older!matt murdock x older!reader
summary: matt is jealous because you're going to a bachelorette party and will be surrounded by much younger men. insecurity is creeping in for your husband, and hidden feelings are starting to surface.
warnings: none! maybe a little, just a tiny bit, of angst? but nothing to worry about.
content: matt's insecurity and jealousy. everything is deeper than it seems.
special mention to @lilacmurdock, since the serie they're writing (sugar, please) inspired part of matt's struggle in this one-shot (accepting that it's time to let go of daredevil). i'm sure you're reading their story, but if not, do it!
clarification: english is not my native language, so i apologize in advance for any mistakes.
You and Matt had been married for twenty-six years. Jealousy existed during those years, of course it did; more on your part than his, but he wasn't exactly made of stone either.
As you grew older, the jealousy became less frequent. You became more confident, more self-assured, and the bond you shared with Matt deepened.
Matt Murdock had never considered himself a jealous man, although you both knew he could be quite jealous, especially during that time you were separated and you decided to pour your tears out on Frank. It was awful for Matt, disastrous.
Being a jealous man was unthinkable for Matt. The thought alone felt ridiculous, especially now.
He was fifty-two years old, semi-retired, married to the love of his life, and far too tired these days to waste energy on insecurities that belonged to younger men.
At least, that was what he liked to tell himself whenever Foggy teased him about becoming soft in his old age.
Unfortunately, that argument was becoming increasingly difficult to defend.
The apartment smelled faintly of your perfume and the dinner the two of you had shared an hour earlier. Somewhere in the background, jazz music drifted lazily from the speakers in the living room, mixing with the familiar sounds of your evening routine. Matt sat on the couch, one arm stretched over the backrest, trying very hard to focus on the audiobook playing through his headphones.
Trying being the important word.
Because every few seconds, his attention wandered back to you.
You were getting ready for your friend’s bachelorette party.
Normally, that wouldn’t have bothered him.
People got married. Friends threw parties. Life went on.
The problem was that your friends were considerably younger than you.
Which meant the party would be full of people who were considerably younger than him.
And apparently, according to a conversation he'd accidentally overheard three days ago, they were planning to spend the evening hopping between expensive bars somewhere downtown.
Matt didn't hate bars, but over time they lost their appeal for him. He preferred the intimacy of being with you or his friends. Now, the only bar worth his time was Josie's.
Perhaps he became grumpier, but the thought of being surrounded by loud noises and the smell of cheap cologne or cigarettes made him clench his jaw too tightly (a habit you broke him of; you didn't want him to develop bruxism!).
The audiobook continued speaking in his ear.
He couldn’t remember a single word.
A laugh escaped from the bedroom.
Your laugh. Warm, bright and familiar.
His chest tightened immediately.
After nearly thirty years together, it still happened.
You could be doing absolutely nothing and somehow he’d find himself falling in love with you all over again. Your smile, the low morning humming, your sweet hands tracing his bare back or scars; your scent so present, so simple but so yours.
The sound of hangers sliding against each other reached his ears.
You were probably changing your mind about an outfit.
A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.
Five minutes later, you stepped into the living room.
“I don’t know what to wear, I’m having a crisis,” you said.
You were carrying two dresses, both silk, like almost everything in your wardrobe except for your casual clothes.
“What do people usually wear to bachelorette parties these days?” you asked, looking at both dresses and then at him.
Matt removed one side of his headphones and extended a hand so you could show him your two options.
They weren’t extravagant. You weren’t trying to impress anyone.
They were both simple. Elegant. The kind of thing you’d worn a hundred times. The kind of dress you’d wear when you had your night without Matt with Karen (she said it was to keep things going).
Yet somehow it took his breath away to imagine your body beneath that sweet silk.
“You’ll look beautiful in either dress.”
A small laugh escaped you.
“Matt, that’s not helpful.”
“You were supposed to help me decide between these two dresses.”
“Are you seeking my approval, my love? I didn’t know you valued my fashion sense so much,” he said, a lopsided smile playing on his lips. “Either dress will do.”
You groaned dramatically.
“See? This is why I never ask you.”
“Because I’m right every time?”
Actually, he definitely was.
As far as he was concerned, you could have shown up wearing a potato sack and he’d still think you were the most beautiful being in New York.
You disappeared back into the bedroom before he could say that out loud.
The teasing would have been relentless.
Then your phone buzzed somewhere on the kitchen counter.
Matt wasn’t trying to eavesdrop.
“Hurry up!” one of your friends’ voices chirped through a voice message. “And wear that black dress. The hot bartender from last time is going to be there and I want him to look in our direction. I want to feel extra hot tonight! All of us!”
