#superhuman reader

Addiction and overdoses are not specific to Hell’s Kitchen, or even New York City. Matt knows that, he owns a small law firm in an urban area, and he’s well versed in the crime underbelly of said urban area. 

But recently, he’s noticed a spike in unconventional overdoses; He goes out at night and comes across one too many bodies on the ground, usually with blood running down their face from their nose, eyes and mouth. Sometimes they don’t die from the drug, they die from choking on their own blood. 

Whatever this new mystery drug is, it’s horrible; Intravenous, he guesses, and from what he can find on his own, the effects include a buzzy, rushing high for a few hours, like Adderall, maybe, and then an intense crash, usually leading to a long, deep sleep. 

Matt spends two nights trying to find an origin, a source, anything that would help him figure out how and why these people are overdosing at such a high rate, other than this being a new street drug that is taking a lot of lives, one which has not breached the public eye just yet. So, when he gets to work on Monday, he uses his resources—

He divulges everything he knows to Karen and Foggy and asks them for help. It takes another day or so, but eventually, he has a lead, a friend of a friend of an old client who had been in and out of rehabs. 

Which lead him to this complex, the most complicated apartment layout he could imagine, a few miles away from his cozy Hell’s Kitchen apartment. This place is making the hairs on the back of his neck stand up, he feels like a cat.

He just hates everything about this place. He can tell there are bright lights on too, he can hear the LED buzzing above him. It’s definitely lab-like, he found a room earlier down this long hallway with large vats—one of the drug he’s looking for, and one of blood. Whose blood, he doesn’t know. 

That’s where the copper is coming from—above the large vat of blood is a thin tube that’s currently depositing blood into it. The tube goes up into the ceiling, and that’s what Matt’s been following for the past few minutes. He’s not sure what he’s expecting to find, but whatever it is, he’s sure he won’t like it. 

He gets to the end of the hallway and stops in front of the door, taking a second to listen—there are sounds he’s not familiar with, he’s sure that there’s too much liquid sloshing around. And there’s something else—a heartbeat. A very faint one. The door is locked when he tries, but he busts the lock open easily and steps inside. 

And there you are. 

You’re not awake, or maybe you are, just barely. He’s not sure. But your breathing is shallow, and your heartbeat indicates to him that you’re quite drugged up yourself. You’re on a standing table, strapped in but tilted back enough where you don’t have to keep yourself standing on two feet; not that you could, even if you wanted to. 

There’s an IV coming from your arm. Maybe fluids to keep you alive, but he’s sure there must be some kind of drugs in there to keep you loopy. Around your face, he notes another tube—a nose cannula provides oxygen to you, and Matt has to assume you desperately need it; especially when he notices the needles sticking out of your skin. 

They’re large things with a glass tube on top of them, connecting to smaller, plastic tubes that all converge into the tube Matt had been following to get here. There are seven of them—three on each arm, and one right into your abdomen. From what he can tell, you’re wearing a sports bra and sweatpants, no socks, no shoes. 

You barely move, barely breathe, and your skin is drained of any flushness, your hands lightly shaking. He peels off his gloves before taking hold of one with both of his hands and feeling the cold, clamminess of them. 

Someone is working awfully hard to keep you alive. 

In an instant, he’s working to try and get the needles off you. You barely stir as he eases the needles out of you, careful not to hurt you. He’s sure he won’t have much time once he gets the needles out, so he works quickly. When the needles are out, he takes the IV out next, and then takes off the nose cannula, before working at your shackles. 

When those are off, you almost fall off the table—but he catches you, your body limp in his arms. He holds you close, cradling you like you’re precious. You’re just some kid, he reasons, and you need to be saved from whoever is harvesting the life from you, literally. 

You squirm a bit in his arms, and he winces. 

“It’s alright, you’re going to be okay.” He says gently, and you must believe him, since you curl into him. 

He thinks about taking you to the hospital, but he’s sure that whoever had you here will look there first. So, he does the only thing he can think to and begins to carry you back to his apartment. You’re still asleep, but he keeps his focus on your heartbeat, making sure that as he makes his way through the shadows, you don’t die. 

