#daredevil imagines

You don’t like the way he answered. Casual. Or as close to casual as someone can get while fighting for breath. Like this isn’t weird. Like a whole year hadn’t passed since the last time you were in a room together. Like you’re still his girlfriend, entitled to a serious response to every “Would you still love me if I was a worm?”-esque question.

“Well that’s sad,” you say.

Matt shakes his head. Pretty stupid since every movement seems to cost him, but it’s clear he means to comfort you. “They prefer it that way. Besides,” he winces, “is it the aquarium down on Surf? The building’s too small. Even if they tried, they probably couldn’t get a permit for more than one.”

“Then maybe they shouldn’t have any.”

“Even if whale sharks prefer to be alone?” 

Your traitorous eyes flick up from the needle to his lips. No one prefers to be alone, you almost tell him.

But that’s too vulnerable. Too close to an admission.

Instead, you say, “Even if.”

A flash as the billboard changes. New colors bathe the living room: bright red and bleach white. You don’t have to look to know what ad is on display.

The emergency room wait time for Metro-General.

Ironic.

If it was up to you, that’s where Matt would be right now. In a real hospital, getting real medical treatment.

But that’s an old argument, and vigilantes are stupid by nature. “Why would I need a doctor?” asks a dying vigilante. “This random civilian has seen Grey’s Anatomy, right? That’s basically an M.D. crash course. Someone, quick! Give them a sewing kit before my intestines meet a Brooklyn sidewalk.”

With the needle readied, you chew your bottom lip and consider Matt’s injuries. His muscled torso is a sweaty mess of slashing cuts. The worst cut steals your attention, a straight line from the top of his hipbone to a little past his belly button. Looking at it turns your stomach. It’s one of the wounds that reminds you the human body is nothing more than a meat sack.

You swallow bile — swallow fear — and reach for one of the hand towels beside the first-aid kit.

Gently — very, VERY gently — you dab the towel against his bloody wound.

Matt writhes, arching off the cushions.

“Sorrysorrysorry!” You hardly recognize your own voice. You’re too focused on Matt, his clenched teeth stifling a groan, fists curling at his sides.

Apologies don’t cure pain.

Distraction might.

“Have I ever told you how much I hate that billboard? I mean, don’t get me wrong! I miss penthouse living every day. But you know what I don’t miss? Falling asleep on the couch and waking up to the lights of a hemorrhoid cream ad burning into my retinas.”

True. You do hate the billboard, and you do miss Matt’s apartment.

Your current apartment is a shoebox that Foggy helped you score two days post-breakup. To call it a hellscape would be too kind. The lights are all faulty, a massive roach has squatter’s rights under your white refrigerator, and you’re one hundred percent certain that Frank Castle lives down the hall.

You’ve been careful to keep that last bit hush-hush. If Foggy or Karen were to find out that you share a mailroom with the Punisher, they’d definitely tell Matt.

Not that Matt would care.

…

…

…

Okay, fine. Matt would care. About everything.

He’d go on for hours about the risk of electrical fire, how roaches carry E. coli, that your landlord’s violating New York State law by refusing to install a carbon monoxide detector, and oh, yeah, a convicted murderer might knock on your door any day now for a cup of sugar!

Just thinking about it makes your chest hurt. The depth of Matt’s care.

And Matt — sweet, loving, woeful Matt — makes it all worse by saying, “I offered to buy curtains.”

He had.

Countless times.

Once again chewing your bottom lip, you toss the towel aside. You’d cleaned enough blood to see what Meredith Grey would’ve called subcutaneous tissue. Or maybe she wouldn’t have. Maybe it’s something else. Grey’s Anatomy, after all, is not an MD crash course.

Either way, the raw mess of his stomach proves what was already obvious: this cut is deeeeeeeeeep.

“Sure you don’t want any pain killers?” you ask him. “I’ve got Midol in my bag.”

He shakes his head once.

You scoff. “You know you don’t earn tough guy points for taking it raw, right?”

Matt laughs at your poor phrasing; though “laugh” might not be the best word for it. It’s more of an exhale turned cough turned sound of agony, but whatever. You take it as a win! If Matt wants to feel the pain of being a human embroidery project, so be it. At least you managed to distract him for a second, make him chuckle-cough over something silly.

“Hold your breath,” you tell him.

His brows knit with confusion. Soon as he starts to ask why, you shove the needle through the edge of the ruined flesh above his hipbone. His question becomes an exclamation that is very un-Catholic.

“That’ll be seven Hail Marys, Murdock.”

A vein pulses at his temple. “Feels more like a Psalm 88 kind of moment.”

“Is that a joke?” You settle into the old rhythm of stitching him up. Needle in, out, pull the thread, repeat. “You know altar boy humor goes over my head.”

“I was never an altar boy,” he reminds you.

You tut. “How ableist.”

“Not because I’m blind.” Amusement flickers through agony, reminding you that pain is second nature to Matt. You’ve only finished one stitch, yet already he can mask a wince when the needle pops through flesh. “I was a nervous kid,” he explains, “especially in front of crowds. My hands used to shake so much the pastor thought I’d drop the candles and set the altar on fire.”

“What a headline,” you say. “Local Blind Boy Burns Parish: God’s Judgment or Innocent Mistake?”

He chuckle-coughs.

You ask him, “Couldn’t you have carried the wine?”

“You mean the body of Christ?”

Your eyeroll is affectionate. “The wine.”

Transubstantiation is one of those things you’ve always filed under Complete Malarkey. How does random bread and crushed grapes become the body and blood of Jesus Christ? By invoking the Holy Spirit? Is that not a form of witchcraft? And why is it cannibalism to eat each other, but not the Son of God?

Catholics are, in your opinion, an awfully confusing people.

Matt’s no exception. A devout lover of God — yet a glimpse up from stitching reveals his mouth curving into a small smile. He’s always liked your sacrilege. It amuses him. Gives him reason to challenge his faith.

“If the pastor was too nervous to let me hold a candle,” he says, “you can bet he wasn’t eager to hand me the blood of our Savior.”

“If only he could see you now,” you say. “Well not now, but in court. I’ve seen you and Foggy tackle plenty of cases in jam-packed courtrooms, and not once have you ever set a judge on fire or spilled Jesus down their moo moo.”

“You mean the judicial robes they work decades to earn?”

“Whatever. Hey, while we’re on the subject, how come they did away with those powdery wigs?”

“A barrister’s wig?”

“Do you get paid by Big Law to make sure I use their terminology right?”

“I do,” he says, “and you’re cutting into my paycheck.”

You laugh.

A comfortable silence settles.

Matt’s stomach remains tense under your fingertips. But his breaths come easier now — a steady rise and fall that breeds comfort inside you. It’s easy to lose yourself in the rhythm. Needle in, out, pull the thread, repeat.

The room around you glows pale purple. It’s easy to lose the present in the past, you realize. Your mind flips through old memories like songs in a jukebox, lingering on a favorite.

You and Matt used to dance in this room. You both had two left feet and spent more time tripping over abandoned takeout containers than actually dancing, but what did that matter? You were always giggling. Matt was always smiling.

The steady weight of his hands on your lower back had been the closest you ever came to finding proof of religion. Because someone like Matt couldn’t be the result of some random assimilation of atoms. Perfection at his level required divine planning. The sweetness of spirit mixed with the miracle of light. A pure heart placed inside his chest by the sure hand of God.

But despite what the Bible tells you, God is not an expert craftsman.

Matt is proof of this, too.

When silence stretches into discomfort, you glance up.

Matt’s dead.

Okay — okay, okay! — not dead since he’s still breathing. But he looks dead, eyes shut and lips parted enough to go full cadaver.

You snap, “Eyes open, Murdock.”

“Why?” His quick response eases your nerves, even if he doesn’t obey your command. “Want to see if I can tell how many fingers you’re holding up?”

“You probably have a concussion.” Not to mention a bloodborne illness or two. When’s the last time he got tested for hepatitis? “The last thing I need is for you to fall asleep and never wake up again.”

You’re pulling the thread through his wound when you notice the smirk in his voice.

“Would you miss me?” he asks.

You hesitate.

Of course.

Of course you’d miss him.

“Foggy will start ditching me for Thursday brunch if I let you die,” you tell him. “Do you know how many waffles your life would cost me?”

Matt opens his eyes. He blinks like his eyelids weigh a thousand pounds. Like they might shut again at any moment.

He keeps them open.

“Three,” he says.

“Waffles?” you ask.

“Fingers,” he chuckle-coughs. “That’s how many you’re holding up. Three.”

Amusement bubbles in your chest, rushing up your throat like a Mentos dropped into a bottle of Coke. You try to stifle it, but a lone giggle slips out.