A second voice immediately followed.
“I need everyone to be hot today, no exceptions, I don’t care that you’re married! We’ll all show off!”
Then very carefully removed his headphones.
The bedroom door opened again.
You walked out carrying a pair of earrings and immediately froze.
The expression on his face must have given him away.
“There was a bartender mentioned.”
A grin slowly spread across your face.
“Sarah named him, yes,” you said, staring at him with a certain gleam in your eyes that Matt could perfectly imagine.
“He seems to have quite the reputation.”
Oh, this was not going the way he’d hoped.
“You listened to my messages?”
“You were eavesdropping.”
“I was existing in my own home.”
You laughed so hard he could practically feel the warmth radiating from your smile.
And suddenly, despite all his grumbling, despite the stupid bartender and the crowded bars and every irrational insecurity he hadn’t felt this hard in years, Matt realized what was actually bothering him.
It wasn’t the younger people.
It wasn’t even the bartender.
It was the fact that he still loved you so much that the idea of spending an evening without you made him feel vaguely miserable. Ridiculous, right? His dependence had grown over the years.
The realization was embarrassing enough that he immediately regretted having it.
Unfortunately for him, you knew him far too well.
Your footsteps approached slowly.
Then the couch dipped beneath your weight as you sat beside him.
One of your hands found his jaw. Soft, warm.
The wedding ring he had slipped onto your finger decades ago brushed against his skin.
“You’re jealous,” you said softly.
He turned his face toward yours, already knowing from the rhythm of your heartbeat that you were smiling.
“The worst part?” you asked, your thumb brushing over the stubble along his jaw. “You sounded delightedly miserable.”
Matt let out a low groan.
A laugh escaped you before you leaned forward and pressed a quick kiss to his cheek.
Normally, that would’ve been enough to distract him.
Because the warmth faded too quickly.
Because the silence that followed settled heavily between you.
Because despite the teasing, despite your smile, despite the ridiculousness of the entire situation, the knot in his chest remained exactly where it was.
The realization made him simultaneously grateful and annoyed.
You waited. Patiently. The way you always did when he wasn’t ready to talk.
Outside, distant traffic drifted through the windows. Somewhere several floors below, a car horn sounded. The city continued moving around them while the apartment remained wrapped in comfortable silence.
For a long moment, neither of you spoke.
“You ever wonder when it happened?”
You frowned slightly. Your fingers moved from his jaw to his hair, gently burying them in the mix of dark and gray strands.
“When what happened?” you asked, patient.
The answer should have been easy.
Instead, the words felt strangely heavy.
The sentence hung in the air.
Matt immediately regretted saying it out loud.
“I know,” he said quickly. “I know that’s ridiculous.”
A soft snort escaped you.
The sound almost made him smile.
“I don’t feel old most days,” he admitted. “Not really.”
Because most days were easy. Most days he could ignore it. Most days he could pretend.
Then there were days like last month.
Days when his knee gave out halfway up the apartment stairs.
Days when an old injury in his shoulder refused to stop aching.
Days when he woke up sore despite having done absolutely nothing to deserve it.
Days when he remembered that twenty years ago he could throw himself off rooftops without thinking twice.
Twenty years ago he could fight until sunrise.
Twenty years ago he could get stabbed on Friday and somehow convince himself he was perfectly fine by Monday.
Now a bad landing could put him out of commission for weeks. Now his body demanded payment for every stupid thing he’d ever done.
And it was collecting interest.
“It’s different,” he said quietly.
Your fingers intertwined with his.
The word escaped before he could stop it.
“I used to patrol all night and still show up to court the next morning.”
“I used to know exactly what my body could do.”
The confession surprised even him.
Because that was the real fear.
Not the gray hairs. Not the aches. Not retirement.
For most of his life, his body had been the one thing he could trust completely. He didn’t have his sight, but he had everything else. His body was ready, his body responded to his demands.
Every movement. Every reaction. Every punch. Every jump. Every risk.
Limits he couldn’t ignore anymore.
“I hate it,” he admitted.
The words were barely above a whisper.
“I hate needing more time to recover.”
His grip tightened around yours.
“I hate that Foggy looks at me like I’m made of glass whenever I mention patrols.”
A humorless smile crossed his face.
“I hate that Karen and Kirsten have apparently formed some kind of secret coalition dedicated to keeping me alive.”
That finally earned a laugh from you.
But Matt wasn’t finished.
Because once the words started coming, they wouldn’t stop.
“And I hate that every time you go somewhere without me, some stupid part of my brain remembers that there are younger men everywhere.”
“Younger men who aren’t held together by scar tissue.”
