doors opened to your floor. “Thank you,” you mouthed and stepped off the elevator. The second your feet met solid ground you heard her hit out at the button to close the doors. You turned back, and saw only resignation and regret. There was no hope in her eyes.

She set her jaw, steeled her glare, and spoke her final words to you:

“Never contact me again.”

The door then closed on the most beautiful woman you’d ever seen.

Less than ten minutes after the doors closed on Izzy you’d bundled up your laptop, notebook, all the extras, and jumped in a yellow taxi to Hell’s Kitchen.

You genuinely had no idea if Murdock would even be at his office. He could be in court for all you knew, but there’d been nothing for weeks and now there was something, and he was the only person you wanted to talk about it with. He was the only one who would understand how this puzzle piece would be a hit straight to your vein, how you’d surge with determination.

After all, he could hear the passion in your voice. He’d said as much, one of those late nights when the only thing keeping you on opposite sides of the room were the open blinds and the contract you’d signed.

Neither of you had dared to dipped a toe into the no one would have to know conversation. You knew it would be too tempting, or maybe because you knew you’d never risk it and there was no use torturing yourselves with the very thought. But damn him, if every word he spoke wasn’t an invitation to step into his space, and if every thoughtful tilt of his head didn’t make you want to kiss the exposed skin above his collar.

You had that, at least. The fantasies, memories, the whirlpool of daydreams and the reprieve of an overactive imagination… bzzt!

The phone in your pocket vibrated harshly, making you jump and blush at the thoughts you were getting lost in. It was Jorge.

“Hey, already?” You answered the phone, taking care to sound impressed.

“You’re not gonna believe this,” he was breathless. You sat up a little straighter. “I just left the OneWorld office. You’re right; there’s definitely something shady goin’ on.”

“Tell me everything.”

Though the phone you heard the closing of his car door, the click of his seatbelt and the start of an engine while he relayed his experience. “Said I was in the neighbourhood and had been meaning to stop by to see how we’d go about sourcing our volunteers through their services, yadda-yadda. The woman on the desk freaked. Said I couldn’t be there without an appointment and told me to leave.”

“And did you?”

“Well the armed security made it a pretty easy decision,” he chuckled. You smiled, understanding why Vera was friends with this guy. “But look, four years down here and I’ve never had an interaction like that with a non-profit.”

“Yeah, that’s shady,” you agreed, and then paid your cab driver with a quick thank-you.

As you exited the car, Jorge dropped the bomb.

“That’s not all.”

Now, he sounded unsteady.

You adjusted the bag on your shoulder and looked up at the concrete steps, eyes landing on the plaque that held Murdock’s name. The waver in Jorge’s voice turned your tongue to cotton.

"What happened?"

You. Matt's ear prickled, and he twitched at the familiar sound of your voice coming through a sliver of open window. You were here. Around, downstairs, in front of the building.

A subtly as they could, his fingers found the time indicators on his accessible watch. Foggy shifted next to him while their client slowed their words for the tail-end of their sentence. Shit. He'd been seen checking the time. But you were here. Unannounced.

You listened intently as Jorge told you what he thought he saw, and your mouth fizzed into an excited smile. More clues, more pieces of the puzzle, more mess Reynolds left behind.

"Be careful, will you?" You wished him well after thanking him profusely and promising to call if you had any more information to share.

He promised the same and vowed he'd watch his back. "And, hey, you too," his voice turned solemn. "If these guys are who I think they are, you're not in the clear just because you work on the Upper East Side."

You chuckled once, bitterly, remembering the death of Ophelia splayed across your bedroom wall. "Believe me, I know."

Who were you talking to? Matt couldn't make out the voice on the other side of the phone but he could hear you approaching. Your shoes tracking down the hallway, the melodic clink of keys in your purse, your hand on the doorknob, Karen's shift upwards to greet you, your insistence that you needed him right away. His heart drummed along. After all this time, you still came here.

You, with the fire in your belly and the laugh like a Saturday sunset. With the touch so precise and longing, the scent of orange blossom lingering against the pulse point below your ear, with an intoxicating steady breath that made him forget his own name.

"Matt?"

"Hmm?"

Foggy's voice turned his attention back towards the client and he suddenly realised he'd been zoned out during something that was probably important. "I'm very sorry, Mr Smythe, I have another client meeting I've just remembered," he stood and buttoned his jacket before making a show of reaching around for his cane, and cracked an apologetic grimace. "I sometimes have a hard time noticing things on my calendar, you understand."

"O-of course," Mr Smythe clearly didn't feel like he was allowed to be annoyed. Foggy, on the other hand... Matt cringed internally and apologised once more before ducking out of the room, sure to be read the riot act by his business partner the second Smythe was gone.

Matt entered the main room and closed Foggy's office door behind him just as Karen was explaining that the attorneys had a busy afternoon. "Karen," Matt soothed with an outstretched hand. Two heads turned towards him with remarkably similar tension. "It's alright." That outstretched hand then smoothed down his tie, making sure it had found its way inside the jacket when he had hastily buttoned it up. "It's the middle of the day," Matt said just loud enough for you both to hear. "You must have something."

You watched that eager, desperate lick of his lips. By his god, he wanted you to have something so bad. For the first time, you considered he might want this almost as much as you do.

"I do," you confirm with a small nod and a meaningful look at Karen. "I got two sources today. Both highly credible."

"Who?"

With a firm shake of your head in a resolute no, you said, "You know I can't tell you that."

"Attorney-client privilege," Matt reminded you.

"Not with me," Karen piped up, and you half-smiled.

"She's right," you started, "But I'm not telling you either.” He opened his mouth to protest so you finished, “I don’t roll on sources, Murdock. You're gonna have to trust me." …For once, swelled bitterly on the tip of your tongue. But you held it in.

His jaw set and his hands slowly met his hips. He wondered if this was revenge - a little payback for all of his secrets - or if this was just you. Either way, he knew it was a losing battle. A good journalist never revealed their sources, and you were the best he'd known. So:

"Fine," he titled his head towards his office and turned, gesturing for you to enter. "But you're telling me everything else."

You smiled and stepped towards him. “Well I’m not here for the Costco coffee.”

“Here he comes,” Matt interrupted you, getting to his feet to stave off the charging bull of Franklin Nelson. As expected, the door to Matt’s office flew open and in stormed a sure-to-be red-in-the-face Foggy. “Foggy, I can explain-”

“Oh, this’d better be good,” he laughed in rage, his domineering stance demanding an explanation.

“It is,” you cut in, standing so you wouldn’t be the only one who was four feet tall. “We have a lead on Reynolds. The best in months,” you implored without a hint of sarcasm or wit or anything to antagonise Nelson right now because this was too fucking important.

Nelson looked defeated, and then looked at the ground. “How many times do I have to tell you,” he turned his head towards Murdock, “that Reynolds is a dead lead?! The guy is squeaky clean!”

“If that’s true then why does he have armed gang members acting as security for OneWorld?”

“What’s OneWorld?”

“It’s a volunteer-placement company. Supposedly matching college kids with the chance to do a summer of good. Something for their resumes,” you handed Nelson your notebook, opened to a double page with a bunch of names scratched out. His face screwed up as he tried to decipher what you were showing him, so you didn’t make him ask. “But I’ve talked to two hundred and thirty-nine randomly selected charities in the past five weeks and not one of them uses OneWorld.”

“So?”

“So don’t you think it’s strange that this company apparently contracts exclusively to schools set up by Reynolds? And that when an employee of a local NGO enquires about using their services he’s told to leave immediately?”

He? Matt shifted. Is that who you’d been talking to outside? Who’s… he?

Nelson sighed and looked up at you from the notebook. “What are you saying?”

“I’m saying this is shady shit, Nelson!” You urged with your patience hanging by a thread. “And I’m saying that we’ve spooked Reynolds so bad he’s moving back to London in a week and we have to do something now!”

Matt moved around the desk, coming up behind you to place a hand on your shoulder. Your temper was rising with every doubt Foggy threw your way. “Hey,” he said, low and close to you.

“No,” you turned to him and shook your head. You turned to Nelson but he was reading his best friend, so you turned back to Murdock. They both looked defeated. Unwilling. “We have to do something.”

“Do what?” Foggy challenged. Matt was relieved to hear no bite in his voice, but the flatness of the tone seemed to irk you even more than his venom would’ve.

“Did you two fake your degrees from Columbia or are you just playing dumb?!” The thread snapped and you burst at their complete lack of urgency. “Let’s figure it out.” Murdock’s hand met your shoulder again and you almost pushed it away. He stepped to your side so you tried to control yourself. Closing your eyes, with slow even breaths, you reminded them, “You owe me. Six weeks ago I was on the other side of this and I helped you.”

You looked up to see Murdock’s distant stare under frown lines, and then looked over to see Nelson with his hands on his hips and his gaze fixed on his shoes.

Matt knew he needed to do something, lest you go rogue and get yourself hurt in a desperate attempt to do this on your own. “Let’s talk then,” he nodded, voice so calm it made you twitch in annoyance. “Sit down.”

“I’m fine standing-”

“Sit… down,” he whispered with no room to debate, so you relented, and he thanked God that you did.

From somewhere close, Foggy subtly cleared his throat and Matt knew his friend was beginning to crack. About you. To let himself admit that maybe you actually cared. That you weren’t just chasing the next scoop for attentions’ sake.

“I could go to him,” you started spitballing and Matt heard the flame still stoked inside you even though you tried to hold it down. “Wear a wire, get him to admit to something-”

“Admit what?” Foggy cut in. Challenging you the way Reynolds would. “You’re gonna need a hell of a lot more than ambiguous shady shit to confront him.”

You shook your head. “I can bluff. Push him- I can use something else to get in the door and record enough to make someone listen-”

“Terrible plan,” Foggy shook his head.

“Asshole,” you muttered.

“He’s right,” Matt cut in. From the way your shoulders dropped, you knew they were right. “Besides,” he continued, “The walls.”

You paused, sucked your teeth, nodded. “The walls.”

Foggy’s ears perked. “What about the walls?”

You needed to get him outside.

“I could get him onto the balcony,” you said to Murdock, ignoring Nelson.

Ophelia.

Murdock’s head lowered towards you. “How’re you gonna get him out there?”

Ultra-rich guys like him, the ones into arts, tend to be big on symbolism.

You didn’t answer, knowing he’d hate the place your mind went. But, based on the way his whole body tensed in disapproval, you got the gist he had an inkling of the idea.

Matt opened his mouth to tell you how stupid it was and how he’d never let you put yourself in danger like that, but “Hey! Walls?” Foggy snapped his fingers between the two of you. Matt had hardly realised how he’d leaned closer, his protectiveness having unwittingly drawn him into your pull.

Your stare didn’t leave Murdock’s. You couldn’t back down because he’d know if you had. But you answered Nelson. “Reynolds has signal jammers in his walls. He can’t be recorded inside. Thankfully, he has a balcony…” You knew it was bad, but you wanted to see his reaction, “And I’ll give him a reason to make a point.”

And there it was. Like the hit of a glorious addition, you watched as Murdock’s shoulders drew wider, broad and strong. His knuckles paled underneath layers of bruises at various stages of healing and pain he refused to disclose. The tension in the breath he held and released was a song you couldn’t get enough of.

Five weeks of doubt, evaporated.

He longed, he cared, he felt. All for you.

“I won’t let you do this,” Matt pushed out through a tension-locked jaw, no longer trying his best to make you feel like an outsider. “It’s too risky.”

“I’ll go in with a wire, confront him about the investments in Malcolm’s name, rile him up and-”

“And what?” Matt raged. “Antagonise him into hurting you- are you out of your mind?!”

“You don’t get to tell me how to do my job,” you fired back far too calmly. “I know how to get information out of people.”

Father Lantom would give a sermon-length lecture if Matt, sitting in confessional or on a park bench or in the shadows, told him how fast his mind turned to the Devil. That part of Matt that wanted you close, that nagging part, reached in and whispered the idea, convincing him it might not be as bad as it seemed on the surface. Foggy might throw a fit, you might refuse, but it was the only play that made sense. And it was the only plan that gave him a chance at protecting you.

“We need back-up.” He turned slightly towards Foggy. “I’m calling our friend.”

You watched Foggy’s eyes go wide. His hands flew out in shock. “You told her about our friend?!” Matt held out a hand that said we’ll talk about this later.

You found your feet in an instant, full of objection. “Oh, no way in hell are you bringing Daredevil in on this.”

“Why? Hmm?” Murdock’s jaw rippled with impatience.

You scoffed. “Because I can’t trust someone I don’t know.”

A thick, humid silence sucked the atmosphere from the room the second the words left your lips. Freud would be proud.

The seconds that bated breaths and the old air con unit held dominion of the sound space were finally relieved by a sharp knock at the office door, then Karen poking her head in to call Foggy away urgently. He left, stewing, without another word. The deep-space lack of anything was left in his wake.

Murdock slipped his tongue out to wet his lips but didn’t otherwise move.

His voice was deceptively soft for how much of an answer it demanded. “Who’re you talking about?” He didn’t let you bide time by asking the obvious question. “Hmm? Who can’t you trust?”

You scoffed again and pushed some wayward strands of hair from your skin before shaking your head. You answered with a question, almost like a parable in his holy book.

“What happened to your eye?” He was still as stone, so you nodded. “That’s what I thought.”

“You don’t trust me,” Matt lamented.

“I can tell when I’ve been shut out,” you said with tortured finality in your voice, “There’s so much about you I’ll never know. Maybe you don’t know it yourself, or you just won’t tell me, but honesty matters to me and-”

“I’ve always told you the truth.”

“Half-truths don’t count.”

Silence hung in the air as Matt didn’t deny it, because you were right. The existence of a Goliath secret was obvious in the way he danced around words, prevalent in carefully chosen synonyms and omissions of certain details, showcased by the slowness of his responses clashing with the quickness of his wit.

How he couldn’t tell you what happened to his eye.

He hated doing this to you. He hated that he could feel how much it hurt you to not be allowed to understand him the way you felt he understood you. You’d been open. Giving him the whole truth and nothing but the truth. You let him know you so well.

Even now, he knew what you were about to say before you said it:

“With this whole Reynolds thing coming to a close, I’ve been thinking.”

Don’t. Matt thought.

“I don’t know what this is,” you started, and he heard you gesture between the two of you, from the pure habit of how you communicate, “but it’s too complicated. I love being an investigative journalist, Murdock. I really do.”

Who am I kidding? She has to. Matt thought.

“But I can’t be expected to figure you out when you clearly don’t want me to. And, believe me, I’ve tried,” you laughed, bitterly, and looked at the stupid wooden floor.

Your heartbeat said truth and pain, and hope you wished you didn’t have. You wanted him to argue. To tell you that he was sorry, that it was that contract, that he was afraid of getting disbarred or that he didn’t know how to let you in. Your heart pounded in his ears as you waited for the fight. Because at least that was passion. Passion you could take. You couldn’t take nothing.

Matt nodded, still with his hands on his hips. He sniffed once, and fought the urge to fight with you.

You were so easy to fight with, because it was always about the problem and not the person. You were fun to fight with, because you brought ethical passion to any argument. He longed to hear more of that passion poured out over morning cups of coffee as you defended your love for a losing sports team, or went on the offence and told him he hogged the sheets all night.

Instead, he knew he had to say:

“You’re right. This won’t work.”

The blow of his words surprised you; he was so good at arguing, you thought he would have fought for it. He had bruised knuckles and cheekbones, split eyebrows poorly concealed by glasses, so you thought he may have fought for you to stay.

You willed your churning stomach to calm, knowing there were more pressing matters to be anxious about.

“So, uh, now that that’s settled,” you cleared your throat so your voice wouldn’t wobble but hiding anything from him was a losing battle at this point. Which just pissed you off.

“Um…” You shook your head, trying to clear it, it’s over it’s over it’s over, trying to find your bearings. Daredevil. Opening your eyes, you looked to Murdock. “Daredevil. How can you ask me to trust that he won’t go after Reynolds himself?”

Matt took a second to realise how quickly you’d changed the subject and, again, didn’t fight you on it.