You make it back and since it’s been about an hour by the time he makes it there, and you’re still alive, Matt is semi confident that you won’t die just yet. But he lays you on his bed very gently, and before he can even think about taking his own suit off, he’s reaching to bandage your arms. The needles were big, so he’s sure they’ll scar. You have three bandages wrapped around different parts of each of your arms, and then he tenderly places a bandage on your side. 

He checks for other injuries, but he’s sure you’re just weak from the drugs and the blood draining. Or at least, he really fucking hopes so. He gets you a small washcloth, wetting it and squeezing to make sure it’s not dripping, before going back to you.

He listens for your heartbeat again and finds it still thumping. 

“Brave girl,” he whispers softly as he brushes some hair from your face, before placing the cold cloth on your forehead. He’s sure you can’t hear him, but he speaks anyways, “What happened to you?” He wonders quietly. 

That’s about all he can do for you until you wake up. So, reluctantly, he pulls himself from your side, and begins to strip, needing desperately to wash the smell of that place off of him—he wishes you’d be free of the scent too. After scrubbing every inch of his skin with a body wash that only barely smells like vanilla, Matt dresses in a pair of sweats, similar to yours, and an old ratty henley tee shirt. He brushes his teeth, washes his face, and slips his crucifix on, wondering what saints were looking after you while you were being.. tortured? Experimented on? 

Saint Jude, he thinks, Patron saint of desperate and lost causes, or Saint Dismas, patron saint of prisoners. Or maybe, he thinks more bitterly, Saint Januarius, patron saint of blood banks.

He stands in between his bedroom and the kitchen, scratching the back of his neck.

Then, he moves to go make you a sandwich. You’ll be hungry when you wake up, won’t you? Who knows when the last time you ate was—then, he’s reaching for a glass, too. You’ll be thirsty. He can’t fix whatever’s happened to you, but he can absolutely make sure you aren’t wanting for food or water when you wake up. 

He places the plate, complete with some chips he found, on his nightstand near the bed, along with the water.  Then, he realizes you might be cold or want to change when you wake up. He goes to find old clothes that might fit you. 

It’s a real ‘if you give a mouse a cookie’ situation with him. 

Eventually, when he’s sure he’s accounted for everything that you could possibly need or want when you wake up, he grabs the pillow your head is not resting on and stands next to the bed, trying to convince himself to go sleep on the couch. 

He can’t help it. He leans down, kisses your head, and then, turns to make his way out of the room. He stops at the doorway, turning his head back in your direction, just to make sure your heart is still beating, before making his way to the couch, making sure to leave the door cracked open. 

He doesn’t sleep particularly well, what with the mysterious prisoner in his bed, but he does manage to get some sleep. In the morning, when he goes to check on you, you’re still dead asleep. But your heartbeat is stronger than it was, and that’s encouraging, at least.

He replaces the cloth on your head with a fresh one, using it to wipe sweat off your face and neck, as well. He goes back and forth with it for about an hour, trying to decide if he should go to work or not. What if you’re not here when he gets back? 

But, he reasons with himself—even if you do wake up before he gets home, which, he doubts you will, he’s sure you won’t be strong enough to get very far. Besides, maybe you’d appreciate being saved, being left in a warm bed with a plate of food and a change of clothes not too far from you. The office isn’t too far, either, he can keep an ear out for you.

Besides, he knows that if Karen and Foggy don’t hear from him, they’ll only worry. So, reluctantly, he gets ready for work. 

And the day drags, of course. Fridays always do. He almost stays three separate times and then goes when he remembers he doesn’t have any other substantial food in the apartment. You’ll definitely be hungry when you wake up, he remembers, so you need more than a ham and cheese sandwich. He does tell Foggy and Karen about you, who immediately start looking through missing persons files. He doesn’t see the point—he really doesn’t know what you look like, only that you’re weak and scarred. Besides, maybe when you wake up, he’ll learn exactly who you are. 

It takes him a couple of minutes at the Chinese place to decide what you’d like. He doesn’t know you, he reminds himself, but he’s tired, and he’s finding it hard to be focused on anything except the girl in his bed, like he’s known you for years. 