Your expression softened immediately.
“Younger men who don’t need to take a pill every day to get through the rest of the day.”
“Matthew,” you said, this time more firmly, but he continued.
“Younger men who don't sound like their joints are declaring war every time they stand up.”
That made you laugh. Actually laugh.
His expression remained stubborn. Yours grew impossibly fond and somehow that was worse.
Because he knew that look.
The look that meant you were seeing straight through him.
Straight through the jealousy. Straight through the pride. Straight into the insecurity he’d been carrying for years.
The one he’d never quite found the courage to say aloud.
Your hand moved to his chest.
The steady rhythm stumbled beneath your touch.
His name sounded unbearably soft. The sweetness of your voice had always managed to quicken his pulse, to soften all his instincts accustomed to fighting.
“You really think I fell in love with you because you could jump off buildings?”
His silence answered for him.
The endearment hit harder than any punch he’d ever taken.
And suddenly he couldn’t face you, or his own feelings.
Because part of him already knew he was wrong.
He just didn’t know how to stop feeling that way.
“Do you think I only fell in love with Daredevil?” you said.
Your hand remained steady on his chest, feeling his heartbeat, his warmth, his tense posture.
“I fell completely in love with Matthew Michael Murdock. Everything about you, from the arrogant lawyer to the vigilante who saved my life,” you said, looking into his eyes. “And I fell in love with you a hundred times over. I fell in love with every facet of you, even this one where we’re both old and not what we used to be, but we’re still ours.”
You shifted more comfortably on the couch, the space between you closing, and your hand moved up to cup his face.
“I…” His Adam’s apple trembled in his throat. “I don’t know how much of me is still worthwhile.”
The confession ushered in a new silence between them. It was real, it was what he had built up over the last few years. His body wasn’t what it used to be, and that had broken something inside him.
Before, Matt was capable of carrying Hell’s Kitchen. Hurt, bleeding, unable to sleep, but he could.
Lately, he felt he couldn’t anymore, that the weight was wearing him down more and more.
And if he let go of that responsibility, what would be left of him?
A blind, old, and grumpy man? You didn't deserve that, you deserved… you deserved that man you knew, who could handle anything and anyone, who was willing to hold back the evil of the night so that others could sleep peacefully.
“I don’t know if what’s left of me is worthy of what’s left of you,” he said, his voice uncertain.
Of course, age had caught up with you too.
But you were still someone to admire. You were the editor-in-chief of your own publishing house. Fighting injustice with words, publishing them, ensuring people knew their rightful truth.
You had even helped Peter Parker in his early years, and he was still your best photographer (you had Spider-Man working for you—wasn’t that amazing?).
And he… he was tired. Matt was tired, but the fear of letting go of something that was part of his very being, of a responsibility that no one seemed willing to take on, filled him with fear.
Is what remains of him worthy of you?
You swallowed, trying to soothe the ache in your heart. It hurt, not because he hurt you, but because knowing Matt had carried something like this for, perhaps, years, broke you.
“Oh, Matt,” you whispered, cradling his face in your hands.
Your gentle hands were warm, and he couldn't help but close his eyes as you held his whole being. Not just his face, but him completely, as you had for years.
“Darling…” you whispered.
Your hands remained over his face, and for a moment, neither of you said anything.
Not because there were no words. Because there were too many.
You felt him gently tilt his head against your palm, unconsciously seeking more of your touch. As if something inside him were exhausted. As if he had been carrying an impossible weight for so long that he no longer remembered how to let go.
Your heart broke a little more. Because you know this man. You know every one of his scars. The visible ones and the hidden ones. You know the boy who lost his father far too soon.
The young man who turned grief into a mission.
The man who decided to carry an entire city on his shoulders because no one else seemed willing to.
And you also know this. This fear. This exhaustion.
This sadness that had been building up for years, silently settling between his ribs.
“Matthew Michael Murdock,” you said softly.
His mouth curved slightly.
Even after all these years, hearing his full name always made him react.
“I have a question for you.”
“Who taught you that your worth depends on how much you can endure?”
The silence was immediate.
Heavy. Painful. Because they both knew the answer.
Hell’s Kitchen. Daredevil.
The years of violence. The years of sacrifice. The years of hearing that a hero should always give more.
More blood. More broken bones. More of himself.
Until there was nothing left.
“That’s not it...” he defended himself, because he's still a lawyer and it's in his nature to argue.
Your voice was firm this time. Not harsh. Just firm.
“You’re talking to me as if the only good thing about you was your capacity for self-sacrifice.”
Because he didn’t have an answer.
Because a part of him knew you were right.