“Quid pro quo. I’m trusting your sources,” he stated, and the pit in your chest knew he had you there. “Give me tonight to talk to mine. We can meet in the morning, talk it through, and then make contact with Reynolds.”

“Early. Seven,” you demanded. “We’ll meet here at seven a.m. and finalise a plan. We can’t risk him putting this off so you only have tonight.”

He nodded in agreement. “That’s all I need.”

You nodded in defeat and bent to pick up your bag, taking note of the dozens of hues of brown in the floorboards. It probably wasn’t worth taking in all the tiny details you’d forget in a few years when you’d be trying to fall in love with some poster-child for nepotism because, hey, he’s hot and not a total dumbass.

All at once, you wondered if you’d remember the way this office sounded beneath your jokes with Murdock, or the way the terrible coffee would linger on your tongue when you couldn’t tear your eyes from Murdock’s lips as he talked through your ideas with you. The smell of the old tweed couch would be replaced by the sea-spray on your next fling’s father’s yacht, Murdock’s touch would long be a ghost you consciously ignore.

It already hurt to look at him. So you didn’t, as you turned to leave. With one hand on the doorknob, you sighed and said, “It’s not some ego thing, you know,” you held in a sad and bitter laugh. “I just wanted to know you. That’s all I wanted.”

Matt was silent as you left. The haste of your exit indicated no desire to continue the conversation and every desire to leave him with your confession. Your heartbeat confirmed you were honest as ever, and it revealed your inner conflict and the strength it took to leave instead of stay and fight.

But you also told the truth one night, many weeks ago, when you said you never wanted to know Daredevil’s identity.

An unstoppable force meets an immovable object. It’s an impossibility.

However, it certainly wasn’t any threat to you right now and none of it would matter if Matt couldn’t ensure your safety. So his mind turned to the locked trunk in his closet, the suit, and some rumours that’d been milling on the streets for the past couple of months.

Perched on the corner of a dirty rooftop near the docks, Daredevil listened.

The wind rustled discarded trash along the concrete roof. A few cans, some crushed, some still whole and rolling and rattling, fresh cigarette butts slid with them. They still smelled like the smoke exhaled days ago. The pigeons in the nest on another corner were sleeping soundly. The Devil of Hell’s Kitchen hadn’t disturbed him as he listened for his target.

There was a new guy on the block causing headaches for… well, everyone. Interfering with the Koreans’ meth operation, leading police on wild goose chases, disrupting the Irish, knowing where people would be before they got there. Matt had heard stories, out here, of the equipment he used to intercept drugs and money and evade the cops. No one knew who he worked for.

If you were facing Reynolds at his penthouse apartment, Matt knew he needed the technological advantage. If his worst fears had even the smallest chance of manifesting, there may not be any other way.

There.

His head tilted and he listened.

There. Three blocks over. Yelling in a dialect Matt couldn’t discern. A scuffle.

He turned his body towards it, and tracked the young street runner with his covered eye-line. The Devil’s hollow gaze followed the runner as he weaved in and out of buildings, losing his tail with a relative ease. He was holding something. It rustled and clinked, bunched in his fist.

Matt sighed. A bag of meth had a very distinct sound. “Typical,” he whispered to himself.

The thief was still on his way, zig-zagging in a path to further lose any pursuant, unwittingly heading straight for-

He stopped. About a hundred yards away.

Matt listened hard again, and he kicked himself for not realising how close one of the hums of the street lamps was. He was, most likely, bathed in light. Crouched like a menacing gargoyle on the edge, staring straight at the young criminal who’d interrupted a drug deal.

Knowing he’d been spotted, hearing the breath of the meth-stealing runner, Matt held up a hand towards him, hoping it would show him he meant no harm.

The fist around the bag of drugs tightened, muscles tensed, the fabric of the hoodie shifted on his head.

“Wait,” Matt called.

He didn’t know why the runner hadn’t moved. Maybe he was curious. Or… no. His heart was beating harder, the breaths quicker through his nose. He was afraid. Matt held back a smirk, and was careful to not make any sudden movements as he climbed down from the three-story building. He listened the whole way, and the runner stayed rooted but the way his feet dug into the asphalt told Matt that he was ready to run at the first sign of provocation.

“I’ve heard about your tech,” Matt said, approaching slowly, pointing vaguely towards the bag of drugs he could still hear twinkling against the plastic. “That’s a nice score it got you.”

Still as a statue, the hooded figure stood in caution, only tensing when the Devil got close enough for him to truly see the power and fury of the mask. There was something about it, about the strength, the imagery, the legend, that made people wary. Even if they didn’t believe in the Devil as a myth, they knew this one was real, tangible and unrelenting.

“You know who I am?”

The runner nodded.

“Good,” Matt stopped, still twenty or so yards from his mark, and said, “Then you know I’m not interested in some low-level thief.”

The fist around the bag loosened, ever so slightly. He still didn’t speak. Maybe he didn’t know what to say. Maybe he didn’t want the Devil hearing his voice.

“I’ve seen what your technology can do,” Matt half-lied with all the command he could muster. He squared his shoulders and bored the mask into the runner’s watchful stare and thumping heartbeat. “You have some things I need.”

The following morning at 7:04 a.m. You and Nelson stood, arms crossed, next to an all-too-casual Murdock who'd just opened the duffle bag on his office desk to reveal a mass of surveillance equipment.

Finding your footing after realising how advanced some of this gear is, you asked him "Where did you get this?"

Murdock raised his eyebrows in challenge. "Are you asking me to reveal my source?"

The low hum in his voice was apparently enough out-of-character to prompt Nelson to look up and snark, "Stop flirting and focus, Matt. What's the plan?"

Ouch, you thought, but continued by pulling your phone from your pocket.

“Time to find out if Reynolds blocked my number,” you let out a tense breath and pressed on the contact you’d saved the first time you called, immediately putting it on speaker. The phone started ringing. You didn’t know if you were relieved or not.

It kept ringing and ringing.

Your gaze was fixed on the phone.

Maybe he was busy.

Maybe he was ignoring you.

Then, just as it sounded like it would ring out, he answered.

“Hello.”

You rolled your eyes at the amount of self-satisfaction he projected from a single word. “Hi. How are you?” You asked sarcastically.

He gave a snide laugh. “What do you want?”

“I want to know what you thought of my article.”

“Splendid. Fantastic,” he also replied with sarcasm. “You have a wonderful way with words- am I doing this right? Does it sound like I’ve read it?”

“You’re too much of a narcissist to not have read it,” you laughed back.

Nelson’s eyes went wide and he mouthed, “WHAT ARE YOU DOING?!” You held up a hand to tell him to chill out.

“I’ll cut to the chase,” you swallowed. “I need money.”

The laugh on the other end of the phone was incredulous and confused. “You’re seeking payment for writing a little article about me? My, you certainly have some gall.”

“No, Arthur. What I have is information I’m sure you don’t want out there,” you talked to him like a child. “So here’s the deal: call your lawyer, have him draft a non-disclosure agreement with a generous settlement for me agreeing to not discuss what happened at our dinner. I’ll sign it tonight, you transfer the funds, and then we’re forever rid of each other.”

“I didn’t threaten your life,” he replied casually, probably assuming the conversation was being listened into.

“I’m not talking about Ophelia,” you smirked, then let malice drip from your voice. “I’m talking about Malcolm.”

There. A violent, deafening silence sucked the air from the office. No one moved as you heard Reynolds’ initial response to your threat to expose the truth of his son’s existence. Of course you’d never do such a thing, but you had no trouble using the possibility as a pawn with this human piece of garbage. Let him believe it. Let him squirm.

“How profoundly disappointing,” he swiped back. It didn’t sound like he was breathing, or moving. There was something eerie in his profound lack of anger or any sort of emotional response. “I have a dinner. Come by at ten.”

He didn’t wait for a reply before ending the call. You let out all the air in your lungs and shot a grimace to Nelson, who was looking at you like you were insane.

“Great job antagonising him,” he lauded sarcastically. “Are you trying to get yourself killed?”

“He’s not gonna kill me,” you deadpanned. “He won’t even try.”

Even as you said it, you started to doubt it. It was a different ballgame, threatening someone’s kid. Now, after the fact, it left a bitter taste in your mouth. The only thing that made it okay was knowing you’d never do it. No matter what happened.

Murdock stayed silent with his arms crossed, appearing to hold back some kind of comment of disapproval. You didn’t wait for it.

“Great!” You clapped your hands once and picked up your bag from the office. “Are these all for me?” You gestured to the duffle bag and Murdock stayed still for a few seconds longer. Right before you could ask again, he reached one hand it, sifted around, and pulled out a small box. It was about half the size of a deck of cards and had a long, thin wire attached to it.

“This is yours,” he held it out to you. You reached out and closed your hand around it. “The rest will be on the roof with Daredevil.”

“What?!”

“WHAT?!”

You and Nelson both started arguing at the same damn time, furious that Murdock was throwing this last-minute addition into the ring.

“You said you were just talking to him. G-getting equipment- give me that!” You yanked on the box but his grip didn’t relent and you stumbled towards him. Thankfully, you managed to stop yourself before your body crashed against his. Not so thankfully, you were now close enough to feel his breath on your skin. Through clenched teeth, you demanded, “Give it to me.”

Matt held on for a few seconds longer, intoxicated by the heat of your body so close. The anger in your rising pulse was a hypnotic rhythm forcing his hand to stay in place to keep you close.

He took control of himself and released the device, allowing you to shove it in your bag before taking a step back. “This isn’t fair. This wasn’t the plan,” you argued.

“This is us finalising the plan,” he countered.

“You said you were just gonna talk to him.”

He shook his head. “I never said that was all I was going to do.”

You scoffed a laugh and shook your head, looking anywhere but him. “You’re such a fucking lawyer,” you whispered in spite before demanding him to “Call him off.”

“He wants to be there.”

“Bull-shit,” you doubted. “Daredevil operates around here in Hell’s Kitchen and Reynolds lives on the Upper East Side.”

“So did Fisk.”

Murdock was infuriatingly calm.

“Murdock, I-”

“I’ll call him off if you tell me right now that you’re one-hundred percent Reynolds won’t hurt you.”

He’d leaned in a little closer. You released a curt breath through your nose. Not wanting to lie to him, you stayed silent. Murdock let out his own breath, bumped his eyebrows and nodded. No words needed to be spoken. You swallowed thickly and adjusted the bag on your shoulder.

“I’ll call you when it’s done. We can meet here.”

Murdock shook his head. “I’ll be outside.” You had no idea how close he’d really be. “I’ll be right there the whole time.”

You rolled your eyes but didn’t have any more will to fight with him. “Fine.”

With a quick, sullen glance to Nelson, you took your leave to let them fight it out.

The office stayed quiet for a few moments after you left, Foggy knowing that Matt would indicate once he was certain you’d left earshot. A sigh was the sign, and Foggy crossed his arms.

“What are you doing, Matt? If she finds out your secret it’s all over.”

Matt raked one hand through his hair and took a deep breath in and out.

“He was too calm.”

Foggy cocked his head. “How do you mean?”

“He doesn’t suspect anything,” Matt stood and turned to the equipment. “She’s going in there, blindside him, it’s a recipe for disaster-”

“Hey.”

Foggy’s hand met Matt’s shoulder, immediately feeling a rock of tension underneath. Matt let out another deep breath and turned his head ever so slightly towards his best friend, suddenly realising he’d raised his voice.

Before Foggy could conjure some kind of reassurance, Matt zipped the duffel bag shut and hoisted it off the desk. He walked pat Foggy and slid the bag under his desk just as Karen was arriving for the day. The strong aroma of three extra-strong coffees filled the room, along with a vanilla-based perfume Matt was too distracted to dissect.

There was a smile on her voice. “Alright, it’s a busy day ahead so I thought we could all use some extra-strong coffees this morning.”

Foggy sighed, then put on a smile to turn and greet Karen with the enthusiasm she deserved and to keep her away from Matt for the next couple of minutes. Foggy was good at knowing when his best friend needed some space to collect himself.

Matt just hoped that his secret safety net wouldn’t unravel in the next fifteen hours. Because he was convinced Reynolds was going to attempt to kill you, and he was starting to doubt that his back-up plan would work.

It was nearly ten on the dot when you dared to enter the lobby of the Golden Empress. You’d been outside for almost fifteen minutes, too focused to notice the cold. The jacket you wore was thick enough to conceal the recording device clipped to the inside of it, towards the middle of your back, and it kept you warm as you squinted upwards to catch a glimpse of the balcony.

From the pavement, you could barely pinpoint where it started.

You pulled your hands from your pockets as you entered the building. Usually, you’d be hyper aware of sticking out like a sore thumb, woefully under-dressed for a place like this, but none of that mattered right now. Black jeans and sturdy winter boots were perfectly acceptable wear for confronting a criminal.

After the same dance with the concierge as last time you were back on the elevator, alone, not looking up for cameras because you didn’t want him to see you looking. As the elevator climbed, you wondered how in the hell Daredevil was planning to get on that roof.

An unwelcome surge of panic struck through you when you realised you might truly be doing this alone - if Daredevil couldn’t come - and you made a mental reminder to tell Murdock he’s an asshole for springing the plan on you, but he was right. If Daredevil shows, that is.

When the elevator arrived the first thing you noticed was that the double doors to Reynolds’ penthouse dwelling were wide open. Had Daredevil beat you here? You made steady footfall towards them, determined to not show one hint of hesitance. Not even when Reynolds appeared in the doorway to begrudgingly greet you.

No smile, from you nor him.

“Evening,” you nodded as you approached, stopping in front of him with a sigh like you hated having to be here. He stood in the middle of the threshold, blocking your entrance.

He looked you up and down, scanned the hallway behind you, saw your hands by your side. “I don’t need to have someone search you for weapons, do I?”

You smirked. “I don’t need a weapon when I’ve already got you by the balls, but be my guest.”

He didn’t react. Tilting his head towards where you knew the kitchen would be, you followed him inside. You didn’t glance behind you, but you were burning with curiosity about how Daredevil was supposed to get in here. The doors were open. Surely he was already here.

“Let’s get this over with,” Reynolds said to you without looking in your direction.

Entering the dining area with the long table for the second time ever, you saw some things that weren’t there last time. First, a man. Balding, late middle-aged, wearing an impeccable suit, expressionless behind black-rimmed glasses. Second, paperwork on the table. Third, two pens.

“Patrick is here to explain the contents of the agreement, and to moderate any unpleasantries,” Reynolds slunk into a chair and rubbed his eyes. It’d clearly been a long day. “But I believe you’ll agree that a quarter of a million is fair payment for your silence.”

You approached and picked up a contract. “What happens if I break the NDA?”

Patrick spoke up. His voice was higher than you’d expected. “We’ll sue for damages.”

Scanning the page, you wondered if you could swing making a quick call to Murdock under the guise of checking with your counsel. What you really wanted to know was where the hell Daredevil was at this point in time. Did Murdock know? It was eating you alive.

“This is the fifth time this has happened. You’re not special,” Reynolds lounged in the chair, making no effort to hide his boredom. “There are no nasty little clauses hidden in the fine print. It’s simple one-page agreement for all those out there who lack the integrity to stay silent.”

You scoffed through your nose. “Hypocrite.”

He smirked in challenge. “How so?”

“Don’t engage, Arthur,” Patrick warned, placing a tanned hand on a pen to slide to his client.

You bumped your brow and didn’t look up from the paper you were pretending to read. “You know, accusing me of using your son.” You sniffed and turned the paper over to find it blank on the other side.

Arthur sat up a little straighter in his seat and eyed you dangerously. “What d’you mean by that?”

“Arthur.” Patrick’s voice cut through Reynolds’ glare. Reynolds held up a finger to silence his counsel. You looked at him and saw he sported a burning look that demanded an answer. You looked at Patrick and saw him glaring at his client, breath bated.

Oh. You suddenly realised that “moderating any unpleasantries” meant keeping Reynolds’ temper on a leash. Your confidence starting waning with the knowledge that Reynolds’ lawyer didn’t want him alone with you.

Still, it was too late to back out now, so you started unravelling his plan to his face.

“Using Malcolm’s name to protect your financial interests,” you said, beginning to apply pressure. “It’s pretty disgusting.”

