#daredevil requests

•••

Friday morning traffic honked and buzzed in Matt’s ears, the alarm clock beside the bed speaking the time aloud to him. 7:35am.

He groaned.

Bruises from another evening of late-night vigilantism stretched and pulled over his skin as he rolled to the side, silk sheets tangling between his legs before eventually releasing him from their grasp.

Matt sighed, swinging his legs over the bed and running a hand down his face.

The weekend. It was nearly the weekend.

Keys in the apartment across the way distracted Matt from thoughts of stale beer at Josie’s and sleeping in past 8:00am. Floorboards creaked in the other room, and a muffled voice emanated through the paper walls.

“I’m sorry.”

The voice was quiet, soft—halfway between a whisper and a prayer. “I’m so sorry. I just didn’t know what to do with her. She’s running a fever and…”

The voice trailed off—or maybe Matt decided to respect the woman’s privacy and stop eavesdropping—he wasn’t quite sure.

His steps pattered lightly across the floor. The drawers of his dresser rumbled as he pulled them open. The silk sleeve in his hand rippled over his fingers as he unfolded a shirt and slipped it over his shoulders.

“Mom, please.” The words were louder, desperate, a plea on the edge. Matt grimaced.

He had no right to be listening to this. But how could he help it?

“Just for today. I’ll…I’ll figure something else out for tomorrow.”

An older voice grumbled in response.

If Matt had strained, he would’ve been able to make out the words. As it stood, he heard the click of the door and footsteps in the hallway.

They paused, a shaky breath carrying through the thin line of paint between the walls.

A whispered prayer rose in the air, shuddered into the empty space. “Most holy apostle, St. Jude, pray for me.”

Matt’s heart stopped.

He…he knew that prayer. Uttered before exams in the recess of a quiet hall. Mumbled habitually in the vague space between waking and sleep. Whispered tremblingly in the dark of night, tears streaming down your face, salt stinging the air—when you thought he wasn’t awake, when you thought you could break down in silence.

St. Jude, the patron saint of desperate situations and lost causes. The saint he’d heard you pray to every day in college.

You.

•••

Matt had listened to you leave the building. Followed your footsteps down the sidewalk below. Waited until you disappeared into the crowded streets.

The prayer still haunted him.

“St. Jude, pray for me.”

He remembered it with the soft touch of your lips, the sickly sweet scent of cherry lip balm, fingers running tantalizingly through his hair.

It was a prayer of forgiveness then—confirmation that, among a host of liars, thieves, and murderers, you were the most hopeless cause of all.

Matt blew out a breath and ran a hand through his hair.

Apparently, you’d never broken the habit. Never given up viewing yourself as a lost cause.

He hated that the knowledge made him ache.

“Matt?” Foggy knocked on his office door before sliding into the room, pulling up a chair at his desk.

Matt cleared his throat, straightened his tie. Tried to appear normal. “Yes, Foggy?”

“Are you…I don’t know.” Foggy hesitated, shifting in his seat. “You just seem kinda distracted today. Is everything alright?”

No.

Lies sat ready on his tongue, waiting for release. I’m fine. It was just a long night. Everything’s fine, I’m just tired.

Instead, your name drifted from his lips, as though it were an explanation.

Foggy’s brows furrowed, confusion tangible in the air, so Matt continued.

“I…I heard her. In my apartment building. This morning.”

For several seconds, Foggy didn’t move—barely even breathed, and Matt’s heart leapt into his throat, waiting for a reply.

Finally, “Are you sure?”

The sweet melody of your voice played in his mind again. St. Jude, pray for me. With the same sadness of old times, the same familiar desperation…

“I would know her voice anywhere.” The words stuck in Matt’s throat, rough and scraping like sandpaper, and he winced, clearing his throat. “It was definitely her.”

Foggy breathed, a gusted sigh crinkling papers on his desk. “So, what did you do?”

“What could I do?” Matt grimaced, mentally kicking himself. But what was he supposed to do? It’s not like he could’ve just waltzed into the hall—waited for you to recognize him. Or, worse, waited for you to recognize him and pretend you didn’t.

He was blind, after all. It wouldn’t be the first time someone had attempted it.

“You’re kidding. Matt, you just let her go?”

Matt swallowed. “What else was I supposed to do, Foggy?”

“Um, talk to her? I mean, my God!” Foggy rose from his seat, taking a step closer to Matt. “After how she left things before, I think an explanation is the least that’s owed to you.”

“That was five years ago, Foggy.” Matt’s voice was quiet, resigned. “She’s moved on, and…I have too.”

“Bullshit.” Foggy paced to the window, the sole of his one shoe squeaking slightly at the seam, then turned back. “No, I don’t buy it. You’ve never been the same since she left, Matt. Never. Sometimes, I think she took a piece of your heart and walked right out the door with it, and it’s never come back.”

