A hangry mind and body can create a whole different person. Karen guaranteed she could curb that creature inside you right after work, so you moved quickly, skittering across half-shoveled sidewalks to get to her. After a meager lunch, you were looking forward to hearty soup and sandwiches off of Fourth. As soon as you entered her office, Karen exited. No time for a hello or goodbye.

The front door opens and closes on Karen's heels; a chilly air billows inside. The chill meets the warm front of infatuation. You've been trying to get used to the physical sensations that spread across your body whenever you see him, but it seems to be something you can't control. Softly, you greet him, hunched at his desk. "Hey, Matty."

When he looks up, following your voice, your face twists. More bruises. More scratches. None of the marks are yellowing, so you know no healing has begun. But the way Matt smiles and says your name so sweetly distracts you from the injuries.

Though you wiped your shoes at the door, small squeaks come from your snow-damp boots. Closer to him, your bodies less than an arm's length away, his smile looks up at you. You can't help but greet him again. "Hi."

And he can't help but respond softly. "Hi. Did, uh, your day go okay?" You hum in affirmation, settling into a nearby chair and sighing.

Nelson and Murdock now have an actual working copier and two printers, not including Matt's braille one. Technology, potted plants, and swivel chairs...They're really moving up in the world. "You ready for Mazza's?"

Peeking over at him, your head tilts in confusion. "What do you mean?" you ask.

Matt's confusion mirrors yours. "Karen's getting Mazza's? The place with the raviolis you like."

Shaking your head, you try to clear the situation up. "'Course I know the raviolis, but she told me we were getting soup and sandwiches on Fourth." Matt's eyebrows furrow. You watch his lips twitch as he tries to find the right words, only to huff, lick his lips, and sigh. "What?"

It's a face you see too often: Matt's soft, bullshit gaze with upturned lips and no dimple. "Nothin'. Is Mazza's okay, then?"

You oscillate in the chair. "I kinda wanted tomato soup, but it's okay." Your shoe nudges you further in a circle. Matt hums. The restaurant for tonight is across the borough; you'll be waiting a while. Restless hands find themselves tidying and straightening the havoc across your friend's desk. But even then, the distraction runs out.

You organized Karen’s mess of a desk: putting documents and drives in files, then putting those files in drawers (alphabetized). Hell, her sticky notes are now in rainbow order. Spinning so long in the office chair is giving you a headache, but you’re bored out of your damn mind. Another screech emits from the chair, but you keep turning and groan, “uuuughh.” 

You expect a sound of agreement from the man in the corner, but he stays quiet, so you moan again with a performative sigh attached, “uuuugghh.” But there’s nothing…Matt never turns down a sulking session. Turning until you see him, you realize he doesn’t have headphones in, but still isn’t paying attention. 

He’s being weird. Like, weirder than normal. You try not to think about it, because if you do, then you’ll feel weird. Maybe he's just as hungry as you...but there's something settled under his skin. It's like comfort is just out of reach.

“Hey.” Matt's gaze leaves the cardstock and settles in your direction. “What are the chances we’re actually eating before seven tonight?” Falling back into your woes, you orbit again. “Karen could have picked any restaurant, and I know Mazza’s has really good ravioli, but I would have taken any restaurant closer than them.”

You fall head-first into the food fantasy. “I always have a backup order when I go there ‘cause sometimes they run outta ingredients…Oh! Hey, with Foggy at Marci’s we can each get extra bruschetta.” The silence reins you back in. Matt takes his bruschetta seriously. The circling stops, but your head still spins. 

His tired smile is worrisome, as well as the dark red bruise hidden under his chin and a small scratch on his lower left cheek. You saw it when you walked in. You always see it. The minute winces and clenched jaw. The way he holds himself differently each and every day. Today was no exception. The watercolor knuckles have returned, and you swear they’re growing darker each visit.

He nods in response to the bruschetta concept, but anxiety seems to physically burden him— pulling his shoulders down, crumpling inward and becoming smaller. You swallow.

“Matt?” Showcasing his attention, he tilts his head. “You okay?”

He licks his lips and nods, which ever so slowly devolves into a shrug. You keep your eyes on him, studying his downtrodden nature and too-casual expression. 

“Would you like a hug?” For only a moment, his face scrunches, but smooths back out. His Adam's apple bobs and his jaw shifts in consideration. He gives the most begrudging nod you’ve ever seen, like you were asking some obscene request instead of offering physical comfort. Maybe that’s too much. 

Yet, he lumbers from his chair. And stands still. Waiting? As if he were a feral cat, you carefully wrap your fingers around his right wrist, pulling his heavy body towards you; He shuffles forward. 

It must be the right choice because his arms move shakily and troubled, holding you right back. Warm arms curl around you, somehow straddling the line of desperation and a fearfulness that you'll yank away far too soon. It's alarming. 