“Investing in my son’s name is perfectly legal,” he reminded you. You laughed dryly, and then met his eye as he stood to his full height in front of you. “I’m sure your little attorney friends could tell you as much.”

“Oh, I’m not talking about the investing,” you said casually. Looking unbothered was paramount. “I’m talking about you using him as a red herring.”

Finally, Arthur looked caught off-guard. In micro-expression only. You looked back at the paper and pretended it was more interesting than watching him take in what you were saying.

Patrick stood. “This meeting is over.”

Reynolds didn’t move. Stone-faced, fire flickering behind his eyes, he stared you down as you continued.

“You know, hiding your son so carefully so if anyone got suspicious of you and did just enough digging, that’s what they would find…” you shrugged and looked up, “ It’s pretty clever. Especially since you get the moral high ground of looking like you just wanted to keep your kid safe.” You let the contract fall to the floor, like the worthless piece of paper it was, and bored your stare into his own. “But you don’t really care about Malcolm, do you? Or any kids for that matter.” You lowered your voice to a malicious whisper. “Do you know what they call you in Haiti? La Vipere. The Viper. Are you proud of that?”

His beady hazel eyes watched your every move. It was almost scary, how still he was. You did your best to not look over his shoulder, out towards the balcony, towards the stupidest, maybe most brilliant plan you’d ever come up with. If you thought about it too hard you may have wimped out, but he was leaving in less than a week.

This was your last chance.

“I know all about OneWorld,” you let yourself smirk in fake confidence. His eyes flashed in fury at the mention of his weak link. “Soon, so will everyone.” You smiled wider and watched as he cocked his head and readied to threaten you.

“What do you want?”

Patrick was observing, perhaps ready to step in, but he was too silent for someone who was supposed to keep a lid on Reynolds.

“Nothing,” your smile retreated back to a smirk.

He broke into his own smirk and slipped his hands into his pockets. "Women like you always want something," he eyed you up and down, then took a step, and another, until he was perched on the side of the table. You didn't move. You didn't want to even flinch. His glare was alarming and intense and now level with your own. "It's killing you, isn't it," he whispered, eyes darting back and forth between yours. Fighting the urge to squint, you let him continue. "You've got a little whiff of something and you've no idea what it is... so desperate... but how desperate are you?"

You narrowed your eyes and watched as he stood from the table to fake interest in the glittering cityscape.

"I'll answer any question you have," he started, tossing it all too casually over his shoulder.

“Why,” you challenged, “You think I can’t prove it?”

He chuckled again, then turned to show an unsettling smile. Walking back towards you, he explained, “Every question you ask is three years Isabel will be kept from her son.”

You stuttered, “W-hold-what?!”

He nodded. “That’s one question. Up to three years already,” he clicked his tongue and faked a pitying glance.

Your mouth went dry and you stammered to protest. “Sh-she has nothing to do with this.

“You’re in the same building as Jacobs and Keen, are you not?”

Hot anxiety surged through your stomach.

“Am I supposed to believe it’s a coincidence that I receive a call from you the day after she visits her financial planners?”

This can’t be happening. You can bargain with your own life, but not Izzy’s.

“My ex-wife has a small security team she feels very safe with. All of them report her whereabouts to me, but at least she feels in control," he shrugged with an evil indifference and took his place, again perched at the edge of the table, and he leaned closer to you. "Here's my offer: you take this settlement, leave here now, keep your mouth shut, and for the next three years I'll allow Isabel to see her son on his birthday. Or, you can continue digging and she may never see him again."

You gritted your teeth and crossed your arms. "This isn’t about Isabel."

He shrugged. "I fail to see your point." His stare was hollow and devoid of any humanity. "I've presented you with a choice.”

He was too dangerous. You had to do something. You couldn’t leave him to terrorise Izzy, or anyone else.

You had to act.

“No,” you shook your head and picked up the other contract on the table.

This was the moment.

You tore it in half and laughed with as much anger as you could muster. “Fuck you, Arthur. I’m going to burn you to the ground.”

“Calm down, both of you,” Patrick ordered as you both firmed your stances.

You tore the contract in half again. “You think all I have a little whiff?!” You shouted, tearing the papers in half yet again. “You think you scare me?”

Arthur seethed and took a step towards you as you crunched the papers in your fist. “You think I haven’t made people disappear?”

Patrick was yelling over the rage-induced tunnel vision you and Reynolds were trapped in. Careful to not be the one to touch him first, you stepped forward and gave a crazed look. “You’re done,” you spat. “You hear me? Hang all the paintings you want, Arthur. We both know you’re too much of a coward to actually-”

He struck.

Just as you’d hoped.

His palm collided with your throat faster than you could dodge it, his fingers closing tight as you choked out a breath and he turned and began walking you backwards. Your hands flew to his wrist and tugged from self-preservation but he was far too strong. Sure, you’d anticipated it, but you were biologically driven to survive and a hand around your neck was sending your humanity into overdrive.

“Control yourself, Arthur!” Patrick shouted and swore.

But Arthur was controlled.

Scarily controlled, because he let you breathe just enough to not cut you off completely. He kept walking you backwards, pausing only to wrench open the sliding glass door before forcing you over the threshold onto the balcony, and no one did the damn thing to stop him. In fact, Patrick left the room altogether.

Something inherent in you knew he wasn't planning to kill you, but that didn't stop your heart from beating out of your chest as your lower back roughly collided with the balustrade on the thick glass balcony wall. An involuntary grunt of pain left your constricted throat, and you removed one of your hands from his wrist to slap him hard on his temple. He flinched, to your delight, but then looked back at you with darkened eyes and a cold killer stare. Your free hand was subdued and pinned to the rail in matter of seconds. His grip around your throat tightened just enough to make it feel like you were sucking air through a straw.

"I would be delighted to take care of problems myself," he hissed, leaning in close. His proximity only increased your anxiety. You tried your hardest not to show it but there were too many things to focus on right now. He pushed you backwards just enough to keep your toes on the ground, but your torso now sat suspended over the pavement seventy-odd floors down. "I'm afraid it gets a bit messy when I do it. Far too messy for the likes of a humanitarian. So Patrick in there," he jerked you to the side to give you a view of where his lawyer had sat, to show you he’d abandoned you for plausible deniability, "He very kindly organises the logistics of what needs to be done. Who knows you’re here?”

Even though you could feel the fuzziness rushing to your head, you choked out a strangled laugh. This only served to infuriate Reynolds, who then leaned you further back to tip your feet completely off the ground. But he'd showed his hand; he couldn’t kill you here and now when you’d probably told someone where you were going.

When you started feeling the white static creep into your peripherals, when your head became dangerously light, when your grip on his wrist loosened, he pulled you back onto the balcony and released you. You fell to your hands and knees, gulping in air before laughing once or twice again. You settled back onto your knees, swaying a bit from the lack of oxygen.

"W-wahay," your voice was hoarse, so you coughed. "Wahay to ruin a mo-homent, Arthur."

"That'll be Mr Reynolds to you."

You coughed again, and smirked to his face. "Last-name basis implies respect. You have none of mine."

"You act as though your respect has any value."

"Oh, I'll show you how much value it has," you sneered, placing a fist on the pavement to push yourself up. You didn’t have the strength or stability so you had to stay down. "Just you wait for Sunday's paper."

He huffed a snarky laugh. "Your career will be long over by then,” he promised. “What should we plant, drugs? Evidence of blackmail? What else might turn up in your home?”

Keep talking, asshole, you thought, thankful that your collision hadn’t touched the recording device.

“You’ll be too busy mounting a defence” You shot back, holding a hand to the throbbing tendons in your neck. “Assault is a crime, you know.”

"Oh, darling," he laughed like the smartest person in the room, and crouched to be just above your eye-line. He whispered, "You can't possibly imagine the police or the public will believe a word of what you say."

"They might not believe me," you sniffed, then turned your head towards the flat patch of roof above the balcony. You lifted your eyes, looking for the person who was promised to you.

Matt had stayed in the shadows, fists clenched so tight around a long piece of stone architecture he was surprised it hadn’t broken. He’d had to hold himself back, not step in too soon, force himself to listen to Reynolds hurting you. But now, you were looking for him.

He stood and walked out of the shadows, towards the place where the roof dropped onto the balcony. From his vantage point, he stood and let Arthur Reynolds see who’d darkened his doorstep. Matt listened to the man’s heartbeat as he realised who was there, and as he realised the stakes had drastically risen.

This wasn’t good. Reynolds’ pulse and breath told the story of a rabid animal backed into a corner; the only thing that can make such a powerful man irreparably dangerous.

Meanwhile, pure relief washed over you. There, reigning over this rooftop, was the Devil of Hell's Kitchen. Hidden on him, a camera recording the entire encounter. With a victorious half-grin, you nodded up at Daredevil and explained to Reynolds, "They’ll probably believe him."

Matt heard the rage swelling up in Reynolds. He sensed the shift in the air as the man’s arms tensed, his nostrils flared with his sneer, and heard the low grunt as he lunged to grab you. Matt didn't have the chance to shout a warning before Reynolds' hands were around the collar of your jacket.

The viciousness of his swift snatch caught you off guard. The only reaction you had time to perform, as your knees and feet scuffed the ground in the struggle, was to grab Reynolds’ wrists as he hauled you to your feet.

“No,” you gasped in a whisper as he wrenched you back towards the edge with a brutal force.

Matt heard your sharp inhale, the spike of your heart rate, and the sound of your shoes leaving solid ground. He heard the whimper you barely held in, and your fingers clutching at anything on Reynolds that they could.

“Let her go.” Matt tried to sound level, like a man in charge, but there was a lump in his throat as your frantic breathing filled the night sky around you.

"Come down, Devil," he taunted, leaning you even further.

Suddenly, all that confidence you had - the confidence that Reynolds would never even consider throwing you over - all but evaporated when you caught a look of pure, emotional anger in his eyes; his fury had overcome his calculated game plan, and he was mad.

Mad enough to be careless with the way he was holding you.

You didn’t want to look down. You winced, your breathing picked up as you scrambled to get a better hold on his forearms but his suit jacket made that too hard. You were too far out to try gripping the edge. Your life was, truly, entirely in his hands. If he let go, you'd be gone.

Casting a glance up to Daredevil, you shook your head as he started coming down. No. He couldn't bargain. This was worth so much more than just your life.

"Get out of here-" You were cut off by an involuntary scream as Reynolds cut you off with a cruel jolt downwards. He didn't even look at you as he played with your hypothetical death.

Matt's heart was in his throat as his feet landed on the balcony. He held his hands up in apparent surrender. Between him and you was a divide of around twenty feet, and he didn’t dare take another step closer.

"Stay there," Reynolds demanded, once again letting you slip down a few inches.

Anger and fear struck a bolt across Matt’s chest when he heard anxiety force a gasp from your lungs. Just as it had that first night at the gala, in his bed, your breath called out to him for help.

"Stay!" He said again, bellowing in a gravelly shout. "I won't say it again, Devil. Stay right there or she dies." Matt watched Reynolds look him over and put the pieces together of your plan far too quickly. “Clever,” he turned to seethe at you, “Getting me out here where he can capture evidence-” He snapped his head back to Daredevil, “Now, show me the camera.”

You knew you had to pretend like the footage on the camera was the only evidence that existed, or else he'd have no reason to not let you die. So you started fighting to make him drop you, in some hopefully not hopeless effort to make him believe you were sacrificing yourself to take away his pawn in this barter. He looked back at you with malice as you tried to pry his fingers from around your jacket, then yanked you back up to stand in front of him. You tried making a run towards Daredevil but Reynolds arm closed around your waist, trapping your back against his body before his other arm snaked around your throat.

He applied just enough pressure to force your hands up to push at his arm, to keep them occupied. He was too good at this, and the sad realisation dawned on you that you probably weren't the first person he’d ensnared like this.

"Don't," you choked out towards Daredevil. "Take the tape and- shit!" You cried out in pain when Reynolds crunched his heel against the side of your foot, making you crumble just a little. Your ankle throbbed with searing pain in your ligaments, giving you yet another thing to focus on when you were already overwhelmed.

"Now, Devil," Reynolds growled.

This was the worst case scenario. Matt calculated the distance, calculated the risk, and knew he couldn’t be the one to save you if Reynolds snapped. Your feet were on the ground but you were still dangerously close to the edge.

As hard as it was, Matt knew he had to trust himself. He had to trust his judgement, that his plan would work, that he could trust he knew someone's intentions and their abilities.

“Leave,” you quietly begged Daredevil, sighing in defeat as you watched him unclip a small camera from the waist of his suit and hold it up, declaring it. “Fuck,” you whispered, hanging your head. The audio you were recording wouldn’t be enough. Gritting your teeth, you snarled up at him, “He said I could trust you to do the right thing!”

And finally, Matt could tell you were looking at him. Really looking, taking him in. He felt exposed.

Before you'd run off on this crazy reckless mission, you'd told him - Matt Murdock - that you wanted to know him. All of him. He hadn’t had a way to tell you that your desire to be close to him was the antithesis of your desire to stay far away from the Devil of Hell's Kitchen. Now, with your demise entirely possible, he did not know what to do.

If he didn't give Reynolds the camera, he might throw you over out of anger. If he put the camera down, Reynolds could throw you over anyway and there'd be no hard evidence of your murder - just the word of a vigilante against the word of a billionaire. And billionaires never went to prison.

Even with the footage of him hanging you over the edge, you could imagine a world where his top-paid defence attorneys could spin it as something that would get Reynolds off the hook.

Either way, you’d be Ophelia.

You felt your breath hitch against the crook of Reynolds' elbow as you got your first good look at Daredevil. His suit was impeccable, well-made, covering his body except the lower half of his face. His powerful demeanour was lit from behind, from the soft light of the vacant dining room.

The glow from the window streamed over his silhouette… it was familiar. The light behind his body spilled around the edges of his strong stance as he tilted his head and faced it towards you. You blinked away the déjà-vu and swallowed hard before narrowing your eyes to try and place why this felt like something you’d seen before.

There was something about his presence that was more than not being alone, something about him that put you at ease.

“You have five seconds,” the threat rumbled through Reynolds’ lungs and into your spine as he shouted at Daredevil. “Destroy it, or she dies.”

“Don’t!” You yelled as Daredevil dropped the camera with no hesitation. “We need to have pr-” renewed pressure on your windpipe made it hard to continue, so you watched on as the camera was crushed under Daredevil’s foot.

The arm around your throat loosened and tears sprung to your eyes, knowing the most crucial piece of evidence no longer existed.

Reynolds laughed an ugly, victorious laugh, cocking his head in pity. "What happens now, Devil? Are you going to take the mask off?"

Matt stood still and far back, fists clenching with your every move and wince. Fuck. He knew where Reynolds was going with this.

"You'd have to eventually, wouldn't you," Reynolds smirked and tightened his grip. You fought harder but the man had too much of a physical advantage. "Tell me," he lowered his lips to your ear and taunted, "do you think this man will unmask himself to testify on your behalf?"

"I rather like my chances," Reynolds stiffened and tightened his hold. You felt his feet plant firmer, Matt heard the shift. "Here's how the story might play out. You seduced me at the gala for your own career gain. Threatened to expose the existence of my son so I bartered the painting for your silence. Then, you show up here tonight to extort me further. Your career had hit a standstill, you felt like you were at a dead end and wanted notoriety by any means necessary.”

Matt took a step forward. “Reynolds-”

“Stay back!” You winced as his volume stung your ear. You were pulled closer to the edge so you shoved harder at the arms around you. Looking at the masked vigilante, you gave him a warning glance, begging him to step in so you both could run away and have a chance to come up with another trap.

The white halo around his silhouette made it too hard to see any of his features but you knew him. He felt so out of place. The look of him, this balcony, these wicked arms around you, the pieces were confusing and they didn’t fit. He was a strangely comforting presence in a hostile environment. You couldn’t trust people you didn’t know… but your gut told you to trust him.

Daredevil held his hands out and opened his mouth to speak, just to take a sharp breath in. The way his shoulders moved, his gait, the way he held his hands. The backlit body which stood tall and resolute. It was all some song you had stuck in your head, but just the melody. The lyrics were elusive, just out of reach, dangling there for you to try and hold on to.

“…I’ll be right there the whole time.”