“Foggy—“ Matt shifted his jaw, fighting the tidal wave of emotion rising up his throat. Choking on it.

“No, Matt. Listen to me. She broke your heart.” Matt cleared his throat, adjusted his tie, but Foggy continued. “She left in the middle of the night with no goodbye, no explanation. Just walked out of your life like it was the easiest thing in the world to her. The least you deserve is to understand why, to get an explanation for her actions. She owes you that much.”

Matt cleared his throat again. Nodded. He didn’t trust himself to speak. Not yet.

For a while, there was nothing but the whir of the fan on Karen’s desk in the lobby and the soft ticking of the office clock hanging above the firm’s door.

Finally, Matt finished adjusting his tie, tilted his head down towards the desk. “Convincing argument there, counsellor.”

Foggy stuck his hands in the pockets of his pants. “Yeah, well, I’ve been practicing.”

“I can tell.” Matt smirked, before letting the expression fade once again and infusing as much sincerity into his voice as possible. “Thank you, Fog.”

The hand Foggy pulled out of his pocket to place on Matt’s shoulder was neither unexpected nor unwelcome. “Anytime, buddy.”

•••

The scent of leftover pad thai infiltrated the kitchen, soaking into the walls of the apartment and prickling the back of Matt’s nose as he walked through the door. With a groan, he set his cane in the corner and slid out of his suit jacket.

He’d forgotten to throw the empty container out last night.

Perfect.

Vague threats of a headache began to form, stirring in the recesses of his skull. He was unceremoniously tossing the offensive odour away when the clank of muffled keys drifted in from the hallway.

Matt paused.

Footsteps halted outside the door of the apartment across the way, hesitating, one toe scuffing the floor—a nervous habit.

Matt swallowed back the memory of how many times he’d heard you repeat that action in the past. On the carpet outside exam rooms. The sidewalk the first time he’d asked you to stay over.

Against the couch, the night you left…

Focus, Murdock.

Your every movement screamed exhaustion. From the dragging of your feet to the shuddering of your breaths, and even through the walls, Matt sensed the tears in your eyes. Could taste the salt in the air.

“O, most holy apostle, St. Jude.” The whisper caught, words hooking, sinking into the walls and into Matt’s heart. “Pray for me. Pray. Why…” The rustle of fabric and shuddering of a sob muffled through your hand nearly choked him. “Why aren’t you praying for me?”

It was all but silent—air currents shifting on a breath. But Matt heard it. He heard it…

You were sobbing.

And he couldn’t stay quiet any longer.

•••

You’d lost another job.

Tears dripped off your chin, soaking the legs of your jeans with your knees curled up against your chest. The shuddery sobs had slowly decreased to shaky hiccups, but the ache in your heart remained the same.

It had been a twelve-hour shift today, extra overtime requested to make rent at the end of the month. To repay the late fee from the month before. To get Mr. Tortelli off your back until he stopped threatening you with eviction.

Your prayer beads sat cold in your pocket. They hadn’t been of much use to you lately. The saints remained quiet in their role as intercessors.

A swell of emotion pressed down on your chest, compressing your lungs.

We’re going to lose the apartment.

Already, the thought of humbling yourself to ask your mother for more help was nauseating. Yet another thing for her to dangle over your head, disappointment dripping into your hair.

The urge to shampoo the feeling away was overwhelming, and you forced back another sob. Keep it together!

She’d never been proud of you, your mother, but ever since the day you’d dropped out of college, she’d always gone out of her way to display this disappointment.

As if her approval meant anything to you anymore—you’d numbed yourself to her scolding since you first learned how to walk. But Mathilda…

The door of the apartment across the hall from you creaked open, a gentle tapping sound registering in your mind.

Pulling yourself to your feet, you quickly brushed a hand over your clothes to straighten them and wiped the tears from your face.

“I’m sorry, I hope I didn’t disturb you. I was just—“ But the words died on your tongue. No. No, this couldn’t be happening. This couldn’t be happening! Standing in front of you, was… “Matt?”

His lips curled up in a soft smile, knuckles shifting over the cane, and he greeted you with a gentle, “Hello, sweetheart.”

Your heart raced in your ribcage.

How many times had you hoped for this moment? Dreamed of it. How many times had you rehearsed everything you would say to him? Imagined seeking him out, telling him the truth… Now, words stuck to the roof of your mouth, sticky and sharp, like glass mixed with honey.

“What…what are you doing here?”

His tight expression was probably meant to be a smile, but it appeared as more of a grimace. “I live here.”

“Oh.” You fidgeted behind your back, fingers pressing against your nail beds. The keratin protected the ends of your fingers, but they still ached from the work day—too many hours submerged in hot, soapy water, scraping against cutlery, stubbing on plates and pans.

The ache was a welcome distraction from the man in front of you.

He stepped closer, fingers twitching lightly against the white aluminum in his hand. Your name fell from his lips, desperate…almost reverent.