He settles on sweet and sour chicken and some fried rice. Carbs, sodium, and sugars will be good for you, he’s sure. He gets himself beef and broccoli, always preferring this place for how they clean they kept it, how their food never tasted like chemicals or soap. Besides, it was good food. The meal comes with two egg rolls. 

He trudges his way up the apartment stairs, noting the way the day both dragged on and passed with a snap of his fingers, but he’s about to have a much bigger problem on his hands. At the door, he listens for your heartbeat and finds it much faster than when he left. Are you scared? Well, you did wake up in an unfamiliar place. 

He comes inside, before placing the takeout on the coffee table near the door. He takes off his jacket, places his cane to the side, and rolls up the sleeves of his button up before following the sound of your heartbeat into his bedroom. The sandwich is half eaten, the chips demolished and the water gone. 

He listens for a minute, before locating you in his closet—Wait, his closet? You’re sitting in his armoire, curled up on top of the trunk he keeps his suit in. Why are you in there, he wonders? 

He makes his way towards the closet, and then stops, hesitating. Just opening the door might spook you, so he knocks. When he doesn’t hear any reaction, he slowly opens the door. When the light hits your eyes, you squint, taking in the site of this new captor you’ve found yourself next to. He wears dark glasses, and you’re trying to recall what that might mean. You’re sure you would’ve known once upon a time. 

Matt crouches down in front of you, so you’re more eye level. You haven’t changed clothes, he notes. Before Matt can say anything, you pull your knees closer to your chest and start to growl, like a frightened animal. He frowns, then sits on his butt and takes a scootch back so you don’t feel so threatened. He crosses his legs. 

“Hi.” He says softly, “I didn’t mean to scare you, I’m sorry.” He starts. You don’t respond. “But I’m not going to hurt you.” He promises. 

You don’t believe him. But you do stop growling. He exhales softly, not sure why he’s so relieved. 

“I found you in a lab, there was.. well, I guess I don’t need to tell you what state I found you in. But you’ll be safe here.” He says, and then, when you still don’t respond, “I’m Matt.” He says next. 

A long beat of silence. 

And Matt finds himself talking again. 

“It’s okay if you don’t remember your name, but I’d like to know it if you do.” He offers, “Maybe I could help you, find someone who cares about you, who’s worried for you.”

You know two things: Your name, and that you are completely alone. No one is coming to save you. They never were. But this Matthew (How do you know Matt is short for Matthew, you wonder, how do you know anything?) is sitting in front of you and, while you know what men are capable of, you don’t detect any signs of aggression. You don’t trust him, but you know he’s brought you away from that terrible place. 

So, you whisper your name. Matthew echoes it, and it’s weird to hear your name fall from the lips of another person after so long. Then, Matthew does something you find strange. He smiles. 

It’s an awfully pretty smile, and you attempt to bare your teeth back at him, but it doesn’t feel like smiling, it just feels like showing off your canines and molars. He stands, then, and you’re almost dizzy with how much larger than you, curled up in this dark corner, he is.  He offers you his hand. 

“C’mon, it can’t be very comfortable in there. Besides, I got dinner. Or you could shower, change, whatever you want to do.” And despite your instinct, despite every inch of you screaming to run far far away from his kindness, you take his hand. 

Without another word, Matthew leads you out of the closet, and to the main room where he has the food. 

“You can, uh.. sit down. Do you want something to drink?” he asks, as you stand by the couch, quiet and staring at the door. You could leave. You could run. Why aren’t you running? Isn’t this what you’ve wanted for years, to run? He tilts his head at you. “Kid? You okay?” he wonders, and you look at him. He holds up two cans of soda. “Coke or Dr. Pepper?” He asks, not wanting to push on whatever that moment was. 

You reach forward and take the coke can, the idea of sugar making your mouth watery. Food is a luxury for you, and the scent of the food coming from the takeout bag Matt is reaching for is intoxicating. He pulls the containers out much too slowly for your liking, and then, you’re sitting on his couch in front of his coffee table as he reveals the spread of greasy, delicious New York City American Chinese food that you’ll be able to devour. 