The truth was here, you could feel it, you could feel the way he pushed the air from his lungs and leaned his head, conflicted.

You could feel it, because he taught you how to feel it. And he was still here.

No louder than a breath, you spoke the truth.

"Murdock."

Then, almost imperceptibly, he nodded.

“It’ll be your word against mine,” Reynolds’ venomous whisper slithered into your ear, his lips uncomfortably close to your skin. How? What the fu- how is the possible? How did he get up here? What the fuck is going on? You were too focused on Murdock to hear what Reynolds said next.

“On second thought… perhaps you’ve said enough.”

Matt heard it. He heard the fucking words and he felt the murderous intent through the ground, through the atmosphere, tensing up from the fire stoked in Reynolds’ belly as the man leaned down.

Matt was too many strides away, so he had to listen, to feel, as if in slow motion:

Reynolds holding his breath.

Your gasp. The racing of your heart.

The arm scooping up your legs.

His own feet moving to dash forwards.

The twist of Reynolds' torso.

Your scream.

Reynolds' grunt of exertion as you were swung you over the edge.

His heart pounding in his ears.

His feet pounding against the ground.

The fabric of a sleeve slipping through your fingers.

His own shout of panic.

The void where you once stood.

Where you once hung.

His fist colliding with the back of Reynolds' head.

A noise of pain before Reynolds crumpled to the ground, his brain shutting down to protect itself.

Matt halted, and listened. But you weren't there.

He fell to his knees.

You were falling through the sky.

Maybe if your brain moved as fast as your instincts you'd be hit with a myriad of thoughts in the number of seconds it would take you to hit the pavement.

You'd know that if you were falling from a plane there'd be time to ponder, to go through the stages of grief, to accept your death, to process the truth of Daredevil's identity, to wish you'd picked up the phone and called your father just once in the last three and a half years since he'd told you to go to hell. You'd wonder if he'd regret defending the army more than he sought to understand you, and you'd wonder if this would change anything for him.

But you'd been thrown off the top of a skyscraper, and you only had seconds before it was all over.

There was no time for your brain to catch up. There was only instinct. And your instinct said Arthur Reynolds would be brought to justice.

So it was okay.

Now, after you felt the last bit of something else slip through your fingers, you closed your eyes and tried to not be afraid; being afraid would help nothing, and it would stop nothing.

You didn’t want fear to be the last thing you ever felt.

The atmosphere roared past your senses as you fell quickly. Everything else fell silent against sound of the rushing air, and the final breath you'd ever exhale.

Just a few seconds longer. It would probably be too quick to hurt.

Matt stayed kneeled with a white-knuckled grip on the bannister, his head hung, and he was suddenly twelve years old again with his knees against a velvet cushion and his fingers wrapped around the dark oak pew in front of him, crying out for a saviour.

Here, now, he did not have time to consider praying. He did not have time to consider whether or not he should’ve asked God for an angel instead of trusting the Devil inside himself.

He held his breath, and listened, as you plummeted down the side of the Golden Empress, unable to discern what was the wind and what was your breath.

Then, you hit hard.

Matt flinched at the impact, and he breathed a sigh of pure relief.

He hadn't been wrong to trust himself.

The shock of the mid-air collision forced a scream from your lungs as something wrapped around you, and your course was changed from a vertical drop to a horizontal arc. Having nothing else to hold onto, you held onto it. You willed your eyes to open, and then you held on tighter. It wasn't an it. It was a him.

"You're okay! Please, uh, please remain calm, ma’am. You're okay!" He stuttered as he tried to comfort you through his grunts, through the tattered repurposed hoodie concealing his face, and through his one-handed manoeuvring as he somehow swung you down from the air and towards a nearby building.

You hyperventilated from the sheer shock of still being alive and wound your arms more tightly around his neck, only giving a few thoughts to young he sounded. In only a few more seconds than you had been falling, your feet touched down on the flat roof he'd aimed for. You hissed in pain at your injured ankle and nearly fell, but he kept his arm around your waist.

“Who the fuck- how did you- what the he-hell-” you panicked and pulled away. He let you shuffle back and lower yourself to sit, taking the weight off your ankle. You got a better look at him. If he hadn’t just saved your life you would’ve laughed at his slapdash disguise.

He wore what looked to be pieces of different hoodies stitched together to conceal his identity. His patched sleeves were blue, very blue against the red torso of his zip-up hoodie. There was some black design printed in the centre. Squinting in the low light, you made out the shape of the identity he’d chosen.

A segmented body. Head, thorax, abdomen. Eight legs.

A spider.

There was thick red fabric over the front of his face, the same as the hood which came up the back of his head. There were some patchy goggles inserted into the front of his costume to let him see and he wore some cuff devices on his wrist which, you assumed, was how he swung between the buildings. You swallowed the nausea you felt rising in your sternum. “Who the hell are you?”

"Me? Oh, I'm- uh, I'm just the friendly neighbourhood watch- but look- I'm sorry, you're hurt, oh gosh," he winced and still pulled you to stand. "He asked me to take you somewhere safe and he'll meet us there, so we gotta g-”

“Who’s he?”

"The guy in the mask. Uh… Daredevil?"

You sucked air as your ankle throbbed in a sharp ache when you were back on your feet, brain kicking into fact-finding mode. “He told you to come here tonight?”

"He came and found me," the young hero started to explain. "He found me last night when I was on my way to dump some drugs in the river and-and said there was something happening at Golden Empress tonight and he’d seen my tech and knew what I could do and- look, I’m sorry, he was really clear that I had to get you somewhere safe. We gotta go, I can explain when we get there.”

“Get where?” You tried to steady your nerves as he motioned for you to wrap your arms tight around him again. His strong hold wrapped around your back as he stepped up to the ledge, carrying you as if you were weightless. He looked between the buildings, down to the streets, mapping his route. “Hey! Where?”

“It’s a church. In Hell’s Kitchen.”

The unseen angelic presence of several dozen voices filtered through the air vents, along the walls, bouncing and reverberating down stone corridors and staircases as the cathedral’s choir practised in the nave and you took refuge in the basement. Or maybe it was a crypt. It was hard to tell. The light was low but you could see stone tombs and carved angels guarding the entrance to the expansive area. It was cold, but not unpleasantly so as you pressed your back against the wall and stretched your foot out in front of you.

Daredevil had-… Murdock, had given this young hero exact instructions on how to enter the building without being detected. You guessed it would be easier tonight with the harmonious, celestial voices filling the church with blended gothic tunes. Your grunts of pain from your ever-swelling ankle were perfectly masked by people singing upwards to heaven. Singing their praises as, unbeknownst to them, a miracle limped through their hallways.

You shouldn’t be alive, and it felt weird to be here after defying death. You knew there’d come a day when you’d overthink it on an existential level. For now, the kid was spinning some strange thick web between his hands.

“What are you doing?”

“Trying to make a bandage to secure your-”

He trailed off, then slowly turned his head towards the staircase bathed in shadows. He twitched as if he heard something, or sensed it, and after a few more seconds of silence another person, not seen to you, spoke.

“There’s a first-aid kit in the cabinet. It’ll have bandages.”

The new yet familiar voice didn’t scare you, or the kid. Maybe it should have, but it didn’t. The tall, masked and suited figure emerged from the darkness with sure steps down the staircase and approached where the teenaged hero was kneeling in front of your swollen ankle.

“I can take it from here,” he spoke in his rough gravelly voice. It sounded different when he looked different, and you didn’t like that.

Matt placed his hand on the kid’s shoulder after he stood. From the way his heart raced, Matt could tell the young web-slinger was nervous and excited and proud. As he should be.

“Thank you,” he nodded sincerely, then heard the kid swallow hard. “I’ll find you soon, and we can talk.” The kid nodded, sensing the power in Daredevil’s confidence, and clearly sensing it was time for him to clear out.

“Uh, y-yes sir,” he stammered, and you maybe would’ve smiled if there wasn’t so much wrong with such a young kid being out in the world of New York crime. He couldn’t be more than fifteen, could he?

As he moved to dash out the door, you saw Daredevil call after him. “Hey.” The kid looked over his shoulder. “Don’t get too close to The Avengers Tower with that those webs of yours. The last thing you need is to get caught up in one of their messes.”

The hooded figure just nodded, gave an awkward thumbs-up, and then got the hell out of dodge. You didn’t blame him - the reports didn’t do Daredevil justice. Of course you’d heard the stories, read the details, but if you were part of organised crime in Hell’s Kitchen you’d seriously reconsider a career change if you caught one glimpse of this guy in a dark alleyway.

Of course, he wasn’t just some guy. Some nut in a mask. Or, maybe he was. Either way, he was still Matt Murdock.

Even though you knew that, you still instinctively pressed a little harder into the wall as he approached. He crouched in front of you and gently took your ankle in his hand. Despite yourself, you hissed at the movement. He stood, and you watched as he crossed the room to a cabinet, shuffled through it, and emerged with a roll of white gauze bandage in his hand. You watched as he returned to the place before you, knelt, and removed your shoe as carefully as he could.

The choir built in their noble tones, projecting their reverence as if they thought if they just sang a little louder, God would hear. And He would be pleased.

The choral melody grew and you had the wry thought that maybe they could sense the devil had crossed their doorstep. Maybe the darkness of the crimson-clad vigilante in all his power and fury had spurred them into higher worship. Because - power and fury - that what you’d heard he’d held. Yet here he was, patching you up after he’d executed a wickedly genius scheme to save your life.

Why the Devil? Why is that how he saw himself? Here, taking care of you while praises were being sung by loving followers to their Heavenly Father, in the depths of this cathedral, he was the furthest thing from the devil.

You so desperately wanted to understand, to offer him some sort of explanation to use, to have your brain move as fast as your instinct. Maybe he felt as if he’d fallen from grace, like Lucifer. Maybe he felt abandoned by his father, maybe he felt as if his god was his adversary. Maybe he felt evil. Maybe you’d never know until you asked.

“There’s a bed in a side room,” he said, tucking the expertly wrapped bandage into itself and moving to take you into his arms.

“I’m okay here,” you whispered, since that was all you could manage at the moment.

There wasn’t any resistance in your voice or your body, so Matt slotted one arm under your knees, another behind your back and stood to carry you somewhere more comfortable.

The room was small and dingy but you could still hear the choir. Echoes of it, really, but it was still there. And that was nice. It was beautiful, and you got unexpectedly choked up when a minor chord was struck and the voices lifted while you were lowered onto the bed to be sitting up with your back against the wall.

The pillow was nice and cool, the comforter soft beneath your fingertips as you took in the feeling of it. The sound of the angels singing, the softness of the well-loved fabric, the scent of some burning candle in the corner, the taste of the crisp night’s air. You took it all in, and it suddenly hit you how close you came to never experiencing any of that ever again. In something as simple as a four-part harmony filtered through several walls, you found the most appreciation for life that you’d ever held. The tears filled your eyes and you felt too numb to stop them. How do you even process something like this?

You stared into space in front of you, vaguely aware of a cabinet, vaguely aware of your companion kneeling beside the bed as you drew absent patters with your fingertips into the comforter. Had anything ever been so real?

Is this real? This couldn’t be real.

“You’re panicking,” his voice told you. Were you? You felt too calm to be panicking but nothing felt real. Or, everything did. Everything felt too real.

Reynolds threw you off a building. You should’ve died. It was the top floor. Matt Murdock was the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen. Everything was impossible yet still the choir sang hosanna as the devil held your hand.

Your hand. He’d taken it in both of his.

You stole a brief glance at him. He was hard to look at and the mask was freakier up close, with its hollow red eyes and threatening spiked horns. His lips were parted, they were familiar, they were the only thing in this entire world that made sense. As the crescendo mounted throughout the holy church, you turned to face him and leaned in.

Matt knew your mind would be moving a million miles a minute, so he didn’t stop you from reaching out and tenderly touching the sides of the mask, right were his cheekbones were. Your fingertips shook ever so slightly, another person may not have noticed.

Right now, it wasn’t so. That’s the white lie you told yourself as you traced the edge of the hard, scaled piece that protected his identity and his head from bullets. You squeezed your eyes shut at the realisation that it wasn’t perfect protection and this is why Murdock never told you where the bruises came from. Why he dodged the question.

Right now, it wasn’t so. You knew, but the mask hadn’t come off. There was still plausible deniability. Maybe Daredevil was a liar, or Murdock had a secret twin, or-

Matt felt your breath shake as your fingers trailed a familiar pattern over his ears and to the back of his head.

He knew it was important for you to do this yourself.

You finally found what you were looking for, undoing the clasp which held his headpiece in place. He didn’t move as you pulled away and removed the mask and cowl. With his identity in your hands, you looked into Matt Murdock’s eyes. His gaze was fixed in some semblance of shame, somewhere well past you.

“You really are blind,” you whispered in relief, then started feeling your breath pick up against your will. “How d-” The words were caught in your throat. “I don’t under- Murdock,” you whispered his name, begging him to fill in the blanks before you went mad.

He placed his hands over yours and over the thing that kept him hidden. “You need to calm down,” he soothed, his voice low. “I understand this is a lot to process but you need-”

“I need a drink,” you choked out, startled to become aware of your shivering when Murdock began placing a blanket around your shoulders. The chill of New York’s late autumn bit at your nose, ears, fingers and the toes of your neatly-wrapped foot. The blanket hadn’t started doing its job yet, considering Murdock was still wrapping it around you, but a warmth surged through you at his closeness and you couldn’t tear your gaze from his eyes.

His glance was hollow but true. His fingers ran down the hem of the white woollen fabric as he brought it to overlap in front of you. You lifted your hands and took the task from him, settling the blanket snugly across your front. His hands moved but didn’t leave you, because after your fingers brushed over his he made sure your shoulders were covered. With great care, he ran his hands up your arms and then along your collar to the base of your neck. Slowly, intentionally, he squeezed once and let out a sad breath. Before you could muster something to say, he stood and walked out.

You didn’t call after him because you could hear him opening cabinets and searching through shelves for just under a minute before he returned with a bottle of wine in his hand.

You smiled uncomfortably, even though smiling felt entirely wrong right now. “Is it sacrilegious to drink holy communion wine straight from the bottle?”

Matt smiled back and he felt uncomfortable doing so, but there was something in your voice that wanted to grasp at a distraction so he tried to move your mind away from the panic. “It’s just wine,” he explained as he approached the bed. He untwisted the cap and sat down next to you with both feet planted on the floor. He sat side-on to you, his glance now fixed at a spot across the small room. He held the freshly opened bottle towards you in an offering. You accepted it and noticed he’d taken off his gloves. He feels safe here.

He continued explaining. “There’s nothing holy about the wine until the Eucharist. Besides,” he listened as you took a sip. “I’m sure your research would’ve told you I’m not ordained. I can’t give communion.”

The dark and rich flavour burst in your mouth. The wine wasn’t necessarily bad, or good, it was just alcohol. You chuckled once through your nose and bumped your eyebrows. “There are a lot of things my research didn’t tell me.”

Silence fell for a few moments as you looked down at the bottle and ran your fingertip against the edge of the label. “So the wine is made holy through communion,” you said, more of a question than a statement.

“Not exactly,” he held his hand out for the bottle. You passed it back and watched as he took a messy swig himself. He pressed the back of this other hand against his mouth to catch any stray drops. “It ceases to be wine, all but physically.”

“Then… what does it become?”

“The blood of Christ.”

“How?”

“Prayer.”

The thick glass vessel was once again in your hands. The earthy, fruity aroma filled the space between you two. From the bottle. From your breaths. It was so cold that you could see your wine-laced exhale bloom and dissolve in the divide between you and him. You had to ask.

“The mask. Is it your prayer?”

He turned his head more towards you so you could see his eyebrows knit together in thought. You elaborated as your thumbnail picked at the label and the paper bunched under your touch.

“Do you, all but physically, cease to be Matt Murdock when you put it on?”

Heaving a deep sigh, he took another draw from the bottle to afford himself the time to think. The mouthful burned on the way down. With wine lingering on his tongue, he gave a one-shoulder shrug. “I’m still figuring that out.”

“Figuring what out?”

“If Daredevil is part of me, or just…” he waved a weak hand in thought and his shoulders curved in with the weight of all he’d done. “… me.”