Your thumb slowly caressed his cheek.
“Do you think what I loved most about you was seeing you come home hurt?”
“You think I admired you when your ribs were broken?”
“No… you hated it… you hate it.”
“When you went forty hours without sleep?”
“When I found you unconscious in our bathroom because you wouldn’t tell me a fucking dagger managed to pierce your suit?”
Matt let out a small groan.
“God, you still bring that up.”
“Because it was a monumental stupidity!”
“You fainted while trying to brush your teeth before bed!”
For the first time in the entire conversation, a laugh escaped his throat.
And you took advantage of that crack.
Because that's exactly what it was.
A crack. An opening in the armor.
You moved closer, until your forehead was pressed against his.
Matt remained motionless.
Listening. Like I always did with you.
“I did fall in love with Daredevil, like I already told you.”
His breath caught in his throat.
“I fell in love with his courage.”
“But I didn’t stay for Daredevil.”
Matt’s hand found yours. Instinctively. Like he needed something to hold onto.
“I stayed for the man who makes terrible cappuccino every morning.”
A smile appeared on his lips.
“My cappuccino isn’t awful.”
“I stayed for the man who cried when our cat Daisy died and swore he had allergies so no one would make fun of him.”
“I stayed for the man who still looks for me in bed when he has nightmares and wakes up when I have mine.”
From excitement. Because he knew exactly what you meant.
“I stayed for the man who still reaches for my fingers to brush against his. The man who carries me in his arms when I'm stubborn and want to keep working. The man who massages my aching feet and doesn't laugh at my Crocs because he knows they're more comfortable than those infernal heels,” you chuckled softly. “Because he knows I don't have the same strength I used to. I'm not the young reporter who could go wherever she wanted, nor could I wear high heels for hours at a press conference.”
Your voice cracked slightly.
The apartment fell completely silent.
Not the cars. Not the music. Not the city. Nothing seemed to exist.
And when Matt spoke again, his voice was small. Smaller than you'd heard it in years.
“What if one day I can’t do it anymore?”
The word came out broken. Naked.
“What if one day I simply can’t be him anymore? What will be left of me?”
You finally understood. It wasn't fear of aging. Not really. It was grief.
Matt was mourning the loss of a version of himself that hadn't completely disappeared yet.
But that he could see slipping away.
Slowly. Inevitably. And that terrified him.
With infinite tenderness, you rested your forehead against his.
“Then you’ll stop being him.”
Matt remained motionless.
The answer was clearly not what he expected.
“And you’ll still be you.”
His breath caught in his throat. Because that was it. What he hadn’t understood for years.
Perhaps Daredevil was part of Matt Murdock. But Matt Murdock had never been solely Daredevil.
And perhaps. Just perhaps.
That had always been enough for you.
Matt didn’t respond. For a few seconds, he remained completely still. You could feel the conflict coursing through him.
Years of guilt. Years of responsibility. Years of convincing himself that his worth was directly related to how much he was willing to sacrifice.
It wasn’t something that could disappear with a single conversation. Not even with you. But that was okay.
You weren’t trying to fix it. You just wanted to hold on to him. Like he had held on to you hundreds of times before.
Slowly, you settled more comfortably on the sofa and gently tugged on one of his hands.
“That doesn’t answer my question.”
The tone that meant you weren’t going to argue.
A resigned sigh escaped his lips. Even so, he let himself be led. He always let himself be led by you.
You shifted one leg beneath you and created space between your legs.
The realization came to him almost immediately.
A smile appeared on your face.
“You're treating me like a wounded animal.”
“Because you’re acting like one.”
Matt mumbled something that was probably a protest.
Because he’d been obeying for thirty years when you used that voice. Because he was tired.
Because, deep down, he wanted to.
With an almost timid slowness, he let you adjust him until his head rested on your lap.
The tension left his body so quickly it almost broke your heart.
As if he’d been waiting for permission.
As if he’d forgotten he didn’t need to be strong all the time.
Your fingers immediately sank into his hair. The dark strands were still there, shorter now, with a few gray hairs that gave him a sexy look. He still stole your breath, heavens, he did.
You loved him. You loved everything about him. Age had perfectly accentuated him, and you envied how good he looked. But he was yours, all yours to enjoy.
Matt let out a deep sigh, one of those sighs that seemed to come from the depths of his soul.
And for the first time all night, he truly relaxed.
Your nails gently scratched his scalp.
Once. Twice. Three times.
The reaction was instantaneous. His shoulders slumped. The tension in his jaw vanished.
And an almost sleepy expression appeared on his face.
“Maybe,” you said, pleased. Your fingers felt like silk to him, his favorite texture.