An unspoken rule of intimacy is etched into your person; it's not even a romantic rule, but when you offer a hug, you don't let go until they do. Matt hangs on, and it seems he has no intention of letting go. Gingerly, you run a hand up and down his back, warming your palm against his dress shirt. His five o'clock shadow nudges against your neck, inadvertently causing your breath to hitch.

Holding him, you ask, “You doin’ okay? You’ve seemed kinda…out of it these past few days.” 

“Just, uh. Thinking a lot.” It's an all-encompassing answer, discouraging any follow-up questions.

“I can tell.” We can all tell. One of your hands moves up and tugs on his ear. “Practically got smoke coming out of your ears.” You don’t know how to form a delicate segue, so you just ask, “Got some fresh bruises on your knuckles…scratches on your face. Would that have anything to do with the thinking?” 

Matt pries the words off his tongue. “Yeah, somethin’ like that.” 

The embrace hasn’t yet broken, not that you mind, but it's concerning. He slackens into you like he carries an impossible weight. That he’s been alone or forgotten, but someone has finally seen him. “Does working pro bono have you so desperate that you work in some underground fighting ring?” Relief ripples in your chest when you feel his low laugh and a small smile. 

Rubbing your hand up and down once more, you stress, “If you need help, just say it, Matty. Alright?” Under your roaming hand, muscles shift. Tense and conflicted. His jaw is hard as marble against your shoulder.  

You break your one rule and pull away first. Cautious, you slowly slip his glasses up and onto his head, giving him time to move your hands away; Matt doesn't fight it. Moving a hand to his cheek, your thumb strokes the scarlet scratch. His head tilts into your palm. “Asking for help is a vulnerability, but never a weakness. You know the difference in the syntax, counselor.” 

A real, shy smile ticks up. “Yeah. I hear ya.” 

Matt's warm skin heats your chilled fingers, still holding his face. I've been touching for too long…But I don’t care. “I’m serious, you know that, right?”

“Yes, ma'am.” You miss him as soon as he pulls away and sits on the edge of his desk, looking lost. 

It's killing you. Every time you see him, he looks a little worse. A little more tired, run down, and bruised. Before you can stop the words, you ask, “Are these injuries from yourself or someone else?” 

“I-um.” But momentum is lost before it can even ramp up. Forgoing your question completely, Matt slips his glasses back on and clears his throat. 

Gnawing your lip, you want to shake him. Put your hands on his shoulders and jerk him around, demanding a real answer, not these weird half-truths that leave you confused and concerned. But if anyone did that to you, you know you would retreat further inside, perhaps escape altogether. That's the only thought keeping you in line. 

He licks his lips and angles his body away from you. “I'm bad at…this.”

Attentive to his hesitation, you back up and slip into the chair by the door. Giving him physical and emotional space. “Bad at what?” 

Frantic, he silently attempts to round up the right words. You know what that’s like. You live it, so you reassure: “Take your time. You're patient when I need to pause.” 

Matt nods, anxiety slipping from his features. Seconds pass without awkwardness, perhaps a whole minute. Patiently waiting, you listen to the radiator shutter, and cars zoom on the street below. The white noise and warmth are so comforting that you twitch when he finally speaks. 

His voice is rough. “I'm not a good friend. Foggy, Karen, you. You guys are good. Strong, sturdy. Dependable.” A humorless laugh falls. “I'm a flake. I know it.” Your face contorts, wishing you could disagree, but he has skipped get-togethers. Left early. Not shown up at all. He isn't dependable. 

As if in the courtroom, he continues with calculated words. “I'm trying to be better, but sometimes…something unexpected comes up, and I need…” his jaw shifts. “I need to leave. But I need you to know that I want to be with you. And Foggy and Karen, of course.” 

“The unexpected…are they panic attacks?”

He rubs his hand down his mouth and chin. “No, no. No panic attacks.” 

You’re still confused, but that crosses one option off an unending list. “Okay.”

“I wish I could be better. For all three of you.”

“We don't need some better version. We need you. Safe and happy. However that may look.” As soon as you say it, he recoils, shaking his head and pushing off his desk. Pacing like an animal stuck in an enclosure, with one hand on his hip and the other clutching the back of his head. 

It's so abrupt that the motions are blurred, turning and yanking your body into his. The two of you are chest to chest once more. Matt's arms envelop you, clinging as if you'll disappear; his head attempting to drive through your shoulder. To somehow press into you, bone to bone. The confession is hasty. “I'm Daredevil.” 

You must have misheard. You try to move back, but he only holds tighter, digging his fingers through your flesh. It’s a quiet beseechment: “Please don't leave.” 

None of this makes sense. He doesn't fight your wriggling the second time; loosening his grasp, he lets you go. “Excuse me?” 

The bombshell falls again, each word weighing a thousand pounds on his tongue. “I'm Daredevil.”