“The chicken is for you, help yourself to the rice.” He puts the container of sicky sweet red sauce in front of you too, and then he’s sitting down to eat his beef with broccoli, his fork picking up a scoopful as you—

As you start pulling pieces of chicken out of the container with your hands, shoveling it into your mouth like you haven’t eaten in days. It’s so good, you cannot help yourself. You could cry, it’s so good—you won’t, you hate crying in front of anyone, but you could—and then you’re reaching for the sauce container, ripping off the lid to start drinking it, and that’s when Matt decides he needs to step in. 

“Okay, hey—” he leans forward to grab your hands, and you flinch, looking at him with wide, horrified eyes. He stops and sighs, noticing your tension. “It’s alright. It’s okay, I’m not upset. But if you eat like that, you’ll make yourself sick.” He promises and then hands you a fresh fork. “Here, use this.” 

You stare at the fork. You remember forks, you’re sure. You can identify the name of it, but you can’t remember quite how to use it. Your hand wraps around the stem, and you begin to stab at your chicken like it’s a knife. Matt doesn’t mind. He doesn’t say anything, just keeps eating. He gets the sense you don’t want to talk about whatever it is you’ve been through, and he won’t push. 

You eat in silence, and then, you manage the words out, after a long, disgusting slurp of cold soda. 

“Thank you.” You say quietly, and Matt smiles at you again. You look down at your food. 

He helps you when your stabbing method doesn’t work on the rice, showing you how to hold the fork properly. In the back of his mind, Matt keeps wondering what happened to you, and more than that, he’s wondering how long you had been isolated. 

But, he decides, when you finally are full, and you lean back, stretching your limbs, your bandages still around the wounds of those horrible needles, that for now all he needs to do is let you heal. Let you rest. Everything else can come after he makes sure you know he won’t let anything else hurt you. 

You find the shower when you’re done eating and after showing you how to use it and offering a fresh set of clothes, Matt leaves you alone as he cleans up dinner, but the sound of your sobs coming from the bathroom makes him pause. But you’ve been through so much, he reasons, you’re more than allowed to cry.

When you come out of the shower, clean and no longer smelling like blood and antiseptic, Matt rewraps your wounds with fresh bandages, and asks, 

“Do you need anything else? Are you tired, would you like to go to bed?” He asks, and you are tired, you won’t deny that... but, your eyes drift to the two egg rolls that sit on the table still. Matt smiles a little. “Just so you know, I can’t see. Not with my eyes anyways.” Your head tilts at this. “But I can tell you’re eyeing those egg rolls.” He reaches over and picks up the container, offering them to you. “Go on, take one.” And you do. 

You take a large, crunchy bite, and remember that you like egg rolls. They’re delicious, you’re quickly recalling.

Matt must sense this, although you’re not sure if that’s part of his ‘seeing but not with his eyes’ thing, so he tells you that you can have his, too. 

-

You like Matthew’s friends. In the small bit of your brain where you can access memories from before the lab, memories you can only reach on the brink of falling asleep or right when you wake up, you’re sure you’d be good friends with them if you were normal. 

You’re not sure if they like you. 

Matt had asked Karen and Foggy to come over to meet you yesterday, when he was sure you were settled in enough to not freak out on him. 

“Dude.” Is all Foggy has said for the past half hour. You look normal, besides for the big tee shirts you’ve stolen from Matt. You’re wearing pants that are a size too big for you, and socks that are thick and soft. They feel like cuffs after years of being barefoot, but you’re managing. 

“Dude.” You chirp back, smiling up at them from your place on the couch. Karen sits on the other end of the couch, looking at you.

“This is insane, you must see that!” Foggy demands and you shake your head, tapping the space between your eyes. 

“Can’t see.” You offer. Matt sighs, hands on his hips. It’s your favorite thing to say, anytime anyone makes an indication that Matt might be able to see, figuratively or not, whether it’s Matt himself or someone else. 

His one hand leaves his hip and rests on your head for a second. 

“Yes, Kid, we know, I can’t see.” Then, he’s turning back to Foggy to continue their conversation. 

“She hasn’t told you anything except her name? She doesn’t remember anything about who took her, or—” You bring your knees to your chest, curling into yourself. Karen cuts herself off, tilting her head when she notices your change in body language. “You don’t want to talk about it, do you?” She wonders, and you shake your head. She watches as you get this far away look in your eyes. 

