Phoenîx

Once he heard your heart rate settle from panic to recognition, he slowly removed his gloved hand from your mouth. The shock of his revival sparked an ember of anger that ignited quickly, and you spun around with your fist clenched tight, but as soon as your eyes landed on him, your intended strike died in the air.

It was an all too familiar sight. Matt, standing in your living room, bruised and bloodied. It was such a familiar sight it made your chest ache. There was that same look in his blank hazel eyes, a swirl of apology and remorse in his irises, conveying what his words failed to. His hair was sweaty and plastered to his forehead. His beard was thicker and more grown out. But he was still Matt.

The only difference was the black coveting the red of his suit, although you could see evidence of it in cracks beneath the layers of paint. Without it, you could almost trick your mind into thinking this was the same version of him that had stood in this exact same spot months ago. Before he's disappeared without a word.

“What the fuck-”

“I think Cherry had a heart attack.”

Bewilderment cut through your nostalgia and fury. He hadn't raised his hands to defend himself, even though he knew you'd planned to punch him. He knew he deserved it. He was a terrible Catholic, but he was religious about that guilt. He didn’t offer an explanation, or contrition. In true Matt Murdock fashion, he changed the subject instead. 

Your concern for Cherry temporarily outweighed your complicated and conflicting feelings toward the man in front of you.

“Is he okay?”

“I don't know, I need you to look at him.”

“What do you mean-”

“I put him in your bed.”

A fresh wave of astonishment crested, crashing down in aggravated confusion.

“You put-what? I thought you just said he had a heart attack-”

“Yeah-”

“So take him to a fucking hospital Matthew!”

“I can’t!”

Matt let out a deep exhale through his nose, trying to tame his mounting frustration.

“Look, the AVTF came after him, Y/N. They beat the hell out of him. They’re gonna be checking every hospital and clinic looking for him.”

Throwing your hands up in exasperation, you let out a dry scoff.

“And what exactly do you want me to do-”

“Just check his vitals, make sure he’s stable-”

“Check his vitals with what?”

“Christ, Y/N, you’re a nurse. You have things-”

“I don’t have a fucking EKG machine laying around, Matthew. You’re the one with the goddamn super senses, you could tell me more than I could figure out on my own.”

Matt placed one of his hands on his hip and brought the other up to pinch the bridge of his nose, squeezing his eyes shut as he fought to control his impatience and irritation.

“Just check on him, please.”

The tension between the two of you was as suffocating as the silence. For the past few months, you’d been rehearsing what you’d say to him if you ever saw him again. The script was constantly being rewritten, based on your fluctuating emotions. A thousand daggers stood at the ready on the tip of your tongue, ready to aim and draw blood, each serrated tip ravenous for a drop of spilled retribution. 

The biblical wrath you felt cauterized the melancholia and desperation that had nearly become oppressive physical presences in your home, and you wanted to unleash it all right now, but Cherry’s wellbeing took precedence. Without another word, you left Matt standing alone in your living room the exact same way he’d left you there while you went to retrieve your kit.

Matt stood silently in the doorway, like there was some invisible boundary on the threshold that prevented him from entering. You stayed silent as you evaluated Cherry, doing as much as you could with what you had to check if he was okay. The metallic tang of blood and the sharp scent of antiseptic filled your bedroom as you tended to the cuts and bruises on his face. Only when you started to remove your gloves did Matt finally speak.

“His heart rate is better. More stable.”

“He needs a doctor.”

Matt let out a deep sigh, and there was a light thud as he rested his head against the door frame.

“I know. I’ll ask Karen to call in a favor at Metro General.”

He tensed up when you abruptly froze, your head snapping in his direction. Another guilty look flashed across his face.

“We…we’ve been hiding out.”

Clenching your jaw, you went back to pulling off the bloodied gloves and gathering all the used supplies. So, neither one of them had bothered to reach out. You felt far less contempt towards her, more mild annoyance that she’d left you to your worries. Losing Matt was one thing, but losing Karen too made it all nearly unbearable. 

“How is she?”

Matt let out a quiet chuckle as he straightened up, pushing his sweaty hair away from his forehead.

“She’s fine. She’s Karen.”