Your fingers continued tracing his hair. Slowly. Patiently. Lovingly.
Matt closed his eyes. Not because he needed to. But because the gesture still felt natural after so many years. Because it allowed him to focus solely on you.
On your hands. On your perfume. On the steady rhythm of your breath. On the beat of your heart against his.
He had always loved that. He still did.
Long before you married him. Long before you fell in love. Long before there was even a you and him.
The sound of your heartbeat had been one of his favorite places. And it still was. It would be until all his senses left with his sight. It would be until he was gone completely. Even after that.
“You know you’re an idiot, right?” you asked gently.
Matt let out a small laugh.
“Do you know what I hear every time you speak?”
“I hear a man who believes the only thing of value about him is what he can do, what he can sacrifice.”
Your fingers trailed down to caress the line of his jaw. His stubble brushed against your skin.
“But it was never like that.”
Because he always listened when you spoke like that. As if every word carried weight. As if he wanted to hold onto them all.
“I see the man who brings me tea when I’m working too much.”
Your fingers slowly traced one of the scars near his temple.
“I see the man who keeps ordering my favorite dessert after long days at work.”
Another caress. Another touch. Another reminder that you were there.
“I see the man who calls Peter every time he hears something strange in his voice because he worries like a father.”
A smile appeared on Matt’s lips.
Your voice softened even more.
But this time it wasn’t painful.
It was warm. Safe. Like you: warm, safe, present.
Matt turned his face slightly, pressing his cheek against your stomach.
Seeking closerness. More contact. More of you.
The gesture was so unconsciously vulnerable that it almost made you cry.
“Do you know what’s funny?” you asked.
“Every time you talk about the man I fell in love with, you’re still describing yourself.”
Your fingers continued moving through his hair.
Slowly. Steadily. Like a promise.
“The man who could carry Hell’s Kitchen on his shoulders?”
“The man who would do anything for the people he loves?”
“The man who never stops trying?”
Another one. Softer. Longer.
“The man who made me feel safe?”
Your nose brushed against his hair.
Your lips remained against his forehead.
For the first time since the conversation began, Matt felt something loosen inside his chest.
Something he’d held tight for too long. Something he’d mistaken for strength.
And, as he lay there, his head in your lap, your fingers tracing his hair as if mending every invisible crack in his heart, he allowed himself to believe it.
Even if only for a moment.
He allowed himself to believe that maybe he was still worthy of being loved.
Because if you loved this version of him? This old, weary version? Then it meant that what remained of him was worthy of everything you were.
What remained of him was also a part of you, and there was nothing more heavenly than that.
“I love you,” you said, with a certainty that took his breath away.
“I love you too,” he said, not in a whisper, but with certainty, because it was the most certain and sacred thing he knew.
Matt settled in and buried his face in your stomach, inhaling your intoxicating scent. A soft moan escaped his lips, and he wrapped an arm around your waist.
“Don't go to the bachelorette party,” he whispered.
And he earned a laugh from you that made his heart leap with joy.
“Oh, God, jealous old man!” you said, and he laughed at that.
“There was no need to call me old. I'm a year younger than you, my love.”
Matt smiled against your stomach and closed his eyes.
You huffed, hitting his arm.
“Oh? Now you’re feeling brave, aren’t you? You were crying a few seconds ago!” you said, pinching one of his cheeks.
Matt laughed. That husky laugh that made your thighs clench.
“I wasn’t crying,” he said simply, as if nothing had happened.
“Sure you were! Age has made you a sensitive old man,” you said, laughing at him.
Matt's grin widened, and with astonishing speed, the position shifted: suddenly, your husband was on top of you, pinning you against the couch.
"Sensitive old man, huh?" Matt said, burying his nose in your cheek.
"Get off me!" you exclaimed. "My body can't handle your old ass like it used to!"
His nose trailed down from your cheek to your neck.
“I’m perfectly fine here,” he whispered, nibbling at your sensitive skin.
“Matt! I haven’t even picked out a dress yet!”
Yes, Matt Murdock definitely was, is, and always will be the owner of all your love.
Just as you were, are, and always will be the owner of his entire being.
notes: i really wanted to write something like this! older matt touches a nerve with me, and i needed to get it off my chest.
i hope the fluff is what you expected (?) i generally specialize in writing sad things or immoral characters, so you could say this is unfamiliar territory for me.
if there are any mistakes, i'm sorry! i didn't sleep because i needed to get this out of my head…
i'm finishing editing the second part of Investigating the Devil in case anyone read that (supposed) one-shot and wants me to tag them when i upload it (?)
Anyway, thanks for reading <3
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