“I’m not holding up any fingers, idiot.”

He huffs softly. “Talk about ableism.”

You’re offended, perplexed, giggling even more now. “That was so not ableist!”

“Next you’ll claim Braille offers subpar education.”

“Since when did me insulting you become me insulting the entire blind community? And I’m not even calling you an idiot because you’re blind! I’m calling you an idiot because you’re an idiot.”

“Ouch. So you really think so low of me?”

“I just said so, didn’t I?”

His head tilts where it lay on the armrest. “Remember when I graduated summa cum laude from Columbia University?” he asks.

“Remember how you currently look like the victim of a violent anthropomorphic lawnmower?” You smile when he chuckle-coughs. “Yeah, not a thing that happens to smart people, Matty.”

The world stutters for a beat. Or maybe that’s only your pulse, jolting at your embarrassing slip-up.

Matty. You almost curse yourself; what was your tongue thinking?

Matt accepts defeat with a humble “Fair enough” that doubles as your path of least resistance. He’s always been good at withholding salt from a wound, giving you time to stew in self-loathing.

You have no doubt he can still hear your heart thumping stupidly against your ribs.

This isn’t easy. Being here. Seeing him. Pretending your breakup isn’t as much a third party in this room as the billboard’s glaring lights.

You’ve already stitched three-quarters of his wound. You should finish your work in silence. Then leave before he can make this anymore difficult, remind you of some reason to stay.

And yet.

“What’s Psalm 88, anyway?”

Matt likes this question.

“You dated a Catholic for two years,” he says, “and you don’t know Psalm 88?”

“Sorry, I hadn’t realized reading the Bible was a prerequisite for sucking your—”

Ever a child of God, Matt cuts you off — his voice an octave too high — with a sudden urge to recite.

“Lord, I am overwhelmed with troubles and my life is slipping toward death. You have put me in the lowest pit, in the darkest depths. You have taken from me my closest friend—” his voice wavers here “—and made me repulsive to them. Why, Lord, do you reject me? From my youth I have suffered. Your wrath has swept over me. Your terrors have destroyed me. They surround me like a flood, engulfing me completely. Darkness,” he says, “is my closest friend.”

You say nothing.

Needle in—

You think about how pain has always been second nature to Matt.

—out—

You think about the breakup.

—pull thread—

The breakup you’d initiated.

—repeat.

“NOT TO TOOT MY OWN HORN, but that is going to be one fine scar.”

Half an hour has passed since you finished stitching Matt up. If you were wise, you would’ve excused yourself the moment you closed the first-aid kit. But excuses are easy to come by, and even easier to make yourself believe.

I’ll stay a little longer, you keep telling yourself. Just to make sure he’s okay.

At some point the two of you switched places. You’re on the couch now, legs folded underneath you. Matt stands in front of you, testing his body for breaks and sprains — stretching an arm, rolling his neck.

At your comment, he pauses his self-assessment to run his fingertips over the stitches. You track the movement, a slow sweep from hipbone to belly button.

“Some of your best work.”

The praise straightens your posture.

The curve of his lips becomes devilish. “I’m surprised,” he adds. “I thought you’d be rusty.”

“Your faith in me is astounding, Murdock.”

“My faith in you is boundless,” he shoots back. “But it’s been a while since you last played nurse.”

With theatrical flair, you say, “An artist never forgets how to paint.”

“Even if they swore they’d never touch a brush again?”

Levity drops from the air like a butterfly hitting a bug zapper.

He hadn’t meant for it to come out that way. Not resentful, but…hurt. You know this because you know Matt, and he’d sooner walk into traffic than make you feel guilty for your choices.

Some relationships are like a winter storm. Rarely do we take the first snowflake to mean danger. Some people even find them beautiful — like noticing the quirks and habits of the one we love. But snowflakes pile up. They become inconvenient. Isolating. And, in some cases, they become dangerous, too.

Sometimes the only way to stay safe is to evacuate.

Matt will never blame you for evacuating.

With a soft sniff, he turns his head toward the windows. Too quiet, he asks, "What advertisement is showing?"

The billboard shines with a dark image, car keys lying next to an empty whiskey glass. "Think twice," you read aloud, "don't drink and drive."

Matt nods. "Good message."

You nod. "Indubitably."

Matt keeps facing the windows, but your own focus has already shifted back to him. He looks sad. Confused. Like he’s trying hard to hide both emotions, yet failing miserably.

A flash as the billboard changes. White light illuminates Matt’s profile — bruised, bloody, beautiful as ever.

As if he knows the ad has changed — as if he can hear it somewhere, electrical pulses whispering secrets only to him — he asks, “How about now?”

You don’t answer. You don’t know.

You can’t look away from him long enough to find out.

“I would’ve bought curtains,” he mumbles, and you don’t know what he’s talking about. Then it hits you. Your confession about the billboard, how you always hated it. “If you would’ve told me the light bothered you, I…” He swallows. Calls upon shaky confidence, betraying that what he says next lives somewhere between truth and wishful thinking. “I would’ve fixed it.”

Your eyes start to burn.

He would’ve tried, you know. He would’ve tried.

You find yourself rising off the couch. Taking a step — two, three — to close the gap between you. Matt looks away from the windows and you swear he can see you. He does, in that peculiar way of his. Through soundwaves bouncing off your skin. The smell of your shampoo. The rhythm of your heartbeat.

“I know,” you say.

“Then why didn’t you tell me?” he asks.

“I’m telling you now, aren’t I?”

“Back then. Why didn’t you tell me back then? It would’ve been an easy fix.”

Your laugh is half-sob. “No, Matt–”

He reaches up to cup your cheek. “Yes,” he whispers.

It takes Herculean effort not to lean into his touch. You manage, but don’t pull away from him, either.

“Fine. You’re right. Curtains would be an easy fix. Get on Amazon and they’ll be here in ten seconds. But what about the bigger issues? The lies? The secrets? You trying to get yourself killed?”

He winces. “I’m not dead yet,” he tries to argue.

“Yet,” you say. “Key word, Matty.”

An awful key word. One that had been haunting you for far longer than the year you two had been apart.

You had never wanted to leave Matt. And if you’re being honest, you hadn’t even left because of the lying and the secrets — though they were factors. When it came down to it, you’d left because Matt was on a suicide mission. Because you wouldn’t survive watching him die.

Only now — with the warmth of his hand on your cheek — can you see the flawed logic in your breakup plan.

Sure, leaving Matt ensured you won’t be front row for his death. That it won’t be you holding pressure to wounds that can’t be stitched, crying “Lord, why do you reject him? Your perfect soldier, your pure-hearted boy?”

But that doesn’t free you from pain.

You’ll feel Matt’s death as a ripple effect through Foggy and Karen. You'll feel it inside of you, when his last breath severs the invisible string connecting you to him and him to you.

Distance will not spare you.

You will feel it.

It will hurt.

And will all this distance make it hurt worse? you wonder. Until tonight you hadn’t realized how unsteady you stood on your decision to leave. A single phone call had been all it took to undo three-hundred sixty-five days of progress. So much time spent assuring everyone you had made the right decision. That you’re happier without Matt. So much time — each second a tally toward a life free from pain, now useless as sand in an hourglass, so easy to flip.

You’re not happier without Matt.

You’re not happy, period.

The heat coming off his palm is too much. Does he have a fever? Probably. Is fever a normal response to getting sliced up like salmon on a Hibachi line? You have no clue. You'll Google it if you ever remember how to form thoughts not centered on the flecks of gold in Matt's eyes.

He speaks.

“I’m sorry I called tonight. I know I shouldn’t have. I know when you—” He can’t make himself say it. So he drags a hand through his hair. Pulls easier words from a bucket labeled: Half-truths. "I know you wanted to get away from all this. From me. And it was wrong of me to drag you back into it, but..." A chuckle-cough. "Whenever something happens...when I'm stressed, or hurt, or...or happy, I..."

His thumb traces your lower lip. Lovingly. Mournfully.

"You're still the only one I want around.”

You're bawling. You hate yourself for it, and you hate him for causing it. You sob and laugh and tell him, "You're a goddamn idiot, Matty."

He smiles at you. "I know."

"It was never you I wanted to get away from."

He hesitates. "I know."

You hate him for that, too. But what else could he have said? You both know nothing can erase the true problem. The Achilles' heel to an otherwise perfect relationship.

Daredevil.

God, you think, how is it possible to hate the mask but love the man behind it?

It's simple, though. You don't hate Daredevil. Can't. He'll be the death of Matt Murdock, but that doesn't make him any less the salvation of Hell's Kitchen.