She shares a look with Foggy, and Matt steps away from you, closer to them. In a low voice, he begins to talk, 

“Listen, whatever happened to her, I know it’s bad. I know it kind of..” he sighs. “Broke her brain, I guess. I don’t even know how long she was in there for, and you guys know that even a few weeks of torture and isolation can destroy someone, let alone..” his head tilts back to where you sit, as you begin to rock a bit, before your hands move to play with the blanket that drapes over the couch, picking at stray bits of fiber. You hum a tune none of them recognize, and Matt has noticed you do this when you’re stressed. You make sounds, instead of words. 

Humming, purring, growling, cooing. 

Foggy sighs. 

“I’ll call my sister, see if she has any old clothes she’s not using. They’re about the same size. Then, I’ll see if I can get my hands on some missing persons reports that match her description.” He offers, unable to deny his bleeding heart. 

“I’ll talk to Ellis,” Karen offers, “See if he has any leads on the manufacturers who had her.” 

“Thank you,” Matt smiles, and your eyes drift up to watch the three of them, talking at the other end of the couch. You feel the familiar bitter swirl of jealousy in your stomach. Would anyone ever love you as much as Matt loves his friends, and his friends love him? Had anyone, before you knew nothing, except pain and blood? 

You feel the familiar urge to run, to get as far away as possible, but you can’t move. You also want to cry, but you force yourself not to, as you stare at the glass of water Matt had poured for Karen when she came in, forcing yourself to stare at it instead of one of them. 

Their chatter becomes dull noise in a roar of dissociation, static filling your brain as you relish in all the terrible things floating around in your brain. 

You’ve always been alone, you’re sure. You don’t know exactly how long you’d been in the lab, but you’re sure it was a long time, long enough that it’s strange that no one ever came for you. Maybe you went willingly. Maybe you went by your own accord, and that would mean that this is all your fault. That you did this to yourself, that you deserve the scars from those needles, since no one forced you to be experimented on, you did this all to yourself. 

You sink deeper into the darkness. Into the blood that sloshes around your brain, blurring your memories. 

Why do you even let Matt help you? You don’t deserve it. You’re only putting him in more danger, more than you’re worth. You’re not worth anything, you’re a blood bank, remember? Matt, maybe he made a mistake, when he saved you. He’s good, he helps people, he’s so kind, and you’re horrible. You’re angry, and bitter, and sad, and selfish. Maybe you should’ve just died in that lab. 

The water starts to bubble like it’s being boiled on the table. 

You’re just not worth all of this effort, not when you’ve done so many horrible things, not when your blood has been used for things you can’t even begin to describe, not when you did this to yourself. Maybe there’s still time to fix it, you reason—maybe you should just end it. Maybe you should just kill—

The glass of water shatters, glass and water spilling everywhere. All three heads turn to it as Karen gasps, obviously surprised. Your eyes are wide with surprise too. You’re trembling now, and you can smell blood, but you’re not sure why. You’re dizzy. Your chest heaves up and down, and Matt notices your frenzied state. 

He frowns, and grabs a rag from his kitchen, going over to the coffee table. His head tilts towards yours with a gentle smile as he begins to clean it up, 

“It’s okay. No harm done, it was an old glass, anyways.” He assures, scooping glass into the wet rag. He goes to dump it out in the trash, and as he passes Karen and Foggy, he mumbles, “Oh, yeah. There’s that too.” 

You put your head between your knees and try to breathe. You only flinch when you feel a warm hand on your head, gently petting your hair.

-

One night, Matt wakes up to the sound of you crying. Your gentle sobs wrack your body from the other room, as you try and control your breathing. And although every bone in Matt’s body is aching for sleep, he pulls himself up off the couch, rubs his eyes and makes his way to his bedroom. 

He’s been sleeping on the couch since you got here, and he can’t deny that he misses his bed. But he’s happy to give you your privacy, sure that you aren’t used to that luxury. Besides, he feels bad that he falls asleep to the thought of you every night. Not because he’s worried for you, but because he longs to be close to you. 

He’s definitely going to hell. This alone is enough to damn him. 