“If you become yourself by taking the mask off, or by putting it on,” you rephrased to better understand. He nodded. It made sense.

You searched your mind for the few times you and Murdock had discussed Daredevil and it all made sense. All at once, like a smack in the face.

He said Daredevil wanted to be there: true. He never said he was talking to Daredevil, he said he was talking to a contact: true. Over and over you realised how carefully he danced around the subject, catching your thoughts faster than he catches your hands those times you’d playfully shove his shoulder.

“Defence attorney by day, vigilante by night,” you sighed and took the wine from his hand. Almost sadly, you admit, “You’re one hell of a hero.”

“No,” he shook his head, sounding disgusted with himself. “Heroes don’t play with innocent lives.”

You winced and disagreed. “You didn’t-”

“I didn’t know if he’d catch you,” he cut in. “When Reynolds threw you over.” He passed the bottle back to you, then ran a hand through his hair. “I didn’t know if the kid would catch you.”

Your thumb ran over the bottle’s peeling label, your glance on Murdock’s profile. “How did you know he’d throw me over?”

“I didn’t trust your judgement. You were being reckless.”

Hearing him say it out loud stung more than you thought it would, and your cheek burned with the shame of him being right.

He didn’t dwell on it. “That’s why I had to track down the kid.”

You were thankful he didn’t dwell, and he didn’t seem to hate you for your recklessness. “Who is he?”

“Calls himself Spider-Man,” Matt chuckled once through his nose. You did too, and you bumped your eyebrows. “I’d heard about him. Out there,” he pointed to the ceiling, but more to the streets. “He was causing headaches to dealers, petty crooks, car thieves, the like - he’s been interfering for a few months now. I’d heard about what he could do. Seemed to be worth a shot,” he hung his head, then tilted it towards you.

You took a deep breath in slowly through your nose. Your heartbeat still demanded to be felt but it was calming. Your silence let him continue.

“I never should’ve let you go in like that.”

“That’s not your-”

“Yeah, not my decision,” Matt scoffed, then shook his head again before mumbling, “Should’ve locked you in this crypt.”

“Hey,” you warned. “I don’t regret it.” He didn’t respond, so you digressed. “In fact, I’m glad it happened the way it did.”

“Don’t say that.”

“I’m being honest.”

“I know you are,” he sighed and turned his attention to ceiling for a moment or two, listening, before levelling his head again. “You almost died.”

“If my death led to saving those girls then it would’ve been worth it.” He opened his mouth to argue but you laughed, knowing the very place he brought you proved your point. “Look where we are, Murdock,” you urged, sitting up and placing a hand on his forearm. “Isn’t this whole… thing- this church, your religion, everything you believe in, everything you do… isn’t it all about sacrificing for others?”

“No,” he screwed up his face, not knowing how to make you understand. “It’s never been about sacrifice,” he heaved out with effort to hold back his emotion. “It’s about protecting what I love. This city, the people I care about…”

He made a point of each word as he slowly explained, “I will make sacrifices to protect what I love.”

His earthy brown eyes were on you as if he could see every thought in the pained expression you felt twisted into your skin. You wondered if letting you leave was a sacrifice he made, but it felt entirely selfish to ask right now.

“So now you know,” he said, eyes still on you. “Can I trust you to keep this quiet?”

You wanted to laugh and tell him he was being ridiculous. Of course you’d never tell anyone - you obviously didn’t want him and Foggy and Karen to end up dead in a ditch because Fisk caught wind of the truth from your loose lips. You wanted to say you’d go to the end of the world to bury this secret because letting this out would be the greatest injustice imaginable.

And he cared about justice.

There was too much to say. Too much was making sense as your mind placed pieces together faster than you could speak. So you opened your mouth to try and say something comforting or useful or true. All that came out was:

“I’d never reveal a source.”

Matt nodded, his head settling downwards again before he turned towards you. “I’m sorry I put you in this position.”

A tense breath entered your nose and you felt your heart rate kick up a notch as you remembered, in quick flashes, photos of criminals who’d found themselves under the fists of the Devil. ‘Brutal,’ was the first word that came to mind when you’d seen his handiwork.

“I don’t get it,” you admitted. “This… balancing act you do. Defending criminals by day and beating them to a pulp by night, I-”

“That’s not fair-”

“No,” you cut back in. “It’s not.” You exhaled sharply and continued. “You wanna know the truth, Murdock? Why I can’t stand Daredevil? Tony Stark? All those Avengers assholes?” The words tasted bitter, stinging up your throat like an angry hornet desperate to escape where it’d been suppressed for years. You winced as you said it. “I’m so fucking jealous.”

Matt didn’t flinch at your admission. He wasn’t smacked or warded off. No. You were letting him in.

“Stark is protected by his armour and billions of dollars. Rogers, by a super-serum, you… by the mask. You can all do anything you want, and with such little consequence.” You paused and placed the wine on the bedside table. “I became a journalist because I wanted to expose the truth about bad people hiding in plain sight. I didn’t want there to be a shadow of an offshore account they could hide in, or a corrupt move they could make without someone knowing. But at the end of the day, my real name is below the headline and above the facts. And I can’t help but wonder if there’s going to be a day I choose to not speak up because I’m afraid of what’ll happen if I do.”

His warm hand slid over yours, his thumb drawing comfort on your frost-kissed skin. Immediately, your cheeks warmed in abashment. He probably thought you were pathetic, petulant, petty. Maybe he’d suggest you needed a mask too - a pen-name, a secure server.

“That day will never come,” he declared, low and true. His mouth turned downward and he tilted his head towards your throbbing ankle. “That fracture will remind you for a long time coming.”

You grimaced at the thought of a cast and physiotherapy and, fuck, dealing with insurance. Still, more pressing matters. Everything you wanted to say felt like too much and not enough. There was so much to process before your life was about to get, legally, hectic.

You knew there’d be fallout from your plummet down the side of a building, from the Reynolds confrontation, from you discovering Murdocks’ secret- or, was it Daredevil’s secret?

“I need you to know that meant it,” you twisted your hand to hold his, lacing your fingers together. “When I said I wanted to know you.”

“I know you meant it then,” he squeezed your hand. Matt Murdock had conquered fear and pain long ago. With every strike of his cane and slice of his words, Stick had made sure of that. But this was a new sort of sickly pain and gut-wrenching fear. Because what if now, after you’d figured him out, you decided he wasn’t worth knowing?

He held on like someone deciding whether or not to let go.

You thought hard, pieces began falling into place. He’s not half-man, half-devil.

He tensed. “And now?”

There’s no prayer, no Eucharist, no ritual. Matt Murdock and Daredevil are the same man in different disguises.

You could feel the unease in his touch and hear the shaken earth in his voice as it all came to a head. Carefully, as if he might break, you removed your hand from his grasp.

A just man.

Defeat struck across his face, until you took his hand in both of yours. The wool blanket slipped off your shoulders as you lifted his palm to rest it above your heart.

“A curious woman tempted by the devil... doesn’t your Bible start like this, Murdock?”

Matt wants to smile under your words and gaze. And touch. How did he go without it for so long? But he needs to hear you say it.

“I went to Sunday School when I was a kid,” you furrowed your brow, pulling up memories, remembering that those times long passed. “I always felt like everyone was so unfair to Eve. I mean, she just wanted to know everything.” You licked your drying lips and gave a small shrug, holding his hand in place.

Beautifully, steadily, your heart beat against his touch. Like the sure rhythm of a song you’d danced to your whole life, one you knew well, one you’d never abandon. As always, you told him the truth.

“I want to know everything about you. Will you let me in?”

You barely finished your question before he kissed you as an answer. Sweetly, lovingly. He sighed into you, filled with relief when your hand slid back and your fingers tangled in his hair. He found his own hands lifting to take either side of your jaw in the most delicate hold, his gentleness saying I’ll be careful with you, I promise. His lips trailed along your skin, his fingertips pulsed once against the sides of your neck, and he kissed the soft place below your ear.

Your hands travelled and roamed each other’s bodies but could never get too far without holding on tight and pulling the other close. By the time you were coherent enough to remember that taking his suit off was the only thing you wanted to do in that moment, you found it was too hard to locate a button or zipper or anything.

Matt felt your fumble around and laughed against your lips, making you frown in frustration and pull back. “Don’t laugh at me when my foot is fractured.”

He melted into a smile and propped himself up with hands planted either side of you. “We should get you to a hospital.”

You groaned, knowing he was right, and let yourself slump back against the wall. Just because he was right didn’t mean you couldn’t give him an annoyed look. “You’re fired, by the way.”

He stood and grinned. “Good to know,” he bumped his brows. “The Offices of Nelson in Murdock will need that in writing though.”

You accepted the offer of both his hands to pull yourself up and turn to plant your good foot against the ground. Before you could stand, he knelt in front of you and checked the bandage and reassess the damage done to your bones. He was gentle, with his touch and with his voice when he said “You know it’s going to be you and your name up on that stand to tell a jury what Reynolds did to do. No billions, no super-serum. No mask.”

The air suddenly felt colder. “I know.”

“It’s your choice whether or not you want to speak up.”

“If they believe him, that I jumped to stage a scene, I’ll lose my credibility. My reputation will be ruined- ah shit.”

His hands weren’t on it, but a sharp pain shot between the nerves your fractured bones. You winced and swore under your breath, and in that moment you knew that you would not let Arthur Reynolds’ true self stayed hidden in the shadows.

The first night you talked to Murdock, truly talked, before you knew the identity of the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen, you’d cited the vigilante as evidence for your claim that New York City ran on compromises in the name of the greater good. Sometimes those compromises stung. Sometimes they wouldn’t feel worth it and onlookers wouldn’t understand.

It was hard for Murdock to understand - why you were so okay with Reynolds effectively getting away with throwing you off a building. Yet, here he was holding your hand in both of his, and he’d accepted it too. The rough and comforting callouses on his palm smoothed over your fingers. He leaned close and whispered encouragement as the judge readied to call you to the podium.

It was even harder for your parents to understand. Because of the legal jargon, of course, but also because trying to tiptoe around the narrative seeped in vigilantes was no small task. Explaining what happened while protecting the Daredevil secret was difficult. It was tough emotionally too, but you couldn’t keep all those thoughts that’d flashed across your mind as you fell all bottled up. At least, that’s what the therapist said.

People knew a falling woman had been caught by a web-slinging hero. New York was covered in cameras so in less than two days it felt like the whole world knew. They started calling him Spider-Man after that.

When you’d reported your attempted murder to the police they couldn’t ignore you. After all, there you were: falling backward off a building.

But those brief seconds of wind-whipped acceptance weren’t the reason you were in the courtroom today. Because, at the trial against Arthur Reynolds, the jury couldn’t come to a unanimous decision on who’s story to believe. Hence - the therapist. The court-ordered one who swore under penalty of perjury that, in his professional opinion, nothing in his assessment would suggest you would have willingly jumped from that building.

Reynolds’ lawyer Patrick was a real bastard and he was good at being a bastard. He convinced at least one person on that jury that you’d conspired with Daredevil and Spider-Man to frame Reynolds and gain fame with your name on the headlines. Your own lawyer countered with half a dozen articles of yours that’d already made front page; your career didn’t need any help.

It also didn’t help that some of the key evidence was destroyed, and that the mere idea of Murdock testifying as Daredevil was so far off the table that it wasn’t even entertained.

In the end, even you had to admit there was reasonable doubt.

Everyone walked around you delicately for days. As many times as you said you were at peace with the verdict, they’d rush to say that they trusted you and couldn’t believe he’d gotten away with it. Tabloids swore up and down that Reynolds had bribed someone, or that there was a bitter woman-hater on the panel, or any number of things, and that you should file a civil suit.

But you? All you wanted was for Tony Stark’s gang of supers to fuck up so badly that people stopped talking about you.

You knew, and Murdock knew, the prosecutors couldn’t get him for everything. How could they? If it had been easy to prove it would’ve unravelled years ago.

They didn’t get him for the arson of Harold Avery’s store, but Nelson and Murdock proved at a pre-trial hearing that the evidence was shoddy at best, so the charges were dropped and the insurance funds released in full.

They didn’t get him for threatening you, assaulting you, or attempting to kill you. Because of that, a cynical nag in the back of your mind often tried to lure you towards discontentment.

On the worst days, since that night he’d meant to end your life, while the prosecutors charged him with fraud, delivered subpoenas and mounted a case, on the days it looked like he was about to find some legal loophole, you’d shed angry tears and shout at the ceiling that if New York City cared more about crimes against money than they did crimes against your body, couldn’t they at least get that right? Murdock’s steady hands would anchor you, hold you, remind you that you were the reason Reynolds was deemed a flight risk and kept in custody while awaiting trial. Murdock would tell you the legal theory when he thought you needed it, and shut up when he knew you didn’t.

Those days were hard.

But on those days, when you languished in the reality that they couldn’t get him for everything, you reminded yourself: they got him for Isabel.

So it was okay.

As soon as the news broke of her ex-husband’s arrest, Izzy Branson had her lawyers contact the Attorney General’s office. She told them everything. About how he falsified drug tests from a private investigator. How he’d threatened to get her sent away to some facility in Eastern Europe. How he’d promised she’d never see her son again if she tried to get help.

Reynolds tried to settle out of court. Izzy declined and pressed charges. Thankfully, they got a member of her security team to roll on Arthur for an immunity deal.

In his state trial for domestic violence, Arthur Reynolds was found guilty.

Izzy was called to testify. The brave and beautiful Isabel. Her stare didn’t leave her ex-husband as she undressed him in front of judge, jury, and public opinion. She recounted the way he threatened to fabricate evidence, to shut her completely out of Malcolm’s life, to get her sent off to “rehab” somewhere in Siberia if she ever spoke his name in the press. There were at least five occasions, she recalled, when he became physically violent with her. There were at least two occasions, she recalled, when he’d held her over the edge of the balcony.

In her victims impact statement, she looked to the judge and explained that as a result of this abuse she still has trouble with trusting people, with sleeping, with paranoia, and has developed a debilitating fear of heights even after years of therapy.

The State of New York sentenced him to six years, with a non-parole period of four years, credit for time served. It wasn’t nearly enough for all he’d done.

But then came the federal charges.

The United States of America v. Arthur Reynolds.

In the end, Arthur Reynolds as a criminal mastermind was… disappointing. You’d never say that out loud, considering the unimaginable pain he caused and countless lives he ruined, but you were used to chasing a story with so much more grit and gravitas, and, in the end, it was all about money.

How fucking disappointing.

No grand scheme to rule the world, or the universe, or any of the universes out there that Earth’s population had collectively become aware of years before. He wasn’t out for revenge, there was no wounded heart and soul behind the way he used and discarded people. There was nothing. Just another greedy, money-hungry… disappointment. He’ll be the talk of the town until the Avengers blow up another country. Then, he’ll fade into oblivion. Only to be remembered by those he hurt the most.

By Izzy when she steps onto a balcony. By the way your ankle still creaks when you step on it wrong. By Harold Avery when he obsessively watches the cameras in his new shop at two in the morning. By the hundreds of girls who would’ve remained voiceless.

Thankfully, those were the voices you’d been entrusted with. Those were the voices that brought you here today.

Murdock squeezed your hand as Judge Washington began her spiel.

“A key part of the sentencing process is giving victims the opportunity to share how the crime has affected them,” she began, then looked down her glasses at where Reynolds sat behind thick bulletproof glass. He wore no emotion on his face, save for a flash of contempt behind his hazel eyes. “A jury of your peers has found you guilty on multiple counts of fraud, scheming to defraud, embezzlement and blackmail.”

Albeit inappropriate, you couldn’t fight your smile. It felt just as euphoric as the first time Judge Jamila Washington had asked the jury if they’d reached their verdict after two days of deliberation, and the moment that foreperson in his powder blue jacket had stood and confirmed that yes, in the eyes of the law, Arthur Reynolds was a filthy criminal.

Judge Washington said your name, and you knew it was time. With their wounds and stories giving heavy weight to the folder in your hand, you stood.

A choir of whispers and glittering clicking cameras echoed through the room and bounced off the pews. You caught Jorge’s eye on the way to the stand, and he gave you an encouraging nod from the eighth row. He’d been the most incredible help on the ground in Haiti.