You sigh. Does that justify it, then? Does some PEMDAS bullshit make it okay that Matt suffers so long as his suffering saves others?

You don't think so.

But you know Matt holds a different opinion.

A stupid opinion, but.

"I wish things were different," you tell him. No jokes. "Maybe we could drop Daredevil off at the shelter. Y'know, like a stray dog who won't stop digging in our trash."

Okay, fine. Some jokes.

Matt chuckles. “I don’t think the shelter will take him.”

“Can’t say I blame them.”

You don’t know when you grabbed Matt’s other hand, the one not touching your face. You only know that you’re playing with his fingers, trying to keep more tears from escaping. He hadn’t coughed when he chuckled this time. Does that mean he’s feeling better? You hope so — and hope not, too.

You're not ready to go back to your shoebox apartment. You don't want to crawl into bed alone. Spend all night wondering if walking out Matt's door a second time makes it permanent. What are you supposed to do? Go back to getting all your Matt-related info via Thursday brunch with Foggy? Search for scraps of him in your texts with Karen?

No.

You're not sure you can survive that, either.

But what does that leave?

"Let me buy you dinner."

Your pulse jolts. “Matt…”

"Nothing romantic," he promises. Though the way his thumb continues brushing your bottom lip feels opposite of that. "And it doesn't have to change anything. Tomorrow we can go back to our normal lives, pretend none of this ever happened. But tonight...how about pizza? We can call it repayment for you saving my life."

You should say no.

You smile despite yourself. "Fine, but I get to pick the toppings."

A flash as the billboard changes. Shades of blue wash over you both.

Even without Matt’s enhanced senses, you swear you hear joy spark to life in his veins.

"I wouldn't have it any other way.”

A/N | if you've read this far, i am in love with you and i've already booked our flight to Vegas. booked the Elvis impersonator, too. do you have any allergies i should know about? i love you.

matt doesn't need you to guide him in public but he will hold your arm or hand just because he wants too. he especially likes when your hands are loosely intertwined and he can feel your pulse against his skin. it's calming for him.

sometimes he forgets that you weren't always in his life. he'll tell a story from college as though you were because it just doesn't feel right to have lived a life where you weren't in it.

matt rarely calls you by your name. it's always sweetheart, and sometimes baby.

although one time foggy heard him call you the latter and then called matt baby girl and babycakes for a week until karen threatened to beat them both up

on the subject of foggy & karen -- they both love you!! they'd always been protective of their little trio but you fit in perfectly.

those two quickly become your best friends.

josie's for drinks after work on a friday is standard. matt will always have an arm looped around your waist, or a hand on your thigh, or just any form of physical contact really. mostly because he's over protective.

matt doesn't get hungover and it's really fucking annoying. you've seen him pound back pint after pint, just to wake up feeling fresh as a daisy the next day.

the good news?? he's vision impaired so he won't open the curtains when you're hanging out your absolute arse !!

he's the best at looking after you when you're hanging, though. he'll make you a smoothy and a greasy breakfast.

actually, matt is just the best in the mornings anyways. you'll always have a cup of coffee made before you're awake, with breakfast on the counter.

living with matt is domestic bliss tbh

that's not to say you don't argue -- you're both human and in his line of work, both day job and night job, it comes with its bad days and times when he keeps shit bottled up

so you prod and you poke until he explodes and finally, you argue and it's cathartic as hell

matty is very overprotective too, which has lead to tension

it was a little over the top at first, but you settle for having life 360 on both your phones and letting him know when you arrive places safely

even when you have really bad arguments, you always find your back to each other

one time you joked "i'll send you a text if wilson fisk murders me" and he didn't find it funny

actually he almost cried

Blood runs thick beneath the neon glow.

It spreads in slow, sluggish rivers across the pavement outside Josie’s, pooling between the cracks, sinking into the city’s bones.

Your blood.

Matt tastes it in the air before he even hears the shot. Copper and salt, dark and final, curling through Hell’s Kitchen like a whispered prayer.

He was too late.

He was too late.

—

Bullseye is laughing.

The sound is sharp, grating, unhinged—like broken glass crunching underfoot. It cuts through the chaos like a blade, slicing through screams and the scrape of bodies against asphalt.

Matt barely registers the way Karen sobs your name, the way Foggy is shouting for help, hands pressed against the wound in your stomach as if he can hold your life inside you with sheer will alone.

Because all he can hear is your heart.

Slow.

Slower.

And then—

“Matt.”

A whisper. So faint, so fragile, but you know he’ll hear you. You know he’s listening.

Matt’s breath catches in his throat.

Your voice is paper-thin, fluttering on the wind like something weightless, something slipping through his fingers.

You’re calling for him.

And he isn’t there.

—

Fury rises like bile.

Matt doesn’t remember launching himself at Bullseye. Doesn’t remember closing the distance between them, doesn’t remember the first hit, the second, the third—

Only that it isn’t enough.

Bullseye is a whirlwind, a storm of violence and precision, but Matt is rage incarnate.

Fists collide. Bones snap. The world narrows into red and black, into the taste of blood and the scent of gunpowder, into the rhythmic, shuddering falter of your pulse.

Then they’re on the rooftop, the fight crashing upward like a wildfire.

The city roars below.

Your heartbeat is a whisper.

And then—

Silence.

Matt goes still.

The world falls away, and all that is left is the absence of you.

Not just quiet—gone.

No gentle rhythm. No soft, stuttering beats. No desperate, fragile pulse clinging to life.

Just—nothing.

Like you were never there at all.

—

A sound rips from Matt’s throat.

It isn’t human.

It is pain, raw and guttural, cracked open like ribs split apart by grief.

Bullseye smirks, breathless, bruised, bloodied. He cocks his head, watching Matt with something like curiosity, like he’s studying the way grief unspools a man from the inside.

Like he’s proud.

“Why?”

Matt’s voice is hollow.

Bullseye blinks, then chuckles.

“Why not?”

And that’s it.

That’s the moment something inside Matt Murdock shatters.

The moment he stops being the man who swore never to cross that final, irreversible line.

Because there is nothing left to save.

Nothing left to protect.

Bullseye goes flying.

Matt doesn’t feel himself push. Doesn’t register the way his fingers clench, the way muscle coils and releases, the way the man who took you away disappears over the edge.

He only hears the sickening crunch when Bullseye hits the pavement below.

—

Later, Matt won’t remember walking down the stairs.

Won’t remember how he made it back to the street, how he ended up on his knees beside your body, hands trembling as they ghost over your cheek, your hair, your cooling skin.

He won’t remember how Karen sobs into Foggy’s shoulder, how the sirens wail in the distance, how the city keeps breathing while his whole world has stopped.

But he will remember the last thing you ever said to him.

How you whispered his name with your dying breath.

Because you knew.

You always knew.

That no matter where you were, no matter how far—

Matt would always be listening.

—

Hell’s Kitchen mourns in silence.

The city does not weep for the dead. It swallows them whole, buries them beneath pavement and neon, lets their names fade into the hum of traffic and the wail of sirens.

But today, the city is quiet.

Today, the sky is heavy with grief, thick with clouds that hang low over rooftops, suffocating the skyline. The air is cold, biting, heavy with the promise of rain.

It should be raining.

But it isn’t.

Not yet.

Not even the heavens dare to weep before he does.

—

Matt doesn’t sit with the others.

Karen and Foggy are there, of course—front row, dressed in black, their grief pressed into the stiff lines of their suits. Karen’s shoulders shake, her breath uneven, her fingers curled into the fabric of Foggy’s sleeve.

Foggy stares at the casket, his hands balled into fists in his lap, his jaw tight.

There are others, too. People who knew you, people who loved you, people who will carry your absence like a weight for the rest of their lives.

Matt does not join them.

He stands at the back, separate. Distant. A shadow in the rainless gray.

He tells himself it’s because of the guilt.

Because he does not deserve to sit among them, to grieve with them.

Because he was supposed to save you, and he didn’t.

Because he failed.

But the truth is worse than that.

The truth is that he cannot sit down because if he does, he will never stand up again.

—

The priest speaks in gentle, practiced tones.

Words of solace. Of peace.

Words about heaven and salvation, about a life well-lived, about love and memory and the promise of eternity.

Matt knows the verses. Knows the prayers.

Knows how to recite them in the dark, knows how to murmur them between broken ribs and bruised knuckles.

But today, they are empty.

Today, he does not listen.

Because he is listening for you.

Even now.

Even knowing you are gone.

Even knowing your heartbeat will never echo against the chambers of his mind again.

Some desperate, wounded part of him still listens.

Still hopes.

But there is only silence.