But before he could say his next words, you choked back a sob. “Please, Matt. Please…”

You could hear shuffling on the other side of the wall. Your mother was no doubt impatient—waiting for you to get back.

Probably waiting behind the door, ready and willing to scold you for taking longer than expected.

If she knew you were standing out here…with him….

Matt hesitated, shuffling his feet.

“I just want to know why.”

Quiet. Trembling. His voice carried such heartbreak that you wanted to drown in its waves.

Coward. You had been an absolute coward walking out on him the way you did all those years ago.

For his sake.

The reminder was bitter, ingrained into every fibre of your person. It was the only thing that’d gotten you to sleep at night for months after leaving, chanting it quietly while praying silently.

It was the cure for long nights and early mornings. For months when the rent wouldn’t stretch or the pennies wouldn’t accumulate.

It was your saving grace, the one phrase that kept you from endlessly asking yourself the same question. Why?

“It’s complicated, Matt.” Another tear slipped over your cheek, and Matt’s jaw clenched.

He was just opening his mouth to speak again when the door beside you creaked open, hinges squealing loudly.

“Momma?”

You watched as confusion slowly crept across Matt’s face, something akin to shock morphing his expression into something vulnerable.

“It’s complicated,” you whispered again, quieter, before kneeling in front of your daughter. Her tiny hands clasped the doorframe, and her cheeks flushed red and sweaty, bleary eyes unfocused on your face.

“Hello, baby. It’s okay, Momma’s here now.”

She stepped into your waiting arms, face buried in the grimy front of your shirt. Your mother’s disapproving eyes passed over you, then Matt, before closing the door without a word.

Automatically, you moved one hand to the tiny forehead pressed into your chest. And couldn’t hide the wince at the heat emanating from the skin.

“Is…is she…?” The words were barely a whisper, not even disturbing the oxygen surrounding them.

Moving your hand from her forehead, you slipped your arm underneath her securely and rose to your feet.

“Yes,” you answered, keeping your eyes downcast to your daughter—avoiding whatever emotion might be expressed on his face.

Because no matter what the question was, the answer was yes. Yours? His? Sick?

Yes. All of the above.

Silence became an entity in the hallway.

Braving a glance to Matt’s face, you found him flexing his jaw, warring against his tight lips and…

Shit.

That was a tear.

“It’s okay, Matt—“ you started to say before he interrupted you with, “How old?”

The scratch in his voice made it almost unrecognizable. And he seemed suddenly…older. Wearier.

Guilty.

Guilt gnawed at your own gut until you chewed your cheek to relieve the pressure. The weight of the prayer beads in your pocket increased the weight of your conscience.

He said your name again, desperate, begging.

“How old is she?”

Tears gathered in your eyes, blurring your vision as you looked at your feet, shoes old and worn and entirely too thin against the floor.

“Four.”

One word, so quiet you were shocked he even heard it. One word, spoken in truth where perhaps a lie would’ve been more appropriate.

One word, with the ability to alter his life forever.

“Oh my God.” You pretty much agreed with the sentiment. He placed a hand against the wall, steadying himself.

“I don’t expect anything from you, Matt,” you murmured, a reassurance you’d hoped you’d never have to give. “It’s okay. I can take care of us. You don’t have to—“

Acknowledge us. Support us. You can go back to living your life as you knew it—as if we were never here.

But you didn’t get the chance to say any of it before he interrupted you again.

“No.”

Finality reinforced the word, something firm and unwavering in his voice.

“Matt—“

“No. I’m not…I can’t…” His hand balled into a fist, and he rested it against his mouth, trembling slightly. Pain etched itself into every feature of his face, and he slowly dropped his hand. “What’s…what’s her name?”

Waves pressed against your chest, drowning you.

Lie. Lie, lie, lie. Lie to him. Lie now.

It was tempting. So tempting. You could still get away from this. You could still keep from ruining Matt’s life.

“Mathilda…” Her name was off your lips before you could convince yourself otherwise.

For years, you’d done it all alone, everything in your life revolving around the little girl in your arms.

The job hunting, apartment searching. Late nights, early mornings. Crying yourself to sleep on the days she reminded you so much of Matt. Constant vigils and applying medications you couldn’t afford when she got sick.

All of it. You’d done everything and all of it alone. So he wouldn’t have to lose the future he’d worked so hard for, the dream he carried on his sleeve.

For his sake.

But now, he was in front of you.

Devastated. Begging.

And you were so, so tired…

St. Jude, pray for me.

You were about to be selfish.

You were, but you couldn’t bring yourself to care.

Saints in heaven looked away as you clutched your child close, the eyes that were so much like Matt’s closed and nestled in your chest.

Matt’s expression flickered as you grasped his hand, placing it gently on your daughter’s back.

“…I call her ‘Matty.’”