He wears dark sweatpants and an old Columbia tee shirt, and the sound of your crying is making his heart ache. He can’t help himself as his feet begin to move towards the bedroom door. He stops there, listening for a long moment. You’re crying, but your movements are subtle. You’re twitching, and Matt’s face softens when he realizes you’re having a nightmare. 

He opens the door as quietly as he can, and makes his way over to his bed, where you’re sobbing in your sleep, flinching like you’re hurting, your leg moving like you’re trying to run. He goes over to the bed and sits near your head, his hand gently resting on your arm. 

“Hey,” he begins, “Hey, kid, c’mon, wake up.” He tries, gently shaking you, and when you keep crying he sighs, “C’mon, brave girl, wake up for me, I promise, you’re okay. I wouldn’t let anything hurt you.” He leans down to press a kiss to your forehead, and you choose that exact moment to wake up, and move your head right up—your forehead hitting Matt’s nose with a light crunch!, as you panic, gasping for air as you move away from him. 

Matt whimpers and scrunches his face, his hand coming up to hold his nose. But you didn’t hit hard enough to break his nose or draw blood, so he’s not super worried about it. However, you know he’s hurting, and you feel horrible, because all Matt has done is save you, feed you, try to make you feel safe, and you hurt him. 

God, what a waste of space you are. 

You keep crying, and you hate yourself for it. For all of it, but especially this. You swore of crying in front of anyone a long time ago, so long you can’t remember when you did, back when you still had some sort of resolve, when you didn’t want to show whoever was hurting you how vulnerable you really were.

Matt reaches for you instinctively. 

“Hey, it’s alright,” he says it softly, like he’s talking to a skittish animal, which, you’re not too far off from, “You’re safe, I’ve got you, baby,” he says, and neither of you are in the state to address that slip. “Can I hold you?” He requests, and you only sob, wishing to go home. 

Where even is home? Did you ever have one? Do you have parents out there, somewhere? Folks who raised you, who made you soup when you were sick, who knew when your birthday was, and never missed it? 

Matt takes your crying as a yes, scooting over a bit and wrapping his arms around you, pulling you close. He cradles you close, your head tucked under his chin. Your nose rubs against his Adam’s apple, against the bottom of his scruff, as his hand gently pets your hair. You clutch his other arm with both of your hands, afraid he’ll disappear. You don’t stop crying. 

“It was just a nightmare. You’re safe here, I’ve got you.” He whispers it over and over again, like a prayer, just barely rocking you. “Just a nightmare.” 

A nightmare you can barely remember now, but it felt so real. 

Your tears slow, simply because you have nothing left to give. You’re still trembling. Matt hates it when you shake. Just tell me how to fix it, he wants to say, but that would be a load of shit—he can’t fix what you’ve been through. He can’t even fix how you’re feeling right now. 

But even if you’re not crying, you’re still hyperventilating, so he starts to rub slow circles into your back with his hand. 

“Kid, you have to breathe. Just breathe with me, okay? In,” He inhales, listening for you to follow suite, and then exhales, “Out.” The two of you sit like this for a long moment as you match his breathing, no longer breathing in a way that deprives your brain or your lungs of the necessary oxygen. Matt thinks of the nose cannula you had on when he first met you. “Do you want me to go get you a glass of water? Or I can go—” But you start shaking again at the idea of him leaving. 

Your hands cling to him, gripping his arm tighter. 

“Stay.” You request, and Matt nods, pulling you closer. 

He presses a kiss to your head. 

“Okay, I’ll stay. I’m not going anywhere, I promise.” He says softly. 

And true to his word, Matt holds you until the sun rises, and you’re completely sure you’re not in any danger. Although, in the back of your mind, you are worried for the way you melt into him, the way you trust him, the way you wish you could stay in his arms forever. 

-

You haven’t eaten in days and Matt’s beginning to get worried. He knows you, or at least, he likes to pretend that he does. Aren’t you hungry? 

You haven’t had much of an appetite lately, anyways, but you usually can stomach some soup or something light. 