—

The wind shifts.

And then—dirt falls against the casket.

One handful. Then another.

Karen breaks. A sharp, muffled sound, buried in her hands.

Foggy swallows hard. His breath is unsteady.

More dirt. More weight. More finality.

Matt forces himself to stand still. Forces himself to breathe. Forces himself to listen to the sound of you being buried beneath the earth.

And something in him—something deep and quiet and human—begins to unravel.

—

Later, when the mourners have gone, Matt stays.

He kneels beside your grave, his hands resting on the loose soil, his fingers curling into the dirt as if he could reach through it. As if he could pull you back.

As if he could undo it.

His lips part, but no sound comes out.

Because what is there to say?

That he’s sorry? That he loves you? That he will never—never—be whole again?

That there is no justice in a world that lets someone like you die while men like him still walk free?

That he isn’t sure who he is anymore, now that he is not yours?

The words never come.

Instead, Matt does the only thing he can.

He listens.

He listens to the wind, to the distant hum of traffic, to the rustling of leaves in the cold, heavy air.

He listens to the silence where your heartbeat used to be.

And when the first drop of rain finally falls against the earth, sinking into the soil above your grave like a tear, he bows his head.

You blinked. The crushing in your chest was replaced by your heart stopping. 

“What?” You choked out. Of all the things you were expected to hear, Fisk’s name wasn’t one of them. 

“Well, not out exactly. He’s apparently giving them information that’s made him a target in his old prison so they’re keeping him in a cushy penthouse for ‘safety purposes.’” He spat each word out. 

You put a hand on the back of the chair for support. “Fisk is free?” 

“Like I said, he isn’t free, but-”

You held up a hand to stop him.“Where’s this hotel?” 

-

The courtyard was absolute mayhem. Reporters scurried in every direction, each harassing a different agent for information they wouldn’t get. Matt dodged in between them. The noise made his still recovering head pound, but he could still pick out enough to get through. He ducked his head when he heard Karen’s voice, a small moment of panic almost making him turn around. 

He kept moving. 

The crowds didn’t surprise you. And neither did seeing the familiar blonde head weaving through the groups with determined strides. You hurried after her, almost bumping into the man in front of you, but he stepped out of the way just in time. 

“Karen!” You called. 

Gold strands whipped around. Her clear blue stare cut through the crowd. 

“Y/N?” She said, pushing through to you. “What the hell are you doing here?” 

“So it’s true.” You tilted your head to the top of the building, its windows reflecting the sun in blinding brightness. “Wilson Fisk is up there?” 

She sighed. “Foggy told you then?” 

“If you’re planning on an ‘it isn’t safe for you to be here’ speech, save it,” you snapped. “I could tell you the same thing.” 

She bit her cheek, looked you over, and determined you looked sober enough. “Alright, follow me.” 

Matt couldn’t move. He tried to force his feet forward, but the heavy beating of his heart filled his ears and made it impossible to navigate the space around him. 

Your voice. Your scent. Even your heartbeat stood out amongst the dozens of people there. And for a moment, just a moment, he wanted to turn around. 

“Promise me we’ll go on that trip we talked about, yeah?” You laughed, though the air was salty with your tears and your voice shook. He kissed your lips for the last time.

“I promise.” 

But that wasn’t what haunted Matt for the last few months. Your sweet words of promise and hope stung, but they weren’t what kept him from going to you. Your screams were. 

“Let me go! Matt! No! Matty! I won’t leave him! Matt!” Even with countless floors between, Matt could hear your gut-wrenching screams as the others dragged you out of the building just before it blew. “Matt! Please! Matt!”

“Matt?” 

It took him a moment to realize that your voice now wasn’t from his memory. It was now.

You’d seen him. But judging by the direction, there was a chance you hadn’t seen his face. He could ignore you and chances were, you’d think you were crazy. Just another offense he’d committed against you. 

He wanted to turn around, to hold you and kiss your lips again and tell you he was okay and everything was going to be okay. That he was still your Matt. 

But the man you fell in love with was gone. He was buried under Midland Circle. 

Matt kept walking. 

-

You’d seen him. As crazy as it was, you knew it was him. He’d heard you. He must have because he stopped- just for a second, but he stopped. Karen may not have believed you, though you could tell she wanted to, but it didn’t matter. 

It was Matt. 

Somehow, it didn’t make any sense but it all made sense at the same time. He was going after Fisk. Of course, he was. Not even the grave couldn't stop your Matt from protecting his city. From protecting you. 

What you didn’t understand is why he kept walking. He acted like you weren’t there, but he of all people couldn’t have simply not noticed you. He’d left you there on purpose. 

He’d left you.

You paced the apartment with your hands raking through your hair with one question on your mind. 

Why? 

Sure, Matt would always use the excuse of protecting you before, but this time felt different. Had you done something? Had you not done enough at Midland Circle? What happened to him? 

Was it your fault?

The explosion was your idea and it buried him. Did he blame you as much as you blamed yourself?

Your feet halted in front of the closet door. Behind the door was a box. Inside the box was the emptiness that haunted your every waking moment for the past you didn’t even know how many days anymore. Your fingers clutched at the neck of the bottle on the table. The drink burned. 

None of it mattered. ‘Why’ didn’t matter. What mattered was that he was out there and he left you and as the burn raced down your throat you knew what you needed to do. 

And you knew where he might be.

-

The gentleness of your touch eased the sting of the disinfectant as you dabbed it on his wounds. It wasn’t the first night he’d come back cut and beaten, but you didn’t let your worry deter your movements. He came back. That’s what mattered. 

“Do you want to talk about it?” You asked, your voice as soft as your motions. You touched a particularly sore spot and he winced. As you went to draw your hand away, he caught it in his, fingers grasping at yours, still clenched around the towel. 

“Can we just… sit for a while?” He breathed. 

You nodded. He wiped away any blood remaining on his skin and set the towel aside. His arms wrapped around you as he pulled you to his chest. He listened to your heartbeat. You listened to his. 

Matt remembered the woman he’d come across earlier that night. Two men had jumped her. They were going to take what they wanted and leave her for dead. He’d taken his time beating them senseless while she got away. But her screams still echoed through his head. 

He tensed beneath you and you looked up at him through your lashes. 

“What is it?” 

“Nothing.”

You sat up. “Matt.” 

“It’s nothing,” he managed a laugh. “Really. Just come here.” He coaxed you back to him, but the tension was still there. He breathed in your presence and let out a low sigh. His arms tightened around you. “I’d never let anything happen to you.” His tone was different. Almost afraid. 

You drew lines on his chest. “I know.” 

“And I’d never hurt you, or at least mean to, anyway, but I know that I have and I’m-”

“Matty.” You crawled up so you were beside him, taking his face in your hands. “All I ask is that you come home at the end of the night.” You kissed his cheek. “In one piece, preferably.” He chuckled and you pressed your lips to his. You whispered in between kisses. “Just come home.” 

-

He talked about this place sometimes. Not often. Getting Matt to open up about his childhood was like pulling teeth, but in those last few months together, he’d started to trust you enough to let you in. 

This felt like a betrayal of that. Using your knowledge to expose him. To confront him for leaving you behind. A sober you might have thought of that. But the whiskey-fueled your anger, the rum your despair, and everything else blocked out any logical thought. 

What was the word Foggy used? 

Right. 

Concerning.

“Alright, Matthew,” you called out. Your voice was barely more than a hoarse whisper as you tried to hold back sobs. The wind stung the streaks of tears on your cheeks, but the more you tried to wipe them away, the more they fell. You took a drink. “This is it. Now or never.” 

You waited. You gave him a chance to stop you. 

“You always said you would never let anything happen to me, right? That you’d never hurt me.” You held your arms out at your sides. “Well, here we are, you goddamn liar!” Your voice echoed through the street. He would have been able to hear you for blocks, but standing just outside his damn door had to be good enough. “Come out, Matt!”

“Dude, check out this crazy bitch,” a voice said from behind you. 

Your stomach flipped. You swallowed the nervous bile in your throat. This was part of the plan. Sure, you thought you’d have to do a little more seeking, but this worked even better. There was only one way your tangled-up mind could figure that would get Daredevil to come out to play. You just hoped he would bring your Matt with him. 

You turned around. Two men stood in front of you, both of them with eyes scanning your body and lips forming smirks. Oh yeah. They were perfect. 

“What did you just say to me?” You tried to make your voice sound more confident than you actually felt. You wanted their anger, not their pity. 

“Hey, no need to be like that, I was just kidding,” the taller one said, holding his hands up in mock innocence. “I was just about to tell my buddy that you look a little lost.”