His attempt at levity didn’t land. It only seemed to stifle the atmosphere even further, causing your indignation to swell like a balloon in the small space. When you got up and walked into the bathroom to toss the used supplies, it seemed to break the undetectable barrier that had prevented Matt from stepping inside, and he finally moved to follow you.

“They blew up my apartment.”

The dry and humorless laugh that escaped was involuntary, but it was a natural reaction to such a ridiculous excuse. Matt winced at the sound, and he let out another sigh as he took a step closer.

“I was just trying-”

“If the next words out of your mouth are ‘to keep you safe’, I’m gonna throw this soap bottle at your head.”

The edges of Matt’s lips twitched in amusement, and he turned to lean back against the bathroom counter.

“That’s not exactly upholding the Hippocratic Oath. I mean, not only is it abusing a patient, but one with a disability-”

“I’m off the clock, and you’re not my patient.”

When you finally turned to face him, it made your stomach clench. His sightless eyes were trained in your direction, so close to meeting your gaze, for a second it felt like he could actually see you. And he was smiling. It was a small, tender, crestfallen smile. Bittersweet. You’d always told him you preferred when he didn’t hide behind his sunglasses. Matt had always been so difficult to read, but it was even harder when he hid his eyes. They were so expressive, the only glimpse you had into his thoughts.

And right now they showed a vulnerability that he always seemed to struggle to verbalize. 

“You look like shit.”

Matt’s tired eyes faintly crinkled around the edges that his smile didn’t quite meet.

“I feel like shit.”

That whispered confession was laced with a multitude of different meanings. For a terse moment, neither of you spoke. Even the sounds of your breath were too loud in the cramped space. The longer you looked at him, the more your resolve started to unravel. Because after everything, the exile of abandonment, the anxiety of not knowing if he was alive, the depression you drowned in, the white hot rage that singed your bloodstream, even suffering bruised knees from a weak attempt at begging the God he had so much faith in for some kind of answer, you couldn’t hate him. And it killed you to see him like this.

The patches of maroon and violet blooming on his skin, the blood staining his teeth, it gutted you. There was a time when you would’ve spoken to him more gently, touched him even softer, kissed away the blood on his lips and offered your body in an intimate communion. Your soul was bound to him, and you couldn’t sever that connection. Despite having felt like a raw wound for months that just wouldn’t heal, you couldn’t bring yourself to even try. There would never be a clean break with Matt, and you were already slicing yourself to the bone trying to reconstruct the jagged pieces he’d left behind.

Defeat eclipsed you entirely, and the coiled tension in your shoulders disappeared when they dropped under the weight of your mental exhaustion. Letting out a deep sigh, you gestured to the toilet seat.

“Sit down.”

“You don’t have to-”

“Can you for once not be a stubborn asshole and just do what I ask.”

Matt knew he was pushing too far, testing your patience and grace more than he ever had. He obediently walked over to sit down, listening as you pulled on a fresh pair of latex gloves and pulled more supplies out of your kit. It was like a devastating blow right to the chest. How many times had they done this before? How many times had he sat in this bathroom, or at your dining table, while you patched him up? He’d always been able to do it himself, but he sought out the comfort of your gentle touch, craved it when he’d gotten that first taste of it.

When your fingertips gently touched his forehead, his eyes fell shut and he nearly crumbled. Even through the latex he could feel the warmth of your fingertips, of your care. Your familiar scent overpowered the sterile supplies and the tang of his dried blood and sweat. The comforting rhythm of your heartbeat had him leaning forward unintentionally, desperate to feel soothed by its symphony. 

There hadn’t been a minute he hadn’t thought about you over the last few months. Of course he’d missed you, your absence left a void that couldn’t be filled. He reminded himself over and over he’d done it to protect you. That it was for the best. He kept repeating it, like if he did it enough, he’d finally be convinced. He and Karen had been so busy trying to poke holes in Fisk’s plans, it was easy to ignore his remorse, to not deal with the lingering phantoms of his selfish decisions.

But he couldn’t ignore something that was right in front of his face. 

Without even being conscious of it, his hands reached out to grip your waist, dragging you closer. He heard the hitch in your breath, felt the way you tensed up, and he hated it. You used to always melt for him. A featherlight touch, a whispered word, that was all it took.

“Matt-”

He pressed his forehead against your stomach, letting out a shaky breath, squeezing your waist slightly. 