You placed the folder down on the podium, being careful with these girls’ stories, bringing a hush over the whispers. “Thank you, your Honour,” you acknowledged the judge and then took a dismissive glance at Reynolds.

You introduced yourself with your real name.

“Six months ago I was given the great privilege to speak via video link with a number of the students at Stark Foundation schools in Haiti, Guatemala and Colombia. These schools were set up to fulfil the need for education that, as has been proven in this court room, Arthur Reynolds so readily exploited for his own financial gain. The old structures were torn down and state-of-the-art facilities have been built. Experienced teachers and support staff have dedicated themselves to helping these girls through their trauma, and providing the education their parents were promised when they sent their girls off to Arthur Reynolds so-called “free” boarding school.”

Little did those parents know, their children were used as free labour to pack drugs for a local gang - an evil plan that’d begun to hatch when Arthur Reynolds visited Haiti in his late twenties and found his way to the outskirts of town. The gangs needed money to make more money. They needed labour. Reynolds invested.

A bittersweet silver lining was that the student were protected from physical harm, for the sole purpose of being photographed for press and fundraising.

“In dozens of instances, these girls recall, they were made to pose in school uniforms with donated items, or to act like they were in class. One instance was with brand new computers donated by a school in Ohio. Once photos were taken of these smiling children with their gifts, the uniforms went back in the closet and the laptops were ripped from their hands to be distributed among the gang. One girl recalls overhearing her quote-unquote “teacher” say how the laptops were a gift of thanks from Mr Reynolds for the great returns they’d made that quarter.”

“Your Honour, thank you for the opportunity to bring you the victim impact statements of Roseline, Fabienne, Jude, Esther, Maria, and many more girls. I have forty-six individual statements, and these barely scratch the surface.”

“Right here! Look here!”

“Can you tell us how it feels to watch justice prevail for everyone else but yourself?”

“Give us a smile! Thumbs up for the win!”

“Tell us more about the-”

“Look over he-”

Murdock guided you through the mess of journalists and paparazzi waiting outside the courthouse for the scoop on what happened inside. The sentencing was live on several news channels but they all wanted your comment.

He held your hand tight and pushed through the crowd towards the road, not afraid to use his cane on a few ankles that wouldn’t move out of his way. When they collectively realised they were impeding the path of a blind man, and you weren’t even looking at them, they moved aside to swarm the District Attorney as she exited the building.

Almost as quickly as they appeared, they vanished. Leaving you on the sidewalk catching your breath with Murdock, glancing up to catch the DA begin to answer some questions.

“Vultures,” you scoffed. Murdock laughed at the hypocrisy. You rolled your eyes and nudged him. “I’m not like that.” He smirked. “I’m not!” You started to protest, but his strong hand found a gentle place on your jaw, then slid over your ear until he’d once, soothingly, run his fingers through your hair and found a steadfast hold cradling the back of your neck.

“Hey,” he stopped you with a warm smile. “I’m proud of you.”

You felt yourself blush. Even now, after all this time, what he thought of you meant everything. “Yeah, well-“

“I mean it,” he nodded, dropping his smile just a little bit. Just enough to give you a glimpse into the emotion he was holding back here outside the courthouse.

“I couldn’t have done it with you,” you whispered back. You kept the tears in, having cried enough in the past few weeks. You sighed, but there wasn’t relief in it just yet. It was hard to believe it was really over. “I’m glad this is done.”

“You should take a break.”

“What- hell no! It’s a Thursday afternoon. I’ve got work to do.”

He laughed and dropped his hand to meet yours, giving you a playful yet firm smile. “I mean it. Let’s go away this weekend.” He tilted his head, letting his smile grow into a grin. “Get out of the city.”

“Well…” you winced and mulled it over, biting the side of your lower lip. “My parents have a lake house upstate we could use…”

“Great,” he smiled, and that was that.

Then, his phone rang with Foggy’s name over and over. Then, also, your phone vibrated in your bag. Both of you answered your calls and took a step away from each other to hear your conversations.

“What’s up, Foggy?”

“Hey, yeah it’s over. Reynolds was sentenced him to seventy-nine years in prison. Hundreds of millions in damages to be payed too.”

“Attempted kidnapping? Who’s the complainant?”

“Woah, slow down… what?”

You both continued your conversations, gathering the facts, mounting your internal plans of investigation, already coming up with a dozen defences and even more possibilities. Your calls ended at nearly the exact same time, and you turned back to each other.

“We have a client in custody. I have to meet Foggy at the station,” he replaced his phone in his pocket.

“The Avengers just had a major PR disaster in Nigeria,” you replied in turn. “One of their enhanced blew up a building with a bunch of Wakandan aid workers inside. I need to call my contact at Stark Industries, try to get a comment from Potts or their media team… this is going to dominate headlines for days.”

You both paused, holding your breaths, waiting for the other to protest.

Neither of you did, so you smiled mischievously and took a step towards him to close the gap between you two. Smoothing out his collar, straightening his tie, you asked, “Rain check on upstate?”

Matt himself leaned forwards and placed a loving kiss to your wanting lips, his hands meeting yours where they were now closed around his lapel. “Go get ‘em.”

You smiled and smoothed down his jacket. “I’ll see you at home, Murdock.”

Matt listened as your shoes made their way down the pavement in the direction of your office. He took in the wildflower field of your perfume lingering after you as you went in pursuit of the story, armed with the desire for knowledge and the conviction to share it. As he turned, extended his walking stick and started making his way towards the jail, he smiled at your parting words.

After all this time, you still called him Murdock. Even after he told you he loved you, after you told him you loved him, after you started leaving a toothbrush and then after you’d moved in and put plants in the living room you now shared.

Even after you finally knew where he kept the wine.

He wondered if you’d still call him Murdock after it was your last name too. Then again, who was he to assume you’d take his last name? That was a conversation to be had after he’d asked you the question he’d been planning to ask when the nightmare was over.

He’d been hoping to ask you away from the madness, out of the city, if you’d have him. All of him. Everything, forever.

But now that there was a client in custody and a superhero meltdown on another continent, it occurred to Matt that you two would always be drawn to the heart centre of New York. To its people and its problems.

So perhaps there was no better time than amidst the chaos, and no better place than the living room of your loft in Hell’s Kitchen.

He could order Thai takeout and somehow wrangle you into those red basketball shorts for old time’s sake. If he did that, you’d smell it from a block away.

Then again… maybe you’d already figured it out.

Because today, of all days, you were wearing that damn perfume.

EPILOGUE

#Matt Murdock #matt murdock x reader #matt Murdock x you #matt Murdock fanfiction #daredevil x reader #Daredevil Netflix #daredevil x you #matt murdock fanfic #marvel fanfic #marvel x reader #matt Murdock angst #long fanfic #matt Murdock series #off the record #spicy Matt Murdock

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thyme-in-a-bubble · 9 months ago

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the slow night

buttercup, chapter six

a/n: he a hoe and I love him. thank you and goodnight.

summary: as the peck blossomed into something much more ravenous, a soft laugh began to billow out of you, “Mr. Murdock,” you tilted your head back as his lips began to flutter down your neck, “if I didn’t know any better, I’d say you came over here to seduce me.”

warnings: matt murdock x baker!reader, smut, neighbours to lovers, rape recovery, ptsd, the black daredevil suit, kissing, semi public sex (at the bakery), clothed sex, dirty talk, hair pulling, oral, protected sex, penetrative sex, multiple orgasms

word count: 3244

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Leaning against the doorway to the small bakery bathroom, you watched Walter’s tongue poke out the side of his mouth as he flicked glittery stripes of eyeliner over his lids.

“You sure you’re okay with closing up on your own tonight?” you heard Howard ask you as he sat on a low stool some space behind you, bending down to tie his shoes.

“Yeah, I’m sure,” you smiled, glancing back over your shoulder at him, “you two deserve a night off.”

Staring out into space, your uncle leaned his tattooed forearms on his robust thighs a moment as he murmured, “you know, I don’t even remember the last time we went out…” casting a glance past you at the bald man in front of the mirror, Howard raised his voice, “honey, did you find out what queens are performing tonight?”

Popping the lid back on the pencil, the former club kid tilted his head approvingly in the reflection, “I think Holly Day still works Friday nights there, but other than that I have no idea,” he exited the bathroom, only to press a small peck to your cheek as he slid passed.

“Urgh,” you groaned with a smile, letting your inner child temporarily show as you dragged the back of your palm over the faint lipstick stain, “well, have fun you two!”

“Night, night, cupcake,” Howard blew you a few brief kisses as the pair scurried out of the shop, “don’t forget to feed the sourdough starter, oh! And mix a new batch of ginger maple cookies, portion them out and pop them in the freezing–, also–”

“Howard,” you interrupted him with a smile just as Walter pulled open the back door for them to exit, “I know what I need to do. I’ve done this countless of times before, I’ll be perfectly fine.”

“Alright,” he exhaled slowly.

“If it’ll help, I can send you a picture of the place before I lock up.”

A relieved smile then warmed up your uncle’s features, “thank you, sweetie.”

Half yanking his husband out of the door, Walter offered you one last wave, “bye, Y/n!” before the solid door slammed shut behind them.

Bending down, you put the last one of the wide and clean bowls away on the bottom shelf of the metal storage system in the corner of the kitchen.

The skirt of your dress swooshed gently around your legs as you straightened back up, like a summer breeze, fluttering against your skin. Reaching for a clean cloth, you briefly ran it under the tap before wiping down the aftermath beside the sink following your dance with the dishes. One of the tiny puddles of splashed water soaked your apron as you leaned over the steel table to reach deeper, turning it a darker shade of brown right over your belly button.

Just then, from out of nowhere, “hi,” the voice of your neighbour echoed throughout the kitchen, thoroughly startling you and causing the rag to drop from your grasp.

“Ah!” you jumped, haven not even heard the back door creak open, “Matthew!” pressing a soothing palm to your chest as you spun around, a light giggle flowed from your lips, “oh my god, you scared the crap out of me!”

“Sorry,” he chuckled, leisurely leaning against the far counter close to the back exit.

You already knew he’d be out on patrol tonight, but actually seeing him stand there before you was something else entirely. The black suit clung tight to his physic, and now that grave injuries no longer distracted and adorned his visage, the vision of the obsidian vigilante that stood in front of you proficiently provided you with a sinful shiver that trickled down your spine.

“What are you doing here?” you asked, attempting to brush off the tingle that bloomed between your thighs.

A bold smirk bloomed on his lips, visible below the dark mask, as he slowly stepped closer to you, “it’s a slow night,” gently tugging his gloves off and tossing them to the table he passed, an action you didn’t expect to find as seductive as you evidently did, goosebumps now blossoming all along your arms.

“A slow night, huh?” you chuckled, tilting your chin as he neared.

“And I was in the area,” he cocked his head as his hands settled on either side of your frame, leaning against the counter behind you.

“How convenient,” you smiled, his light-hearted explanations not convincing you in the slightest. Matt’s fingers then found your chin, tilting it further up as he bent down to brush his lips against your own. Your knees nearly buckled as you felt yourself swiftly sink into the intoxicating sensation, your arms gliding up and over the black fabric that hugged him, till they were locked around his neck. As the peck blossomed into something much more ravenous, a soft laugh began to billow out of you, “Mr. Murdock,” you tilted your head back as his lips began to flutter down your neck, “if I didn’t know any better, I’d say you came over here to seduce me.”

Mirroring your own chuckle, he playfully tested, “and what if I am, huh?”

“Wait, really?” you giggled, your hands seized each side of his face and pulled him back a bit as his hot mouth worked wonders at making you lose your train of thought, “you sure you weren’t just hungry or something?”

“Hm,” his palms slid up to cup over yours as he cheekily said, “something, yeah…” peeling your fingers off of his stubbly cheeks, he placed a few pecks in your open palms, “I would fucking love a taste of something sweet.”

Tearing your gaze away from his onyx visage, you briefly cast a glance around the space, “uhm, I don’t really know what’s left over from today, but there might be someth–”

“Nuh-uh, that’s not the kinda treat I was thinking of,” he smirked brightly as he wrapped his arms around your waist, drawing you in closer to his warmth as his fingers sneaked under the apron’s knot.

Finally reading his obvious subtext, “o-oh,” you couldn’t help but giggle as he then leaned down to kiss you again, swallowing your laugh till it melted away into a low moan that vibrated against his lavish tongue.

Scrambling closer, you damn nearly climbed him like a tree with how desperately you clawed at his mass. When his touch slid further down your frame and curved around your ass, he briefly offered you a squeeze that you swore soared all the way to the sensitive nerve endings in your throbbing clit, before he scooped you up and sat you down on the steel countertop. As he slotted his width in between your parted thighs, his teeth playfully caught your bottom lip.

Fluttering your fingers further up, you cupped the sides of his face as the heated make-out slowly began to ease. The tips of your touch grazed the bottom of his black mask as you gently pulled back.

Blinking back at him through your lashes, your digits ghosted over the material as you uttered, “…can I take this off?”

A faint smile tugged at his lips as he softly nodded, “mhm,” and let you peel the charcoal mask off of him. Letting it drop to the table right beside where you sat, you gazed back at him for a moment, his chocolate eyes gently crinkled up in bliss as you briefly traced a light caress over a few of his newly revealed features before you sealed your lips with his once more.

Undoubtedly, your panties must have clung to your core at this point from how soaked they felt.

Abruptly, Matt’s soft lips suddenly strayed from yours. Fluttering your gaze open, a giggle bubbled out of your lungs as you saw him slowly sink down to the tile floor beneath you.

“Matty,” you beamed, your touch straying from his cheek as he settled down on his knees.

Slowly raising a sliver of your hemline up to your knees, his lips grazed against your shin and leisurely roamed further north.

Burying your fingers in the fabric of your dress, you gently began to hike it up till it, and the brown apron, bunched above your hips.

Your breathing was ragged, and your mouth hung agape when his kisses neared your centre. One of his warm palms stayed planted on your inner thigh after he’d split your legs further to grant himself better access as you sat there, nearly dangling on the edge.

A shiver ran through you when he placed a brief kiss to the soaked spot soddening your underwear, before his reach extended and hooked the cotton to the side, a sting of your slick clung momentarily to the fabric before snapping back against your core.

“Fuck,” he let out a gravelly groan and you felt his breath tickle your cunt before his hand, the one not clutching your soaked panties, curled around your frame and tugged you towards him, closing the minuscule distance between his zealous mouth and your glistening centre.

Parting your petals with dizzying laps, Matt let out a moan as he made out with your pussy, the tickling vibrations caused your thighs to tremble beside his head.

“God…” spellbound, he pulled back for but a second, “your pussy tastes like fucking heaven,” before he tilted his chin and enraptured your clit, fervently sucking down on it in a way that made your eyes roll in your skull.

“Oh my god, I–, I–…” you panted, sensing yourself race towards the finish line, but even with how incredible his tongue made you feel, deep down within you rumbled a feral feeling for more. As your pelvis bucked lightly against his efforts, you gasped, “Matt… get up…” unsure if you’d ever felt so empty in your entire life, “get up right fucking now.” When he rose, the lower part of his face glinting with your want, he didn’t get a chance to say anything before you yanked him by his shirt and crashed your lips against his. With the intoxicating taste of yourself lingering on your mouth, your heavy breath fanned across his face as you desperately uttered, “in the corner behind you, on the hook beside where my coat is, my bag, the little front pocket.”

Breathlessly, his expression fogged up in soft puzzlement, “what?”

“I went to the drugstore earlier,” you said, hoping that you wouldn’t have to spell it out for him.

It actually took him a second for him to realise what you were talking about, “oh,” as if he hadn’t hoped or expected anything more than what you’d just let him do. Crossing the room in mere moments, a playful chuckle rumbled from his chest as he fished out the box of condoms, “this is a big pack… were you planning on seducing me?”

Rolling your eyes, you giggled, “oh, shut up and get back here.”

As soon as he was back in your reach, your fingers began to fiddle with his belt, impatiently freeing him as you virtually drooled seeing the imprint of his cock strain against the dark fabric of his pants.