“Yeah, maybe she could use our help,” his friend agreed. “Do you want our help?” From the sound of his tone ‘help’ was the last thing he was offering. 

They both stepped towards you. 

And then a thought broke through your intoxicated, reckless mind. 

What if Matt really was dead?

It made you freeze. It almost made you sober. 

What if you just saw some guy that looked like him? What if you’d imagined it all together? What if all this time you’d been hoping- hell, even praying- that he would come back and he was still down there, at the bottom of Midland Circle, crushed and bloody and… gone? 

The men took another step forward, looking equally confused as they were intrigued. 

What if there was no one around to save you?

You held your head high. 

You hoped they’d kill you.

Either way, at least you would know. 

“You alright there, sweetheart?” The tall one asked. Sweetheart. The word stung. It belonged to someone else. 

You didn’t say anything and just started swinging. Fist to teeth, then foot against knee, you actually managed to do some damage before the friend grabbed your arms from behind. You stomped on his foot as hard as you could. Just because this was part of your plan didn’t mean you were going to make it easy for them. It had to at least look like you tried. For Foggy and Karen. 

The thought of the two of them threw you off. It made you blink, which allowed the lead prick to get a hold of your hair and use it to throw you to the ground. 

“You wanna play it that way, fine,” he growled. 

“Hair pulling?” You sneered up at him. “What, did your little sister teach you that move?” 

“Mouthy little bitch.” He brought his heel down on your head. Hard. It probably should have knocked you out, but you could still see through blurred vision with darkness around the edges. They started to walk away. 

“W-wait,” you said. The feet at the edge of your vision stopped. “Wait, come here.” You beckoned him to you with your hand. He crouched down. “Is that all you’ve got, pussy?” 

The hit came faster than you prepared for, knocking the breath out of your lungs. He kicked. And kicked. And kicked. Blood filled your mouth. You thought you heard a knife click open, but then everything went silent. 

And there was only one pair of feet.

A grunt. A thud. A body hitting the pavement. 

“What the…” Your main assailant gasped.  

You blinked, trying to see what was going on.

“Hey, man, she started it, I swear.” Another grunt. Another thud. Another body hit the pavement. 

A masked face appeared over yours.  

You smiled through the pain. “I knew it.” 

He took off the black band, revealing his panicked face. It was the last thing you saw before the darkness in your head took over. 

-

Matt carried you downstairs, every sense tuned into the creaking of your broken ribs, the smell of the blood leaking from your lips, your head, your nose. He focused on the sound of your heart. It was still beating. 

It was still beating.

“Sister!” He called. 

Sister Maggie, in all her wise-cracking wisdom, had known to be there. Matt didn’t know how, but not for the first time he was grateful for her presence. She helped without him having to ask. 

“Is she breathing?” She asked. 

“Barely. Her ribs are broken. I-I can’t tell how hard she hit her head.” He laid you on the bed, still listening to the semi-steady thump thump, thump thump. 

“Who is she?” 

He didn’t answer. Instead, his hands roamed your features, the gentle curve of your cheek now split with a bleeding gash. He ran a finger over your lips. As if to confirm it was really you. He had to feel, had to know. Know that this was his fault. Your words echoed in his head. 

You’d never hurt me.

You goddamn liar. 

You were here for him. The reckoning for his sins these past weeks. 

“Matthew, who is she?” Margaret pressed again. 

“It doesn’t matter,” he snapped. “Just help her.” Matt’s voice dropped to a whisper. “Please.”

Sister Maggie frowned, fingers clenched around the cloth she’d used to clean some of the blood. “You need to take her to a hospital.”

“Don’t.” Your voice rasped between them. “Don’t you dare.” You started to sit up, using shaking arms to push yourself upright even as your insides felt like they wanted to rip out of you just from breathing. 

“Stay down,” Matt said. He sat on the edge of the bed, easing you back to a lying position. “Try not to move.”

“I knew it.” 

“Y/N-”

“I fucking knew it.” You pushed back. He was stronger. Matt kept you down as gently as he could. 

“Sister, will you give us a minute?”

You turned to the woman you hadn’t noticed. She seemed glad to leave. 

Matt didn’t face you. He stood up from the bed and paced along the concrete floor, keeping a distance away that made you want to scream. You wanted to touch him. To make sure he was really there. But he hovered away from you like a ghost. 

“Those guys really did a number, huh?” You managed to sit up and this time, he didn’t stop you. Your head, however, wanted to bash itself in. Between the trauma and the liquor, you weren’t sure which made you more nauseous. “But the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen is always around to save the day.”

“You did it on purpose,” Matt said, shoulders stiff. “You provoked them. They could have killed you and you-” He sucked in a breath. “Why?”

“I’m an adrenaline junkie. I drink, I look for trouble. It’s becoming quite the hobby.” You were lying. You knew he could tell. 

He stood still, head tilting slightly. “You knew I’d come.” 

“Ding ding ding.” You fell back on the bed and let the ceiling spin. 

Matt couldn’t speak. The panic he’d felt was slowly being engulfed by anger, though it was hard to tell at who. You were looking for a fight, that much he gathered was true. You were drunk, though the fight sobered you up some. Everything he’d ever told you, everything he’d done to try and keep you safe, would have been thrown away tonight. You would have let those men kill you if it meant he wasn’t there. 

And it was all his fault. 

He did the one thing he promised he wouldn't. He left. You’d never judged him, never questioned his need to put on the suit. All you ever asked was that he come back to you and this time, he didn’t. By choice, he didn’t. Just like everyone in both of your pasts, he abandoned you. This was your choice to get back at him, whether or not you believed he was alive. 

“I saw you,” you said quietly. “Today, at the hotel. I knew it was you.” The sure, stubbornness in your voice was gone, replaced by a cracking, wrenching sadness. “I had to know.” 

Matt didn’t say anything. He just reached for the lamp and switched off the light. 

“Get some rest.” 

When you woke up, you were in the hospital, bandages on your cuts, and more hungover than you’d felt in a long time. 

Matt was gone. 

-

They didn’t discharge you, but you left anyway. If they looked too closely at your emergency contacts, they’d find someone who was supposed to be dead and Karen. The latter was not someone you wanted to face right now. 

So, with a couple of busted ribs and one hell of a concussion, you went back to the apartment. His apartment. The place where he first kissed you, first touched you, first-

Now it was just yours. He didn’t want it anymore. 

You half debated going back to the church and demanding he talk to you. You’d like to see the brilliant lawyer try to talk his way out of this one. But in the end, everything hurt too much to face him. You wanted a drink. 

Unlocking the door, the click hit your chest harder than any of that creep’s kicks. 

You knew. 

You may not have had his abilities, but you knew. 

Walking in, you didn’t dare turn around and look at the stairs. You didn’t have to. 

“I’m all better now if that’s what you wanted to see,” you said. You threw your jacket on the floor and kicked off your boots. 

Matt didn’t move from his place by the roof entrance. He stood over you like a judgemental god and you wanted to hit him for it. You might have if he didn’t already look like hell itself spat him back out. 

“You wanted them to kill you,” he whispered just loud enough for you to hear. Not an accusation. An acknowledgment. 

“I wasn’t going to stop them if they tried.” You shrugged. You moved to the kitchen. “Beer?” 

“You shouldn’t drink with the amount of pain medication they gave you.” He said it so matter-of-factly. Like he was just your boyfriend and looking out for you. But he wasn’t and you didn’t know what he was to you anymore. 

“Yeah, well, it’s going to wear off at some point so I might as well get ahead of the curve here.” 

“Y/N-” He stepped. The steps creaked. 

“Don’t.” You held up a hand. “Don’t come anywhere near me, Matt Murdock.” 

He flinched at the sound of his name like it was a blade you held against his throat. 

“Stay where you are,” you said and twisted off the bottle top, grasping so hard the rigid edge dug into your palm. “Shit.” It sliced your skin and your blood dripped onto the wooden floor. 

You didn’t watch him descend the stairs or cross the space between you. You closed your eyes so you wouldn’t see his hand grab yours, wrapping the small but deep cut with gauze he carried with him. You yanked away the moment his hold lightened. 

“Don’t touch me.” 

“Y/N-” He said again, your name hurting more than his own. 

“You’re dead!” Your scream filled the apartment. You knew it filled his head. Everything always did. Good. Let it. 

Matt didn’t step away, but he did let his hand fall back to his side. 

“I know.” 

You tried your best not to shake, not to cry and show the weakness you’d felt for the last weeks. Then again, you wanted him to know. You wanted him to feel everything you’d felt. 

“Tell me you were trapped somewhere. Tell me you tried everything you could to get back to us and you just broke free,” you pleaded. “Tell me a lie, Matt, because I’d rather hear that than whatever bullshit reason you can give me.”

