#this is me crawling out of my hole to provide you your regular dose of angsty content

[hellothere-generalangsty]

The Man With Fears

Hi hello this is me, General of Angst, coming back to break some hearts in a new fandom hehehehe enjoy the ride because it's just the beginning ;)

Summary: The daredevil is a man dressed with his convictions, but when fear crawls under the suit, the mask falls. (Daredevil, 697 words)

TW/CW: Blood, mention of bruises/ broken bones, angst, mention of needles, injuries

Taglist: @matt-erialgirl @dusk-dawn-and-stars @chaoticvampirejedi @m-o-o-n-s-g-o-o-n-s

The metallic taste of blood was the only stain on his lips tonight.

He took a deep and painful breath as his body slid against the wall, slowly hitting the cold concrete of the roof he ended up on. Somewhere close to the dock, he guessed by the cold air and the strong smell of wet garbage. He couldn’t settle on whether he liked it or not.

His ear was buzzing – probably the consequence of having his head being repeatedly smashed against the garbage cans. Or maybe from being projected against one of the wall in that back alley. It was buzzing, and painful, and he couldn’t focus as much as he wanted to. There was too much going on. All the noises – the sirens, the people, the cars, the waves – all of it blurred, mixed together; and the smells filling his nostrils, burning his lungs, turning each breathing into a difficult and repelling effort as the stench of blood mixed with the rotten food and humid air.

New York in all its glory.

He reached for his mask, took it off with a muffled groan, and felt a drop of sweat falling from the tip of his hair on his eyelid, rolling down on his cheek as the devilish face hit the floor. He didn’t feel like laughing at the symbol.

He believed in justice, he believed he could make a difference. He believed in desperate causes, in defending the innocent. Faith was his anchor – it had been for so long – but the storms raging at the core of Hell’s Kitchen were shaking all the foundations he was relying on, until all he had left were a vigilante suit, a bruised, broken body, and the terrible emptiness swallowing any hope he had for his beloved but merciless city.

Was it worth it?

Was the safety of his loved ones worth the loneliness filling his heart every time he had to push them away from him, from the life he was leading as darkness was settling above Hell’s Kitchen? Were the few glimpses of quietness worth the fights and exhausting, constant state of awareness? Was his faith in justice and peace worth the broken ribs, the hearing loss, the dizziness, the nightmares? Was his faith in justice worth the heaviness that came with impersonating it?

There was only so much he could do, and none of the suits he was wearing were enough to help him reach his goal.

All he wanted was some peace of mind. To lay in his bed and not feel like his head was about to explode. To buy cheap blankets to sleep in and save time and money looking for materials that didn’t feel like sandpaper. To go to work unbruised, running on a healthy sleeping schedule and a hot coffee. To go out with someone and not feel guilty for possibly putting them at risk.

He was tired. Tired of the background noises buzzing in his head at all times, of the loneliness digging in his heart, of the fear eating up his soul. Tired of the pain, the nightmares. Tired of waking up sweating and panting, haunted by what Frank Castle had told him back then on that roof.

You’re one bad day away from being me.

The long sigh he tried to exhale turned into a cough and had him spitting thick drops of warm blood. One didn’t need a medical degree to know something was wrong. He was quick to decide on getting up and calling Claire, but moving suddenly seemed an impossible task: his legs were numb, his head dizzy, and he had somehow convinced himself that the stinging sensation in his chest were needles poking holes in his lungs, slowly injecting them with all the poisonous filth Hell’s Kitchen could offer him.

The man with no fear, gasping for air, so desperate for someone to be standing on top of a roof, paying attention to every noise, every voice, until they would hear his. Until someone would come to save him from his own hell.

But there was only one Devil in Hell’s Kitchen. And he was bleeding out.