“Put it on, please, please, I wanna feel you so bad,” you begged as he ripped the foil packet open.

“Oh, yeah?”

“Yes, please,” your hungry eyes were glued to his breath-taking fist as he offered himself a brief pump before he hastily rolled the condom on, “Matt, if you don’t fuck me right now then I’ll lose my fucking mind.”

Sighs flowed from the both of you in unison when Matt sank into your drooling cunt. You almost felt drunk, that’s how wound up you’d gotten.

“Oh, you feel so fucking good,” Matt exhaled, letting his forehead melt against your own as he rolled his hips, getting impossibly deep before drawing back a bit and finding a rhythm that caused your legs to be like crickets, shakily rubbing against either side of his frame as fucked you, “sweetheart–, christ… you’re about to cum, aren’t you?” his lips tilted up into a smirk.

“D-don’t you dare stop,” you panted, clawing needily against his torso.

“I won’t, I promise,” he then sank a hand down between your frames to tickle your puffy pearl, “I could do this all day, baby.”

You collapsed back on your elbows when your pussy fluttered around him and a lewd cry accompanied the high.

Panting against the cool table, you hazily blinked up at him as he then uttered in the deepest sincerity.

“God, I'm crazy about you, Y/n,” his expression was soft and dreamlike, “you know that?”

Your eyes went wide a moment, entirely forgetting how to fill your aching lungs, “really?” you then regained control rather gracelessly as you nearly coughed, “sorry... I forgot how to breathe for a second there,” the grin that bloomed on your lips nearly hurt.

Snatching one of your hands up in his, he weaved his fingers with your own, “you okay?”

“Yeah… I’m amazing…” you gazed up at him, “I’m also completely and utterly wild about you,” you then tugged on his hand, drawing him down enough for your lips to graze against his.

His hips instinctively rolled as your tongue flicked across his own, grinding briefly into your sensitivity before he noticed and went back to being completely still within you.

But when your sloppy kiss then parted, you tilted your own hips a bit, slowly fucking yourself shallowly on his cock. As he gently offered you a tender thrust, gradually pulling out of your clinging cunt just a tad, you glanced down between the shy space betwixt you and spotted the ring of your cream that stained the base of his dick.

“Fucking hell,” you whimpered as he straightened his spine back out and brought the back of your palm up to his lips, “I don’t get how I bounce back so quickly with you. It’s like you just have to smile and then I’m just–, oh my god!” you moaned as he changed his angle, brushing directly against a spot that sent a delicious shiver down your spine.

“Oh, you like that? Right there?” he repeated the same lavish motion.

“Y-yes–,” with your interlocked fingers, he then pulled you back up to a sitting position, the shift leaving you breathless, “fuck. You feel so good right now,” his hand let go of yours as it then snaked around your back, his burly forearm supporting your spine as the fingers reached up to weave within your hair, gently scraping his short nails over the nape of your neck.

Drawing you in even closer, your chest pressed against his as he kissed your cheek sweetly while he kept his pace meticulous and precise.

Hugging onto his broad shoulders, your head dropped down to rest against one of them as you then muttered, “harder,” your gaze hazy on the kitchen behind him before your eyes fluttered shut. When he then snapped his hips forward a little more electrically, you weakly repeated in his ear, “harder.”

Slamming into your needy cunt so fiercely that the sound of your skin colliding echoed off the tile walls and a bit of drool began to stain his dark shirt as your cheek stayed smooshed against his width.

“That it?” he growled silkily, “huh?” but when you couldn’t form any coherent words within the mess of moans that flowed from your lips, you didn’t have to see his face to know the grin that bloomed on his face, “aw, it’s alright, sweetheart,” his grip tightened in your hair, “you’re doing so good for me,” tugging intoxicatingly right at the roots, “just relax… that’s it… good girl…”

Keeping his pace rough, he lavishly slid out of you till just his bulbous tip plugged you up, before ramming his cock back in so feverishly that you could scarcely breathe at all, just tremble in his embrace, listening to the pure filth that he murmured in your ear, till you both tumbled over the edge.

With his spent girth nuzzled against your tender pussy, faint hums of contentment flowed from your lungs as Matt gently stroked your hair, his other arm wrapped around you as well as he kept your sluggish frame close to his long after you’d both regained your breaths.

As your fingers disappeared below his neckline and softly rubbed against the warm skin, your voice eventually found his ear, “okay, so I know that you didn’t come in here for a late-night snack,” the corners of your lips tilted upwards, “but now I’m kinda hungry.”

With a gentle chuckle rumbling within his chest, he briskly tugged himself away and untangled himself from you, “one second,” his lips pressed against your hairline before you saw him turn around and wander out of the kitchen.

As you watched him disappear into the front of the bakery, you tugged your panties back over your mess and pushed your dress back down, “oh, I'm not sure if there’s anything left out there–”

“Do you want a raisin bun or a very seedy one?” he asked and your brows flew up as you still hadn’t gotten used to how perceptive his heightened senses let him be.

“Oh, uhm,” you blinked, completely blown away, “raisin.”

Appearing before you once more, he handed you the speckled bun, “here.”

Smiling adoringly back at him, “thank you,” you sank your teeth into the pillowy treat before offering him a small bite, which he gladly accepted as a tender laugh rolled out of him. When you had consumed the sweet bun, a soft yawn promptly flowed out of you, “fuck,” his palms were warm at your waist as your arms briefly curled up beside your head, “I can’t wait to get back home and sleep.”

“How much do you have left to do till you can lock up?”

“Not too much,” your hands dropped back down and rested atop of his for a moment, “how about you? How long do you think you’ll be out there?”

“Probably not too much longer either,” his head tilted gently before he leaned back in.

“Alright,” you smiled, tenderly pressing your lips to his before he snatched up the discarded mask and tugged it back over his features. As his feet began to carry him towards the exit, he paused as soon as you said, “hey Matt?”

“Yeah?” the vigilante twisted back to face you.

A bubble of nerves suddenly fluttered in your belly as you uttered, “when you get back tonight, could you maybe–, uhm… or maybe I could–…”

Swiftly getting at what you were trying to convey, Matt simply marched right back to where you sat and pulled you in for a kiss. Cradling your cheeks a moment longer as he slowly pulled back, he smiled, “there’s a spare key to my place behind the radiator in the hallway.”

Gazing back at him, you uttered, “okay,” feeling like you were floating on a cloud.

“I'll try not to get home too late,” he breathed, pressing his lips to yours one last time before he backed up again.

Calling after him, “be safe!” he stopped on the threshold of the back door for a second, silhouetted by the dark city as he flashed you a grin before he disappeared into the night, leaving you in the bakery alone, feet dangling off the table as a bright smile tenaciously lit up your face.

#lea’s writing #buttercup series #matt murdock smut #matt murdock x reader #matt murdock imagine #matt murdock fanfiction #matt murdock fanfic #matthew murdock imagine #matt murdock x fem!reader smut #matt murdock x y/n #matt murdock x you #daredevil x reader #matt murdock series #matthew murdock x reader #matthew murdock smut #marvel smut #matt murdock fluff #daredevil smut

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bellaxgiornata · 1 year ago

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Seeking Forgiveness [Part One]

Pairing: Matt Murdock x Fem!Reader Word Count: 5.5k

Summary: Matt always made protecting Hell's Kitchen his priority, you knew that when you'd begun dating him. What you hadn't expected was just how much he'd eventually make it a priority over you, breaking promise after promise to spend his time with you. But when you unexpectedly discover that you're pregnant and Matt yet again breaks a promise to you, the pair of you end up in a fight that ends the relationship before you can even break the news. Though when he later learns the truth, Matt becomes hell bent on seeking your forgiveness.

Warnings/tags: 18+ contains angst, emotional hurt, delayed comfort, pregnant Reader

a/n: Starting an angsty mini series so I have somewhere to pour my angst until I can start Holding on to You when ATY finishes. Feedback is always appreciated and the installment list for this series can be found here!

Tag List: @mattmurdocksstarlight @just-going-through-the-motions @paracosmic-murdock @yeonalie

Grabbing the last item on your list for dinner tonight, you set the package of chicken into the basket you were carrying beside the other ingredients. Turning around, you were ready to head towards the checkout, wanting to hurry so you could get over to Matt’s and begin cooking dinner. You were eager to spend the evening with him, desperate not to waste anymore time at the grocery store. But you abruptly stopped in your tracks once the store around you began to spin at the slight movement, the aisles around you blurring in your vision. Raising a hand to your forehead, you closed your eyes and clenched your teeth, standing there and waiting for the dizzy spell to pass, your stomach churning faintly as you did.

It was a minute before you’d finally opened your eyes again, the brief wave of nausea finally subsiding. Blinking a couple of times, you frowned and rubbed your hand across your forehead in confusion. You'd been experiencing dizzy spells and nausea more frequently this week, hitting you at random when you were at work or trying to get something done around your apartment. Yesterday when you’d bent over to pull a load of laundry out of the dryer one time too many, you’d almost thrown up in your laundry basket. You’d been wondering if maybe you’d been coming down with something for the past couple of days now because of it.

With a sigh you decided that you might as well head over towards the pharmacy while you were already here and grab some vitamins. Maybe you were coming down with something–the flu possibly–and honestly, you really couldn’t afford taking sick days at work right now with everything going on at the office. You figured it wouldn’t hurt to take some multi-vitamins. Maybe they could help you circumvent coming down with something more serious later.

Making your way towards the pharmacy through the busy grocery store, you maneuvered around the crowds of others who had stopped in after work to grab something for dinner, too. Your mind was distracted as you walked, having been looking forward to tonight for the past couple of days now and anxious to get the hell out of here already. It had been difficult for you to focus on anything at work today because it had been so long since you and Matt had a night in together.

You were planning to spend the evening at his apartment tonight and make him one of his favorite meals–and truthfully, it was one of the only things that didn’t seem to turn your stomach lately. You had missed spending the occasional evening in with him. It had certainly been far too long since the pair of you had enjoyed a dinner together before curling up on the couch or in his bed; it had unfortunately been just as long since you’d both had a chance to be intimate together, too.

Over the past few weeks, Matt had increasingly promised you that he wouldn’t go out as Daredevil and would make time for you instead, but he never actually followed through on any of those promises. After the first few times he'd broken them on you, you'd quickly become disheartened and frustrated, wondering if this was just how things were between you now. You'd hoped that wasn't the case, trying to give him the benefit of the doubt because you knew he hadn’t been in many relationships in the past. But still, he only ever continued to repeatedly break promise after promise on you.

You’d known Matt was Daredevil for a while now; you’d known that when you'd both officially become a couple. You'd also known that he felt like he had a duty to protect the people of Hell’s Kitchen. That was something you’d fully understood when you’d first entered into a relationship with him. But it had quickly become a problem recently. One you didn’t think Matt fully comprehended the gravity of himself.

Usually, he’d go out a few nights of the week and stop in at your apartment to stay over with you when he’d finished his patrol. On the nights he didn’t go out, you’d usually stay over at his place and the pair of you would make dinner together before spending most of the evening in bed making up for lost time before actually falling asleep. Recently though, he’d been going out every single night as Daredevil. And he hadn’t been stopping by your place afterwards because you’d eventually learned that he was staying out until almost four in the morning, barely leaving himself time to sleep before he needed to be at the office for work.

He’d told you that there was something going on with a Russian mafia in Hell’s Kitchen and that he’d been worried about it. But over the weeks, you’d watched as he’d become absolutely consumed with tracking down the leader of the mafia. Sometimes you’d see him leaving right after he’d come back from the office on the nights he’d already promised to spend with you before he stayed out scouring rooftops into the early morning hours. You’d barely seen him in weeks because of his near obsession with this Russian mafia. And when you did see him, it was only briefly and he was exhausted, covered in bruises, and incredibly moody. When you’d tried to talk to him the other night, practically begging him to stay in–not even just for you, but for his own sake–he’d been grumpy about it. Though when you’d begun to cry he’d promised you relentlessly that he’d stay in Wednesday night–which was tonight–if you just let him focus on this problem for the previous couple of nights.

And you had agreed to that. Grudgingly.

Reaching the pharmacy section of the store, your eyes scanned the signs above each aisle, searching for the section you needed as your feet gradually took you past row after row in your search for vitamins. You wanted to grab something and get out of here already, but another twist of your stomach had bile briefly racing up your throat. You immediately stopped mid-step, eyes widening as you threw a hand over your mouth. Thankfully the feeling disappeared as fast it had appeared, the bile disgustingly making its way back from where it had come, but you were yet again left confused.

Even though you’d thought that maybe you were getting sick with how your body had been acting the past couple of days, you had to admit, you’d never experienced flu symptoms quite like this before. You weren’t running a fever and you hadn’t actually thrown up at any point. You weren’t exactly achy, either. Though you had noticed that your breasts had felt uncomfortable and sore lately, and your nipples had been vastly more uncomfortable rubbing against your bras than usual.

No, you didn’t really feel like you were coming down with the flu. You’d just felt…off.

It wasn’t until you’d returned to your search for vitamins, taking one more step before your eyes landed on the pregnancy tests all neatly lined on a nearby shelf, that the realization hit you. Freezing on the spot as your mouth instantly grew dry, it all suddenly seemed to make sense.

For the past couple of months you’d been struggling with staying consistent when it came to taking your birth control. You’d even found yourself wondering on multiple occasions if you’d accidentally missed days here and there between the stress of work and the stress of Matt gradually pushing you further and further away constantly being on your mind. You’d confided in him that concern multiple times, too, telling him that you were considering going on a different type of birth control, one that you wouldn’t have to think about. And though he knew you hadn’t switched to anything else yet, he’d never seemed remotely concerned about the possibility of an accidental pregnancy. So the pair of you had continued to have unprotected sex–but looking back on that decision right now, you felt incredibly, absurdly stupid. Though in your defense, you’d thought things had been going well between you both. Matt had asked you to move in with him shortly before he’d become so absorbed in this Russian mafia’s nefarious activities, and he’d even often assured you that if something were to ever accidentally happen, he’d always be there for you.

But now, here you were, quite possibly pregnant because you’d been so goddamn stupid and careless.

“Fuck,” you whispered under your breath.

Forcing your feet to move, you headed into the aisle, your eyes focused on the plethora of various pregnancy tests in different shades of blues and pinks. When you came to a stop in front of the shelf, you quickly tried to remember when you’d last had your period, eyes squinting as you thought back. Gasping a moment later, you realized it had been just over a month since you could last recall having it. Wincing at that knowledge, you once again cursed quietly to yourself, panic slowly beginning to settle inside of you.

For a moment all you could do was stand there staring at the selection of pregnancy tests feeling absolutely overwhelmed and terrified. Fighting the urge to start crying in the middle of the aisle, you focused on just picking one out. Eventually you grabbed a test that promised early accuracy, the box containing three tests inside. You knew from a coworker who had been trying to conceive with her husband that you couldn’t exactly go back to your apartment right now and take one. If you were pregnant, you’d be quite early, and you knew the tests were the most accurate if you used them first thing in the morning.

Which unfortunately meant you’d have to go over to Matt’s tonight and pretend everything was fine. And you knew that would be difficult with his heightened senses scanning over you, picking up on any little thing that was off. You could never get anything past him. Though maybe his distraction with the Russians would work in your favor for just this one thing tonight.

Hurrying out of the aisle as you tossed the box into your basket, you made your way to the checkout. While you waited in line, gnawing on your thumbnail nervously, you wondered if Matt’s senses could detect pregnancy tests. Would he know what was in the bag with the groceries or could you pass it off as something else? A box of tampons or something? Surely if you told him it had something to do with your period he wouldn’t push and he wouldn’t detect a lie, right?

By the time you’d purchased all your items, you were rushing the two blocks over to Matt’s apartment, moving faster than you ever had through the streets of Hell’s Kitchen. Unfortunately the nausea had returned as soon as you stepped out of the elevator and onto his floor, making your stomach turn uncomfortably as you headed down the hallway and towards his apartment door. You honestly couldn’t tell if the nausea was from nerves or from whatever had been going on with you at this point, you just hoped Matt wouldn’t notice it. You’d already figured there was no point in telling him that you might be pregnant tonight and freaking him out if you didn’t know for certain yet.