He opened his mouth, but you didn’t let him speak, reading his face before he could say it. 

“I swear, if you say something about ‘protecting me’, then you should have just left me to those creeps because that would have been better than listening to that broken record again.” You turned your back and for that second, you let yourself crumple, but only for a second and completely silent. 

“It wasn’t about you.” 

You straightened up again. “It never was.” 

Now, with you facing away, it was his turn to break. Matt sucked in a sharp breath to keep himself together as you continued. 

“It was always about you, Matt. About your insisted martyrdom.” You didn’t try to stop your tears now, tasting their salt as they flowed past your lips. “Your city. The rest of us just live here, right?” You turned around, stepping towards him. “But at least we live.” With your hands on his chest, you pushed him back. “Which is a hell of a lot harder than hiding.” 

You pushed again and again and again and he just stood there and took it. Your flattened hands turned to fists, hitting harder and harder until you were sure you’d leave bruises on his chest. 

It was when you collapsed that he finally moved, throwing his arms around you before you could hit the floor, your legs giving out under the weight of your utter, complete agony. Your sobs choked you and rattled through Matt like gunfire. You kept fighting him, even as he held you, the pain of your injuries was nothing compared to what you felt in your soul. Like the shattered pieces were being forced back together, but didn’t fit anymore. 

Matt wanted to make it stop. He wanted more than anything to take all of the pain away and tell you it was going to be okay. He was here now. But he was the cause of it all and there was nothing he could do to change it. 

And while there was still a dark part of him that wanted to leave you here, to shield you from him entirely, Matt knew if he tried to walk away now, he wouldn't survive it. Daredevil or Matt Murdock, it didn’t matter. He was yours. 

“I’m sorry,” he whispered into your hair. 

“You were dead,” you said again, this time with broken words blending together with your sobs. “I tried to go back. I tried to get into Midland Circle, but they dragged me out. I tried, Matt, I-”

He cut you off with a kiss on the forehead and held you closer. 

“I know.” He could still hear your screams, your pleas to give up your life to try and save him. He’d thrown it away, everything you’d tried to make of him. Of the two of you, together. 

You’ll get her killed too. Fisk’s voice in his head pierced his skull like a blade. I will crush her. I’ll tear her apart piece by piece, Matthew, and there is nothing you can do to stop me. 

“She’ll put up a hell of a fight first,” Matt muttered. 

“What?” You pulled back to look up at him. 

He shook his head and held you closer still until the lines between you blurred together. 

“Nothing.” 

Even though every part of him now screamed to get away, he couldn’t move. Even as you knelt in front of him, pulling his lips down to yours, he didn’t fight it. A shock worse than any punch went through his system the moment you kissed him. Like every nerve was finally waking up. 

Maybe he wasn’t dead after all. 

Matt cupped your cheek with one hand and slipped the other to the small of your back, urging you to stand and walk with him to the bed neither of you had slept in in weeks. 

The realization hit, and you immediately felt embarrassed. "Oh my God, I’m so sorry. Of course, let me help you," you said, instinctively reaching out and gently taking his upper arm to guide him to the seat next to yours.

"You can sit here next to me if you want," you offered.

"That’s perfect. Thank you," Matt replied.

From that day on, you two were inseparable. Every class was spent sitting together. Every Friday night, you found yourself in his dorm room, where you met the infamous Foggy, and where you all became an unstoppable trio. 

And one night, when Foggy was away on one of his many dates with Marcy, Matt kissed you for the first time and asked you to be his girlfriend and that same dorm room.

You stirred in bed as you felt gentle fingers go up and down your naked back. 

You woke slowly, eyes fluttering open, and a small smile tugged at Matt’s lips.

"Morning sweetheart" he whispered, his voice rough with sleep but still so comforting. He reached out, his hand gently brushing your cheek, and you melted into his touch.

"Morning," you murmured back, snuggling closer to him, and resting your head on his chest as he wrapped his arm around you, holding you close.

For a few moments, there was just the peaceful silence between the two of you, the kind that didn’t need words to speak volumes. Matt pressed a soft kiss to the top of your head, his lips lingering for just a moment longer than usual.

The ring on your finger felt natural now. You and Matt have been married for years now but you were both still so over the moon in love.

He smiled, his heart swelling at how effortlessly easy it was to be with you, like nothing in the world could feel more right. 

"I don't want this moment to end," you whispered against his chest.

"It doesn’t have to," he whispers back, his fingers tracing gentle patterns along your cheek.

"But we have a meeting at the office," you protest.

"Foggy and Karen can handle it," he assures you, a hint of mischief in his tone.

"Really?" You lift your gaze, searching his face for certainty.

A slow, knowing smile tugs at his lips. "Yeah," he breathes before capturing your lips with his.

Matt walks beside you, his fingers tangled with yours, the warmth of his palm made you feel fuzzy and his hair was still messy from your hands running through it earlier.

"You’re smiling," he notes, tilting his head toward you.

"Yep, I'm just happy. This is a perfect morning" You say, squeezing his hand. 

Matt’s lips curved upwards, and squeezed your hand back three times. He couldn't agree more.

“I can smell the bakery a few blocks away, want to stop by and get some goods for Fog and karen?”

“Of course, maybe they'll forgive us for being late” You say with a teasing tone.

When you reach the storefront, the rich scent of pastries engulfed you, making your stomach growl audibly. Matt chuckles. "I think that was louder than my own heartbeat."

You nudge him playfully. "shut up."

The bell above the door jingles as you step inside. The place is small, cozy, the air thick with sugar and espresso. Matt lets you guide him to the counter.

"Pick something for me," he says, his voice softer now, intimate. His chest presses against your back as you order a bag of fresh croissant and two double chocolate fudge muffins for Karen and Foggy as well as a tray of 4 well deserved coffees.

As you and Matt step out of the bakery, your bodies naturally draw toward each other even as you walk. There’s a quiet giddiness between you, marriage has only deepened that connection.

The office comes into view, and as you ascend the stairs, your laughter echoes softly in the hallway—until a familiar voice interrupts.

"Finally! The Murdocks decide to show their faces!" Foggy throws his arms in the air, his exaggerated sigh making Karen roll her eyes beside him.

"Where have you two been? You missed the meeting!" she adds, though there’s more amusement than frustration in her voice.

You lift the bag of pastries, smiling sheepishly. "We brought treats?"

Matt sets down the tray of coffee with an easy grin.

"You're lucky you're nice, Murdock number two," Foggy mutters as he immediately snatches his muffin. "Otherwise, you wouldn’t have gotten away with it so easily."

"Don’t threaten a pregnant woman, Foggy. That’s highly inappropriate," Matt tuts playfully, not an ounce of seriousness in his voice.

"Blah, blah, blah," Foggy waves him off with a mouthful of pastry before side-eyeing Matt. "I know Murdock number three isn’t the reason you two were late."

Matt smirks, completely unashamed. "What can I say? I love spending time with my wife." His arm slips around you, hand resting over the swell of your belly.

"What the hell was that?" your coach scolds you as he slams his desk. A cigar that bounced up his mouth, before his fingers find their way to it, dangling the cigar on his fingers as he waves his arms around.

The ringing in your ears starts to fade in, as his voices become a soft mumbles. And suddenly it was just you staring at the way he moves, specifically his hands, because you didn't like looking at his face, nor the way he furrows his brow, or the wrinkles around his mouth form.

Your face is plastered on posters in his office. Advertisements, or you posing or modeling for a brand. Name plastered everywhere in big bold letters, and with your boxing gloves on in almost every print.

Hell's kitchen wasn't a home for many celebrities or stars. There were barely successful people that got out, but maybe you had a chance because you were traveling a lot and making name and money for yourself, representing this city like a cape you drag behind your back every tournament you go.

You were a well-known female boxer who was a lowkey and silent person. People even say you're down to earth, but maybe you were just really quiet.

Nothing is easy, especially in Hell's Kitchen. You aren't an exception to the torments of this suffocating city, but there was something you definitely wanted, and consistently did so, and it was to become a boxer. That was something that most people didn't have in the city, a calling.

It was an accident, but it was a good one, a simple misread. The box that your mother was supposed to check was karate, but she was in a rush and didn't seem to notice she checked the wrong one. And then suddenly, you were guided to a different classroom, and the text that hung in front of the door was bold: Boxing.

Young, but talented; Slow learner, but satisfying results, was what the teachers said. 5 more years come by, and consistently every summer you would show up in classes, and that was the only thing you looked forward to. You weren't special anyway in school, simple friends, and average grades, but boxing was something you were always passionate about and something you could definitely brag about.