“I’m sorry.”

The waver in his voice nearly broke you. Those two words were so heavy with regret, and that self hatred you always detected in him. Matt had always been a complicated man, and some parts of him had always been broken. The world hadn’t always been kind to him, and he’d suffered more loss and trauma than anyone ever should. 

But in the midst of your own agony, you hadn’t stopped to contemplate his. He was still drowning in the grief of losing Foggy, still wrapped himself in the blame like barbed wire. The system he tried so hard to keep faith in, tried so hard to mend, failed again and again. For every wrong he righted, a hundred more injustices arose. Nevermind the blood, sweat, and tears he’d lost over this city over the years, he felt like he’d lost the city itself. He’d lost his home. He’d lost his best friend. He’d lost the job he loved. He’d even lost his identity, both of them. He was lost. 

“Please.”

Matt begged in a desperate whisper, tightening his grip on you, like he was scared you’d disappear with one ill timed word or move. Closing your eyes for a moment, you let out a deep sigh. Slowly, you pulled off your gloves and set them aside on the counter before placing your hands gently on either side of his head. The relief he felt at your touch was immense, and it sent a crack through the carefully crafted defense he’d been shoving everything behind, burying to his darkest depths. 

He pulled you down to straddle his lap and wrapped his arms tightly around you, despite his bruised and aching body’s protests. He swiftly pulled off his gloves, needing to feel the warmth of you and the softness of your skin beneath his fingertips. He tucked his face into your neck, inhaling your scent deeply, letting out a shuddering breath that was thick with emotion. 

“I’m sorry…I’m sorry-”

“I know.”

Matt closed his eyes tightly when your soft whisper hit his ears. He didn’t deserve your understanding, or your patience, or your forgiveness, but God he needed it. He let out a quiet pained groan feeling your fingers faintly slip through his hair, the comforting weight of your palm against the back of his head. His beard scraped against your skin as he nuzzled his nose along the underside of your jaw, pressing a faint but urgent kiss against your neck.

“They were gonna kill him. They’ve taken so many people, innocent people, and we don’t know where they’re taking them, what they’re doing to them. They just…disappear. I got lucky with Cherry. I was already going to see him. But if that had been you, or if they just…took you, God Y/N, I couldn’t-”

“Hey, hey, don’t. I’m okay. I’m right here. Breathe.”

He swallowed thickly, inhaling deeply again and letting it out slowly. 

“I just…I don’t know how we can keep up. I don’t know how to keep everyone safe. Fisk has an army-”

“Hey, we’ll figure it out.”

Matt leaned into your touch when you brushed your thumb along his cheekbone.

“New York didn’t fall when aliens came out of the sky. It’s not going to fall because one asshole is in charge of a bunch of armed psychopaths.”

“It did lose a lot of people, though. It’s going to lose more.”

“Then make that mean something.”

Matt let out another heavy breath, leaning in to press his forehead against yours.

“I’m trying.”

“I know. You always are.”

A moment of silence passed, but it wasn’t uncomfortable this time. Matt felt like some of the weight he’d been hauling around had been lifted from his shoulders.

“Those double d’s are new.”

Matt’s lips split into a grin, making his dimples indent his bearded cheeks, causing bits of dried blood to flake in the process.

“Were you staring at my chest?”

“I think you want people to stare at your chest. Why else would you have those double d’s out?”

Matt’s grin widened even further, and a deep rumble of laughter sounded from his chest. He shook his head slowly, brushing his nose against yours.

“God, I missed you.”

Letting out an overly dramatic sigh, you leaned back on his lap away from him.

“If only there was some way you could’ve avoided having to miss me. Knowing where I live, having my phone number, a secret rendezvous spot for an illicit affair, being able to track me down like a bloodhound-”

Matt laughed as he pulled you closer again until your chest was flush with his.

“Alright, alright, smartass. I get it. I fucked up.”

He leaned in and brushed his lips along your jawline.

“Let me make it up to you.”

“Oh I know you don’t think you’re going to seduce me into forgiving you.”

“Why not? It’s worked in the past.”

Matt grinned against your neck, lightly grazing his teeth along your pulse point. He let out a soft hiss when you grabbed his hair and pulled his head back.