Eventually you found yourself in front of Matt’s door, your eyes staring at the apartment number on the outside of it. Shaking out your arms and shoulders, you tried to regain your composure, forcing a smile onto your face. Curling your hand into a fist, you reached up and knocked on Matt’s door. It was a moment before you heard the sound of heavy footfalls coming through the apartment, making their way towards you. Frowning, your eyes narrowed as all of your thoughts shifted from the fear of possibly being pregnant to how those footsteps didn’t sound like Matt’s bare feet.

The door swung open a moment later just a fraction, Matt’s confused expression peering at you from around it. You noticed he had a cut on his forehead that hadn’t been there last night and your frown deepened at the sight of it.

“Sweetheart?” he asked. “What’re you doing here?”

Mouth dropping open, you gaped at him as your brows pulled tight together on your forehead. His question had the same effect as if he’d just slammed his fist into your stomach, knocking the air out of you. Surely he hadn’t forgotten about his plans with you once again, had he?

“I was coming over to make dinner,” you answered him slowly, irritation quickly lacing your tone. “Because you’d said you were staying in tonight with me. Remember? I picked up everything to make your favorite meal after work.”

His head canted more to the side, his eyes pinching tight as if he was trying to recall the plans. Your heart sunk to the floor as you bit your lip, nodding slowly in resignation.

“You forgot again, didn’t you?” you deadpanned.

“Yeah, I’m–I’m sorry, sweetheart,” he said in a rush. “I was actually about to go out. I overheard something big happening tonight on my way home from work and I need to be there. I think I might actually get the information I’ve been looking for tonight.”

“Or you could just, you know, leave Mahoney a tip and let the police and proper authorities deal with this tonight,” you suggested dryly. “Give it a rest for one night. Let your body recover. Spend time with your girlfriend that you’ve barely seen in weeks .”

Matt frowned at you, opening the door further as he asked you to step inside. You hesitated for a second before you did, stepping past the threshold and rolling your eyes at the sight of him already dressed in everything except the helmet of his red suit. It hurt to know he’d probably have slipped out of the apartment if you’d only arrived a few minutes later, leaving you knocking at his door with no answer.

“You know this is what I do,” Matt reminded you. “I’ve never kept it a secret from you.”

“Yeah, I know,” you agreed, unable to hide your annoyance. “But usually you had a better work-vigilante-life balance than you’ve had recently, Matt. You’re like a dog with a goddamn bone lately. You’re not even taking care of yourself. Have you even been eating lately? Sleeping?” You gestured a hand to his bruised and cut face. “Tending to your injuries and recovering?”

Matt’s lips thinned out as he focused on the floor, the muscle twitching in his cheek. You’d annoyed him with this line of questions. Again . As if your care and concern for him was really that irritating for him to hear. The thought of that only angered you further.

“I’m fine,” he said firmly. “And I’ll make it up to you tomorrow night. I promise. I’ll even cook for you.”

You scoffed in annoyance, shaking the bags in your hand. Matt’s face darted in the direction of them, his head tilting a few times as he seemed to observe the contents within the bags.

“I already picked things up for dinner, Matt,” you snapped. “Hurried over to the grocery store right after work and everything. Because we had plans .”

“Okay, you’re right, I’m sorry,” he told you. “I swear I’ll make it up to you tomorrow night. Spend the whole night in with you. I’ll cook the meal meant for tonight and you can relax with a glass of wine while I do. I’ll clean everything up. And then afterwards–” he continued, shooting you a devilish grin that only had your blood boiling, “–I’m all yours. For the whole night.”

Fist tightening around the grocery bags in your hand, you could feel your nails biting into your palm. That wasn’t exactly what you wanted, and if you were being honest, it felt like another empty promise. But you figured you’d have to give him one more chance. Because if those pregnancy tests came back positive tomorrow morning, you’d need to see him to tell him that news anyway.

“You do realize I’m pissed, right?” you pointed out.

He nodded solemnly, the grin slipping off his face. “Yes and I’m sorry. I really am,” he told you.

Grinding your teeth together, you ran your left hand over your forehead. You felt like crying and screaming simultaneously right now. Though you figured neither of those reactions would actually manage to keep Matt here with you tonight, not with whatever it was he was so desperate to go out and deal with.

“Fine,” you ground out through your teeth. “Tomorrow night, Matt. Don’t break another promise to me, please .”

He nodded quickly, smiling his usual charming smile back at you. “I won’t, you have my word, sweetheart,” he assured you. “I’m all yours tomorrow night.” He stepped forward, planting a brief, barely there kiss on your forehead. “I love you,” he whispered.

You stood there dumbfounded and speechless, watching as he didn’t even wait for a response. He simply spun around, hurrying over towards his coffee table and grabbing the helmet off of it that you must have interrupted him from putting on moments ago. He didn’t even give you a backwards glance or another word, darting over to the stairs and taking them to the roof access two at a time as he pulled the helmet over his face, obscuring his identity.

And then he was out the door, leaving you standing there alone in his apartment with the grocery bags full of what was supposed to have been tonight’s romantic dinner in your hands.

“Love you, too,” you whispered to the empty room, not even certain he’d been listening outside.

Shoulders dropping in defeat, you made your way into his kitchen and over to the fridge. Pulling the door open, you saw how empty it was inside–more bare than usual even. Shaking your head at how little he’d been taking care of himself recently, you began to unload the groceries into his fridge, wondering if you really would be eating dinner with him tomorrow like he’d once again promised, or if he'd break it and your heart in one night.

All day long your heart had been in your throat, pounding so vigorously that it constantly left you feeling like you were going to somehow choke on it. It’d been like that ever since you’d woken up early this morning and pissed into a disposable cup that you’d had left over from your apartment warming party earlier this year–a time where you and Matt had certainly been happier together. You’d opened up all three pregnancy tests afterwards, putting each one in the cup for the allotted time that the instructions had said. And you’d certainly read them meticulously, going over them at least five times before you’d used them, wanting to make sure the results were accurate.

All three came back with two pink lines that were impossible to miss.

You’d nearly thrown up right then on the spot, terrified of being pregnant when you hadn’t planned on it. You were even more terrified at the prospect of telling Matt the news, even if he had always told you that he'd be there for you. You really didn't want to be alone, not in something like this.

Though you knew his lifestyle certainly didn’t lend itself to him being a father–especially lately with how he was always out nearly all night pushing his body harder than he should’ve been. He certainly hadn’t been there for you much himself lately, either. How the hell was he going to handle finding out he was actually going to be a father? Could he actually be one with the way he kept prioritizing the people of Hell’s Kitchen above everything else, including his own well being? Because with how he’d been acting the past few weeks, breaking promise after promise to you, you weren’t so sure anymore. You weren’t even so sure of your relationship with him at this point, or what he even thought of it himself considering how little he’d been invested in it over the past few weeks.

Now here you were, once again standing just outside of his apartment door, struggling to find the courage to knock on it. And the fact that you’d been standing here for a few minutes wringing your hands and he had not even come to the door to answer it only meant one of two things. He was either distracted and getting ready to go out as Daredevil again, having forgotten once more about his plans with you, or he’d already gone out.

With a trembling hand, you forced yourself to finally knock on the door. If Matt didn’t answer then you supposed you’d have your answer on what he thought about the relationship. Still, that didn’t stop the way your hand continued to shake as you knocked, three loud, sharp raps ringing out that you knew he couldn’t possibly miss. Sucking in a breath, you held it as you waited anxiously for the sound of his footsteps.

It was only seconds later when you heard them, grimacing when they neared the door. They sounded far too heavy to have been his bare feet. They had to have been his boots, though you desperately hoped he just hadn’t taken off his dress shoes yet. Maybe he’d gotten home from work late. Your heart pounded harder in your chest as you clung to that hope.

The door swung open just a bit, revealing Matt’s face once again peering around it. He only ever hid around the side of the door when he was in his suit, trying to hide the evidence of his alter ego from the sight of his neighbors. But he at least had the nerve to look abashed and apologetic this time. Maybe he hadn’t forgotten he'd made plans with you, but from the bit of red peeking out behind the door, you knew what his plans had actually been for the night.

“Hey, come on in, sweetheart,” he said softly.

Jaw tight, you wrapped your arms across your chest and stepped inside past him. You could feel your chest tightening as you looked over your shoulder, watching as Matt closed the door after you and giving you plenty of time to examine him in his red suit. He once again had everything already pulled on except for his helmet, which a quick glance over to the living room proved was sitting out expectantly on his coffee table. You hugged your arms tighter around your chest, eyes dropping dejectedly down to the floor. You supposed you’d had your answer now, even if you hadn’t voiced the question.

Daredevil and Hell’s Kitchen meant more to him than you or this unborn child probably would. And you figured they probably always would mean more to Matt.

And that fucking hurt.

Your vision blurred as tears began to well in your eyes. Hands balling tighter into fists, you could feel the faint tremble beginning in your knees. You had a feeling this wasn't going to end well, one way or another. Because you certainly couldn't stand to be treated like this any longer, especially not if you were going to be having a child, and he certainly didn't seem to care about how he had been treating you.

“Sweetheart,” Matt began carefully, “I know I promised to stay in tonight. I know that. But there’s a meeting going on tonight with the Russians. I might be able to disrupt it if I leave here soon.”

You sniffled, trying to stop the tears from falling. The sound caused Matt to wince, his head snapping towards you instantly. He reached a hand out to your shoulder, clearly intending to try and comfort you, but you abruptly twisted out of his reach, uncaring if the gesture hurt him. He’d already hurt you plenty already.

“Sweetheart, I’m sorry,” he apologized.

“No you’re not,” you grit out, glaring up at him. “Stop saying that, Matt. You’re not sorry or you wouldn’t keep breaking your promises to me.”

His dark brows drew together on his face, his head canting to the side. He actually looked confused and for some reason that only had you wanting to laugh–though you didn't.

“Of course I’m sorry. Do you think I like hurting you?” he asked.

“Then stop doing it, Matt,” you openly begged. “Take off the suit. Stay in with me tonight. Hell, stop by the precinct long enough to just give Mahoney a tip for the meeting and then come back, even. But–” you swallowed hard, a lump forming in your throat as you felt the tears threatening to spill, “–don’t break another promise to me, Matt. Not tonight. Please . I am actually begging you this time.”

Matt inhaled a sharp breath, his lips thinning as he gazed down at you. A second later his gloved hands landed on his hips, something you knew he did when he was frustrated. The first tear slipped down your cheek at the sight, watching as his weight shifted back and forth between his feet.

“Sweetheart,” Matt began, an edge to his tone, “you know this is what I do. You’ve always known that. Always. And you agreed to be with me anyway.” He waved a hand at his suit, his eyes narrowing back at you. “This is a part of me. A part of my life. It isn’t going anywhere.”

"I know that, Matt," you told him, voice breaking as you spoke, more tears streaking down your face. "But this? Going out every night? Not sleeping or eating? Not giving your body time to heal? That isn't good for you. And the way you've been neglecting our relationship–"

"I have not been neglecting it, sweetheart," he said dryly, cutting you off.

You startled at his tone, gasping in surprise. Matt had never spoken to you like this before, and certainly not when you'd been so visibly upset. There was no way he couldn't tell the tears were rolling down your cheeks right now, no way he couldn't tell that you were crying.

"There are things going on in Hell’s Kitchen that I need to deal with," he continued roughly, his face firm as he spoke. "And that's exactly what I'm going to do tonight."

"Matt," you began softly, trying to fight the tremble in your voice, "I told you at lunch there was something important I needed to tell you tonight. To talk with you about."

He shifted again on his feet, his hands tightening on his hips. His lips pressed further together in irritation, his eyes hardening back at you in a way that didn't feel like the Matt you'd always known. He looked cold and unyielding right now.

"Then you can tell me later tonight, after I deal with this," he told you.

"It's important , Matt," you pushed. "We need to talk. We need to–"

"And it'll still be important later," he snapped, turning and heading down the hall towards his living room. "I need to go. I don't have time to argue with you right now."

His words hit you hard, your arms hugging around yourself even tighter. Was he really going to prioritize this city over you again ?

You hurried down the hall after him, watching as he snatched his helmet from off the coffee table. You could feel your panicked pulse jumping in your throat as you wiped the back of your hand across your damp cheeks. You needed to try to get him to listen. He needed to know what you'd found out this morning–that you were pregnant with his child. You didn't want to be alone figuring things out right now, not after discovering just how much your life was changing only this morning. You wanted Matt to hold you and tell you everything would be alright. That he'd meant it when he said before that he would be there for you.

You didn’t want to be alone. Not right now. Not with this.

"Matt, stop, please," you pleaded again. "Stay and talk to me." You swallowed hard, wincing as your next words came out sounding so weak and broken. "I need you."

He spun on his heel towards you, the movement so abrupt that you startled and stumbled a step back. Your eyes instantly widened in shock at the anger reflecting back at you, the set of his features more of the Devil than your usual sweet Matty.

"I'm not doing this right now!" he snarled at you. "This city needs me, too. If you want to talk, you can wait for me here until I get back. Otherwise–" he snapped, throwing a hand towards the apartment door, "–you know where the door is, sweetheart. Feel free to leave!"

Your mouth fell open in shock at his words, entirely speechless as you gaped back at him. He pulled the helmet on over his head, covering the anger in his eyes but not the sneer on his mouth–the same mouth that had only ever curled into loving smiles at you previously.

"You can't be serious," you whispered.

" Completely ," he growled at you. "Feel free to leave like everyone else that can't accept me for who I am."

"Matt, that's not–"

"I'll be back later," he said, tone suddenly indifferent as he turned and made his way towards the stairs. "Be here or don't. That's on you."

The tears began to spill down your cheeks faster at his words, a hand flying over your mouth to muffle the sob that slipped out of you. Matt continued on his way up the stairs, his focus only on the door to the roof. He didn't make any attempt to comfort you or to keep you here. No attempt to apologize or to show his willingness to listen to you or your needs. He didn't do anything other than walk out that door and let it close with a loud bang behind himself.

A strangled sob slipped out of your lips as you stumbled backwards again, overcome with a surge of emotions as the tears continued to burn hot trails down your cheeks. Your arms slid down your chest, wrapping lower around your abdomen. Gaze dropping down towards it, another whimper left you. Somewhere in there was Matt’s child. And it felt like he couldn’t have cared in the least–about you or what you had needed to tell him. Not with the way he'd just walked out on you like that.

Which meant he probably wouldn’t even have cared if you had broken the news to him. If he’d given you a moment to tell him that you were pregnant, you were sure he’d still have stormed off into the night. He’d still have believed he was needed more in Hell’s Kitchen than by you and this unborn child. Which left you feeling exactly the way you didn’t want to be feeling.

Alone.

Spinning on your heel, you hurried back down his entryway hall before flinging his apartment door open. The sound of your own sobs filled your ears as you slammed the door shut behind yourself. As you stepped out into the hallway, you hoped Matt heard the way it had banged shut. Hoped it hurt him as much as he'd just hurt you. Because no matter what he said, he was the one who’d chosen to walk out the door first– not you.

But if that’s the way he wanted things, you weren’t going to beg him anymore. He could have his beloved city. You had other things you needed to focus on. Like finding an obstetrician and picking up prenatal vitamins. Figuring out what to expect during pregnancy and how the hell you were going to raise a child by yourself in New York City. Because you were certain Matt wouldn’t be in the picture, not in any way that would actually help you. And while you knew you didn’t have the heart to keep your child from their father, you still had almost nine more months before Matt really needed to know the truth.

You pushed the button for the elevator at the end of the hall, wiping your hands across your cheeks. It hurt you more than he'd ever know for you to have walked out that door tonight, but you also knew you deserved better. Knew that he wouldn't be any help to you while you were pregnant, not with the way he'd been acting. He'd only make everything more complicated and difficult for you. You'd tell him eventually, when you'd had time to cool off and to try to get over him and this failed relationship. After you’d had time to figure things out when it came to having this baby. You'd make sure he eventually knew the truth before the baby was born, but right now you needed to accept that you were on your own and that things were over with Matt.

So to hell with the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen.

#matt murdock x reader #matt murdock x you #matt murdock angst #matt murdock #matt murdock series #daredevil

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