A reason to wake up, and something to look for every other week. So everything went by quick. Your teachers handed you to a professional coach, a retired female boxer who treated you softly, and had this gentle voice you couldn't forget.

She signed you up for tournaments around 16, and then you made your way up there. Making a name for how remarkable you are, and it was this memory you can't seem to let go, the moments where she would softly correct you, coach you properly.

She passed away around 18, and from there, you were just passed to coaches who treated you harshly, and maybe it's for the better. Maybe it was meant to toughen up your skin, even though you weren't the type.

"(Your name)" Your manager calls, and you suddenly transfer your view from your own posters behind him to his gaze, "You wanna make it to the nationals?" he started, you bit your cheek.

He slammed his desk before tilting his head to your level, "Huh?" he asks again, you held back a sigh and had a breathy reply, "Yeah." before exhaling and adjusting the way you sit against the dented metal chair.

"Then stop this nonsense. Focus" he snaps his fingers around and aggressively near your face, "Focus. You are the Baby Devil, your face is everywhere, the posters, and everything" he put both of his hands on your shoulders, gently shaking you, his voice now low. his eyes wide as you can smell the smoke from his cigar floating towards your nose, and you held yourself back from scrunching it.

Corny name, but a catchy brand, something you didn't get to decide about. It was taped and labeled, and you didn't question it either.

"Okay?" he lets go of her and stands back, "Don't fuck it up next time, (Nickname), I'm serious." his voice filled with venom as he was now back at his seat, and he flipped his files, and suddenly it was like his scoldings never happened as he was calm, his shoulders relaxed, "Go now," he spoke lowly.

You stood up slowly before carefully closing the door behind you as you went to the locker room. There at the mirror, a black eye; an a cut on your cheek and a chipped lip. You didn't even have time to go to the clinic after the tournament because your damn coach had to call you to the office to give you his same old scoldings.

You clicked your tongue, and took off the bandages off your knuckles aggressively before dumping it to the metal trash bin.

Pulling up the duffle bag on your shoulder you held it tight before leaving the studio and soft patters of rain drops fall on the roots of your hair, before feeling it paint your face, and eventually stain your clothes.

With a heavy sigh you look at the buildings with a rooftop and you make a run for it without looking back.

Hoodie up and hugging your duffle bag as you turn the opposite corners that lead back to your apartment.

He heard your heartbeat. It was fast, maybe because of the adrenaline, but he heard your step on the first floor.

It was a particular sound, easy to memorize, it was heavy, heavier than how people usually step.

He already stood up, and immediately went towards his door to open it just in time.

(Your name) soaked in the storm's tears, stained the marble floors of the apartment, every drop Matt could hear.

He could smell the metallic smell that reeked around her face. She in the other hand didn't greet, instead she stepped in the apartment and towards his sofa where she made a soft groan of pain.

She let the duffle bag slip from her shoulders as she holds her stomach in pain,

"Hey" Matt started, voice soft

"You did good." He gave a smile as he stood in front of her as she lays on his sofa,

"Yeah. That was good." You whispered back

The panting became heavy, and your heartbeat raised as you finally let go of holding in the pain, and he went to get his medkit before going back and taking a single sofa chair to be in your level.

The subtle noises of the patters and taps of the rain drowned the silence as you wait for him to open the kit.

"Do I remind you of him?" You started as you groan as he wipes your blood,

"Of who?" Matt's delicate fingers wipe the blood that stained around your face,

"Your dad. Jack Murdock." You closed your eyes in pain and exhaustion.

He stiffened and stopped for a bit, jaw clenched slightly before he continued cleaning your face.

"No." He replied dryly,

You chuckled in response, and you hear the liquid of antiseptic, but you were too tired to open your eyes, but you felt it sting, "How come?" You asked hoarsely, finding distraction in the conversation

"You boxed because it's what you want to do. He boxed because he felt like he owed it to someone." He replied almost quickly,

"The only thing you two have in common is that you were good people. And you both can take a good beating." He chuckles, trying to lighten up the mood, you smirk back, and he could sense it.

"He is the reason why right?" You let out another breathy question as you felt the antiseptic seep in the wounds of your face, "The reason why you were really good at boxing?" She continued.

The two met in the gym where Matt worked out at night. He pays the owner for him to use it when no one is around because he prefers it that way. But you had the same idea one night when you couldn't sleep.

Not knowing the gym had someone in, you locked picked the back door and from the corner you saw the way he threw punches on the punching bag, then that's how you two met.

He usually would've heard your footsteps but that night he had so much thoughts that he just heard the punching bag and his grunts, so he was surprised when you came in the room.

Then you two had a deal to just respect each other's thing while sharing the empty space. But you piqued interest in the blind boxer, or so you thought he was a boxer. So then you asked to fight him in the ring of the gym, and he was good. Too good, it was like he was trained.

"Yeah." He responded, "He taught a thing or two." He clenched his jaw again, you could tell he was a bit uncomfortable with the topic, but he didn't close it off either.

"I did my research." You grunted as you adjust your back against the couch,

"I figured." He let out a low chuckle, "We're gonna have to stitch that." He refers to the big slash above your brow.

You let a low groan, but just nod in response, "I always hate this part." You watched his hands as he prepared the stitches, eyelids half closed, your blinking feels like its slowing down.

"Yeah, me too." He chuckles. He could hear your heart contradict itself. Every time he tries to patch you up, it beats louder, and every time he gives you a break, it cools down, it becomes slower. He gently started stitching your face, you give a quick flinch every time you feel it poke your skin.

"Were you two close?" You continue to ask about his father, maybe it was you tired, maybe it was the pain, but you were trying to distract your mind anywhere, "You and your dad." Conversations like this were a grey area for him. Not that he didn't want to talk about his dad either, he wouldn't shy away from the idea that it was indeed painful to reminisce. And internally, in moments like this, yes, you did remind him of his dad, the part where you go to his apartment, too tired to patch yourself, and too exhausted to walk to a clinic. It was something he used to do for his dad, but you wouldn't know that. He was open to the conversation, he was proud of his father, and either way, it wasn't a mystery what happened.

"I'd say so," he responded as you continued to grunt as he stitched it

Your face scrunches up, and he notices it, so he stops from time to time and gives you a break to process the pain. You notice this, too. And silently, you were grateful.

"He'd come home like this too," he continued while he waited for your heartbeat to calm down, and for your shoulders to relax, "I think every boxer comes home once in awhile looking like this." you responded, you tried keeping your eyes open, looking at his features that was lit by the lights outside his window.

His bright ginger hair that was damped, indicating that he just finished showering minutes ago before you came. His black long sleeves that hugged his shape,

"You checking me out?" he chuckles before he goes back to stitching your face. You let out a soft laugh, but it hurt your stomach when you did so, you clenched your palm on your abs.

"Don't flatter yourself, Murdock." You scoffed and bit the inside of your cheek while he continued stitching you. She then heard her phone blowing up, and fearing to move much, your let your hands pat your duffle bag feeling it there.

Matt already knew you were looking for your phone so he finished up the current stitch before he slightly leaned back, waiting until you pick it up.

With one hand, you opened the zipper, and your other hand scrambled to look for your phone. In pain, you tried shifting closer to your bag to open your phone, and there notifications from different social medias, from different friends, group chats news of your loss. Some said 'congratulations,' some just tagged you in news websites.

'Baby Devil's Biggest Loss?' It would say something catchy and exaggerated. Not gonna lie it was rubbing salt in your wounds already, you let out a huff and furrowed her brow before clicking your tongue as you swipe.

Matt already assumed what you were looking at, "That's good either way," he started, "It gives attention to your brand," he reassured, already sensing that you were tensed up with reading the comments, but your eyes were glued to the articles.

"(Your name)" he calls, and you lifted your head up to him, mouth agape, and eyes sleepy, "It's a good thing." He paused for a bit, "It's a win for you because it can grow your brand, you're going viral."

"Well, ideally, it's not really a good way to attract new fans." You responded, and relaxed your phone on your lap, and let him finish the last stitch. Again, the antiseptic ripples everywhere.

He let out a chuckle and started quietly and slowly packing his med kit. "No, ideally, not, yeah. Sure, you'll get critics, and people may say things, but since it's going viral, a lot of people will be invested in you. That's a good thing. They'll, you know, search you up." He then gets up slowly, letting out a grunt, finally stretching his legs.

"Did you take marketing or political science?" You scoffed playfully, and he chuckled in return before getting his walking stick, "You'd be surprised with what I know."

You shook your head in disbelief with a smile, before trying to get up, "I'm gonna go." you gently tried to adjust how you sat as everything is in pain.