You bring your hands to his shoulders, assuring him that you're still there. “I did hear you right; that's, um... Uh, okay. Gimme a second.” 

This is not how you imagined your day going. Matt is, in fact, not harming himself nor being abused. He is not having panic attacks. He is not flaky on purpose. He IS, however, somehow running around the city, beating up criminals, and then going to work in the morning. Your eyes flicker across him, gathering all you can. He’s tired. Battered. The bruises. 

“Say something. Please.” 

Still overwhelmed, you fumble, “You…you really like justice, huh?” It's his first real smile since you got here. A quiet question is tacked on: “What about Foggy? And Karen?”

With a tense jaw, he nods and affirms, “They know.” 

“Good. Good.” 

“Neither of them were too happy with me, to put it lightly.” 

You scoff, “Can’t imagine.” 

The seam on the shoulder of his work shirt is slightly raised under your fingertips; slowly, you follow the lining, unknowingly grounding yourself. The room is heavy. Not ‘apocalyptic bombshell’ heavy, but a new, nuclear energy. It’s the heaviness of attempting to understand and acknowledge a whole new persona. 

“I am actually blind. If you were wondering.” 

That’s not exactly the first thing on your mind, but a good anchor point. "Yeah. Yeah, I’m…well… no one would pretend to be blind for fun. Too expensive.” His laugh is exhausted, but the edges are lined with relief.  

“True.” 

Nervous, he scratches the back of his head. “I can do what I do because my senses are enhanced due to,” he waves to his eyes.

Oh. You never thought about that. Recently, there has been a new speed to your heart when Matt is involved, but this is a faster pulse. “And what does that consist of?”

“Do you know how I lost my sight?” You shake your head. He takes a deep breath and shares, “When I was nine, there was an accident. A man was about to be hit by a truck and I…pushed him out of the way, but the truck still crashed. It was holding chemicals, which got in my eyes and blinded me instantly, but it heightened my other senses.” 

Nervous and nodding, you sarcastically mumble, “Sounds like a superhero origin story.” 

“Vigilante,” he teases. 

The flutters that collect are hard to control. “My mistake. Continue.” 

“After I lost my sight, I had…well.” He shrugs off invisible anxiety. “With some…training, I refined my hearing, smelling, touch, taste. I learned how to ‘read’ the world, so to speak.” 

His shoe taps against yours. “Your heart is racing, but you’re not angry; that sounds different. You’re anxious. I can tell you had a salad for lunch with French vinaigrette.” He speaks a little quieter, “You stopped at a coffee shop yesterday. Can smell the coffee stuck to your coat.” 

You stare at him. “Oh, wow. So.” You shuffle a little, overwhelmed and embarrassed. Picking at your nails, you laugh anxiously, watching his face pinch. “This feels a little unfair, huh?” 

“It is.”

At least he looks apologetic. It’s not like he’s been invasive on purpose; it just…is. But you don’t like it. He’s telling you now. Which is something…but you still don't like it. A small pressure holds against your shoe. Looking down, you see your shoes touching. “My heart sounds different?” 

He seems shy to admit it, but says, “It’s similar to when you're angry, but you're clicking your teeth together, not grinding.” 

You don't like that he knows that. “Okay.”

“I can smell the Thai joint down the block. I can feel the air currents move and predict what happens after…I hear heartbeats, so I know when clients lie, and— ” High-pitched ringing drones, and Matt's voice is gone. How much of you does he know? You didn’t say he could know…everything about you. It’s-it’s…You don’t like how he must know you so intimately- without your knowledge.

Matt cuts through. He knows the answer; he just told you he knows, but he still quietly asks, “Are you mad?” 

You aren’t. I’m scared. “No. Just…thinking.” Matt doesn’t try to fill the silence that follows, and for that you’re grateful. “God, you’re Daredevil and I’m-I’m. You've got powers, and can hear air move from like miles away—

He smirks and retorts, “Not miles. Most of the time. You’re allowed to freak out. I actively encourage it.”

It hits you; your anxiety is forgotten. “There you are,” you breathe. He tilts his head, and his eyebrows do that little pinch. “I know I don’t know-know you yet, but right now you... You sound like you.”

All you hear is your heartbeat in your ears and his shaky exhale. “He’s part of me, and now,” he sighs in relief, “I want to be myself with you. All of it.” 

Such blatant trust, handed over to you. A new man, born again. You watch the tired lawyer and his small smile. His fingers tap against his thigh. Following upward, you feel the pieces click into place. Red knuckles, aches and pains. The Devil of Hell’s Kitchen may sit on his tidy desk, but all you see is an exhausted Matt Murdock. You whisper, “Thank you for trusting me enough to tell me.” 

He moves forward, holding you. The two of you slip together perfectly. A light kiss is pressed into your temple. He whispers back, soft and sincere, “Thank you for being trustworthy.”

You breathe and clench your jaw to keep your teeth from clicking.