“Yeah, for standing me up at dinner or forgetting to text me back for two days. Not for six months of radio silence and leaving me to wonder if you’re dead or being tortured in a cell somewhere.”

Matt pretended to think for a moment, tilting his head to the side, raising his sightless eyes to the ceiling and clicking his tongue against his cheek.

“I can leave the double d’s on.”

When you smacked his arm, he let out a bark of laughter, catching your wrist to hold your palm against his chest. Rolling your eyes, you shook your head and fought the smile that threatened to split your lips.

“God, you’re insufferable. You know what, patch yourself up.”

“I like it when you do it.”

“You’ve lost your privileges.”

“Let me earn them back. You know I’m good at begging for forgiveness on my knees.”

Matt heard the catch in your breath, sensed the heat rushing into your cheeks, and a devilish smirk stretched across his mouth. Just as he went to lean in and test the waters for a kiss, Cherry’s voice suddenly sounded from the bedroom.

"yeah?" he asks, all smug and steady even though he's exerting himself just as well as he's exerting you. his dimples pop at the sides of his grin, his blue eyes are lidded in the way only sex could cause. "what is it, honey?"

you try to let out a frustrated groan, but what comes out instead is a throaty whine.

clark laughs this time. he slows you down, holding his hands on your hips and keeping you situated on his lap. his movements don't completely stop, though. his hips gently push up into yours, driving his cock just the extra couple of inches deeper needed to punch against your cervix.

you gasp and slump forward until your head rests in the crook of clark's neck. without missing a beat, clark wraps his arms around the center of your back.

"you still doing okay up there?"

you don't answer. you can't. not when clark is pushing right up against your cervix. you dig your fingertips into the flesh of his shoulders and bite down onto your bottom lip to stop yourself from crying out. you've also stopped yourself from speaking.

"hm?" clark asks, "you still with me, pretty?"

your answer is immediate now. you nod, telling him that yeah, you are still with him. after a moment, you add, "barely," with a breathless laugh.

clark shares the sound with you. he holds you tight against him as he starts to move. he twists to the side until he's laid you down flat against the sofa. he has one leg pressed into the cushion, and his other foot pressed into the ground. then, without unsheathing at all, he returns to fucking you.

laid back like this, you can't hide from clark'a gaze and you figure that's why the two of you are in this position in the first place. he's always been incredibly vocal about how much he enjoys watching you take him.

he tells you so now.

"you look so pretty," he says. "love watching you take my cock like this. you feel good? yeah?" you nod, unable to do much else. "how deep can you feel me? show me where."

with an embarrassingly shaky hand, you place your palm right against your bladder. clark whistles lowly and shakes his head.

"geez."

you nod. "yeah, geez."

clark licks his lips and turns his head for a second. you don't know what catches his eye, at least not at first, but when he turns back to face you he has that glint shining in the blue.

one hand presses into the sofa above your head while the other sinks down until he can wrap his fingers around your wrist. he drags your hand down, resting it over your clit.

"you know what to do," he assures. and you do. you single out your favorite fingers and begin to tweak your clit. it doesn't feel nearly as good, not since you've gotten so accustomed to clark's soft hands doing it for you, but the added pleasure kicks in instantly.

your back arches off of the sofa as you push your greedy cunt further into clark.

"tell me how good you feel, honey," he pleads, "i need to hear it."

again, you quickly follow his directions.

"you're making me feel so good, clark. i can't ... i can barely take it." you're gasping the words out.

"you can take it." his words are low and a little breathless. most of all, they're earnest. when he says it like that, of course you believe you can take it.

"i can take it, i can take it." you start to repeat it like a mantra.

"yeah, there you go, thereeee you go." you don't notice his hand slipping back down to your stomach until he's pressed onto your bladder. you gasp, sharply. you squirm for a second but clark shakes his head. "it's okay, it's okay. i promise. just take it, okay? make us proud."

you just have enough in you to question, "us?"

"yeah," he nods. "me here and now, and both me and you when we listen to this tape later."

it's only now when you remember the recorder sitting on the coffee table. it's still recording, something you made sure since clark still hasn't gotten the hang of it, and you know it's expertly picking up every word, every breath, every drive of clark's cock into you.

you don't say anything before your orgasm unexpectedly knocks into your body thanks to this new information.