"In this storm?" Matt raised his brow. The rain wasn't stopping, it was getting louder in fact, and your house is somewhere in the end of this street, opposite to where his apartment is.

"I don't wanna intrude." you coughed

"I didn't think you were," he responded,

"Are you offering?" You raised your brow as you started opening your duffle bag to put the phone back in,

"I am." he got his bathroom towel and he started wiping his hands carefully,

"Are you doing this out of pity?" You scratch the eyebrow with the stitch on, and you gently rub it so that you don't accidentally reopen any stitches.

He lets out another low chuckle, still wiping his hands with the hand towel, "Offering because realistically you wouldn't even make it to the hall of your apartment."

You let your mouth slightly agape, finding something witty back to say, but you didn't find anything. "Fine." You surrendered, "Maybe, you're right. Your instincts are hella scarily accurate anyway." You chuckled, before clenching your phone, and zipping back your bag as you relaxed,

He chuckled at your response, then smiled "You can take my room."

"No," you declined, shaking your head gently before leaning forward with a groan, both hands on your side clenching on the velvet fabric of the sofa, "I have to uh, get up real early tomorrow, I got this thing I need to do. If I sleep in your bed I might get too comfy and sleep for a long time." she chuckles

He took a minute listening to your heartbeat to see if you were lying. It was slow, and you didn't sound nervous, just in pain. So he nodded, "Alright." He finally finished wiping his hands with the towel, and he took his cane again to go to his bathroom to return the towel.

"Matt," you called, and he walked out again, "Yeah?" he replied, "Will you come to my next match?" she looked back at him, he raised his brow at the sudden question but he nodded, "Of course." she spoke lowly, "When is the next match?"

You froze. The next match was probably the scariest one you will have. A match was against a top female boxer in New York. She took an interested with your quick rising, and wanted to challenge you.

It was fine, and it is a big achievement, but this competition was tough because she had been doing tournaments for years, and you have only been doing this for 6 months. And you had your first loss just today, ruining your winning streak, and partly your ego.

Thinking about it made your heart race, and you made a loud exhale, making Matt more interested in why, "I just want someone to support me there." You finally spoke, but it didn't really reassure Matt that that was really the problem since your heart was racing.

He wanted to push it, but he didn't want to seem pushy so he was just gathering evidences and just generally observing you. "Right" he quietly replied, "I'll try to." He chuckled, "Depending on the date."

"Next week, Friday." You responded almost immediately, then finally you started fixing the pillow of the sofa to angle it on the armchair. Matt hears this, and he then walks towards his bedroom, "I'll get you a spare blanket." he smiled, still wondering what was bothering you.

"Who are you fighting against anyway?" his voice echoed from his open door to his bedroom, and you can hear the creaking of the closet and shuffling of fabric and things.

You clenched your jaw and hesitantly spoke, "The New York Boxer, One eye. You familiar with her?"

Matt froze. He's heard of her alright, way older than (Your name) and far better in experience, "What?" he spoke in disbelief, before taking a thick, folded blanket and walking back into his living room, "Why did you agree to that?" Realistically speaking, the odds were against winning against your competitor.

"I wanna see if I could do it." You mumbled a silent thank you afterwards as he leans in to pass the blanket to you,

"You don't need to prove anything." He slightly frowned

"I'm not." You knitted your brows together and slowly unfolded the blanket,

"You're no match for her. I'm not saying that because I doubt you, I'm saying that because you could get badly hurt." his face contorts into concern.

That look made you raise the front of your eyebrows upwards, and you slightly frowned, "Thanks, Matthew, but nothing is gonna change my mind already." You then looked at your lap and put your duffel bag on the ground of the couch.

He didn't push; you were stubborn, and he was too, but this time he really felt like there was nothing to be done. And you probably already signed the deal; there was no going back now.

"I may not be a professional boxer and all, nor your coach or manager, but this is seriously risky." He added, but his voice was soft.

You always liked it when someone spoke to you so gently; that's probably why you were soft and silent as well. "I know my odds." You replied back, copying his tone.

He was worried, you can see it even in the dim lights,

"Just be there." You looked away, "Just be there to support me this time," she added, "I'll get you the tickets free. I got a sponsor anyway."

Matt nodded, "Alright." It was hard reading him, now you couldn't see if his face was worried because it's all relaxed, but internally he felt conflicted about this, and he had a bad feeling too.

"They gave a better costume too." she scoffs trying to lighten up the mood this time, "It's purple."

He just smiled back to support, "I think purple suits you well.", he imagined it on you already.

"Goodnight, Matt." You then settled in already, you didn't want to keep him up anymore, it was getting late, "Thanks by the way." You quietly mumbled, and he smiled before he turned his back on you.

And before he did, he spoke one last whisper, "You're free to come here all the time. My door is always open for you."

You replied with another soft 'thank you' as you watched him go back to his room. Sometimes you wish you could read minds because out of everyone you wanna read his, because he was such a hard to read person, and intriguing as well.

He had a soft spot for you, definitely. Maybe because you really did remind him of his father, and maybe he really did pity you, and that he really did care. You were someone who hit close to home to him, someone who felt like nostalgia; a feeling that he will never experience again, but remember instead.

You smell like the good memories of his childhood, and the happy times, so that's probably why he keeps you close, and he keeps you lingering around and that he would soften his voice to catch up your tone.

You were nice and respectful anyways. The word that goes around that you are humble is true, but you had a tough soul to beat, so he trusted that you weren't the type to go down without a fight, just like his father.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆

Their voices echoed throughout the hallway, chanting your name, 'Baby Devil', Today was the day you're fighting with a top female boxer, One Eye.

It's been a week since you're viral defeat, and it's been a hard week of training for this moment.

You hit your boxing gloves together as you wait for the commentator to call your name, hyping yourself up, and trying to get you in character.

Your pigtail braids swing with your robe as you hop in place, trying to warm up one last time.

Matt nervously sat at a VIP section, a front view, his walking cane in front of him, as his palm clenched onto it. He was wearing a black turtle neck with his beige jacket. He had his glasses on, and he could hear your heart pounding with adrenaline, but he could tell you were nervous.

As you entered the ring, you were cheered on as you waved and smiled at everyone before hopping over the ropes and going into the ring, where your opponent was waiting.

The first half was going great because you landed several punches on her, and you felt like something was wrong. Why was she going easy? You circled around her, waiting for her next move.

Matt on the other hand, was listening to the commentator, but he was also depending on your footsteps and your punches. Something he also memorized from that time you two were boxing each other.

He thought there was something wrong as well, the fact that One Eye was taking this all easy. "Come on, (Nickname)" he mumbled under his breath,

But just like he was watching television when he was young, and hearing his dad get beaten up, he heard the same with the commentator. He blurred out all the sounds, the cheers, the commentator, to solely focus on you and your opponent's fight. You were taking punch after punch, and he could hear the thud of your feet trying to step back and stand still but to him everything went slow.

He left his mouth agape, worried, standing up, the noise around him still blurred out as he focuses on your fight.

Punch after punch, after punch, you were failing to block, you were failing to recover.

Everyone was cheering, and everything was so loud, and suddenly he was brought back to his past, to the moments when he saw his dad lose, and even after his accident when he heard the television and his dad falling.

Suddenly, that sound he feared to hear rippled through his ear, the sound of your loud thud on the floor.

The smell of Isopropyl and cotton filled your nose, as you fell your lips quiver and you open your eyes to be greeted by a white light. You lift your palms slightly to cover the overwhelming light, just to see wires injected in your palm.

Matt heard you and moved his head towards your direction, "Rough day, huh?" he chuckled, trying to lighten up the mood, he was worried for the past few hours you were unconscious but he was able to collect himself.

He was praying too, silently praying your name while you were unconscious, maybe his prayers were answered because the Doctor came to tell him that nothing internally vital was broken.

"Yeah," you chuckled hoarsely, "Definitely." She played along,

"Maybe it was the purple outfit." He chuckles, "Maybe it was an unlucky color."

You chuckle in response, "Yep, maybe not purple." Your body feels numb, and all you can look at is the wall across you,

He smiled, his palm resting on top of the other that rested on his walking cane, "I'm glad you're alright."

"I'm also just glad you're there." You finally turned your head towards him, she then scoffs at another thought, "Shit, I'm gonna go viral again."

He chuckled, "Hey, it could get you more fans."

She laughs back, "Hopefully." ⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆ Author's Note Hello, apologies if there are any wrong details about boxing. I'm also just putting this Author's note to tell myself to edit it soon, this is not heavily edited yet. Anyways hope you guys enjoyed <3