But for the past three days, you haven’t had an appetite at all; Matt knows it’s hard, he’s had a hard time taking care of himself before, but he can’t help but wonder what he could do to help you eat something. You were so fucking hungry when you first met, where did that go? Where is his girl that would shovel handfuls of takeout into her mouth? 

As a compromise with himself, he decides to tuck you into bed and tells you he’ll be back in a few hours, that Daredevil must make an appearance for the night. It’s been a few days since he’s really let himself get into it. 

He spends hours throwing punches, swinging kicks and getting punched right back. He crawls into the apartment at around three in the morning, sweaty and smelling as he tries to make his way through a rattled brain and into the shower. But he hears you in the kitchen, rummaging through the fridge. So, he heads towards you. 

“Hey, kid,” He says as he limps towards the kitchen, pulling off his helmet. His hair is drenched in sweat, sticking to his forehead despite the short length, “What’re you doing up?” he asks, and you stop, not realizing he was there. 

You slowly turn towards him, a mouth full of raw ground beef as your hands dig into the package you have taken the raw meat from. You don’t say much, you tend not to, and Matt really doesn’t mind. Except, maybe, for the fact that you’re the lovely girl he’s been developing feelings for, and he wishes he could hear more of your voice. 

You let out something resembling a coo, and then clear your throat,

“Hungry.” You tell him, scooping a big handful of ground beef into your mouth letting out a hum as you enjoy the texture. Matt frowns softly and goes over to you. He has no idea what’s wrong with you, why the first thing you’ve eaten in days is raw meat. 

“I know, I mean,” He pulls off thick gloves and sighs, “I bet you are. This is the first time I’ve seen you eat in days.” He reminds, approaching you. You don’t flinch, you just reach for another bite, and Matt lets you have it. 

Then, you shake your head. 

“Can’t see.” Your pointer finger comes up to run along the bridge of Matt’s nose, right between his eyes. He tenses a bit, a small smile on his face as you rub small grains of raw beef on his forehead. 

“Yeah, you’re right. I meant I know you haven’t eaten in days. I’ve been worried about you.” He confesses. You tilt your head. 

“Not worried.” You assure, with a small shake of your head. Matt smiles a bit. 

‘Yeah, I know you’re not worried. You’re never worried about you. That’s why I am.” He reminds, and when he senses you going for another bite of the raw beef, he gently wraps his fingers around your wrist. “You can’t keep eating raw meat. You’ll get sick.” You let out a whine and try to pull your wrist back, and Matt lets you but he also pulls the raw beef from your hands, and then you whine louder. “I know, I’m sure it tastes good, but you’ll get sick, and you’ll feel awful, honey.” 

You pause. 

“Honey?” 

Matt sighs, feeling bad about the slip up. He shouldn’t be using pet names for you, he has no idea how much you do or do not understand about the world around you. It’s why he feels so bad that he likes you so much. He tosses and turns, goes back and forth, is it even okay, morally, to fall for someone if you don’t know that they understand what love is? Does it make him even more of a sinner than he thought? 

“It’s just a nickname. For friends, I guess.” Matt sighs. 

“We are friends?” You ask, and Matt nods. 

“We are. We take care of each other, right?” He wonders, and if you had the words, you’d tell him that he takes care of you far more than you take care of him. You look from your hands, covered in specs of meat, then to Matt, sweaty, tired and a little bit beaten up. You frown softly when you notice a cut on his head. 

“Matthew Hurt,” You chirp, and you go to touch his forehead, but again, his hand wraps around your wrist, oh, so gently, 

“I’ll live. It’s okay. Can you wash your hands, please?” He really does not need your ground beef hands on him. Again. And you oblige, washing your hands as he sticks the raw meat in the fridge again, and when you turn back to him, you reach past him to try and get into the fridge, but he’s blocking your reach. 

“Hungry.” You echo, and Matt sighs. 

“I know,” He promises, “I’ll get you whatever you want.. but raw meat isn’t good for you. I could cook it for you, if you want.” And to that, you make a face, with a disgusted ‘ick’, sticking your tongue out. “Okay, I won’t cook it for you. How about..” Matt turns, goes back into the fridge and finds edible cookie dough. He hands you the tub, and you take it begrudgingly. 

“Fine.” You grumble, and you open the tub of cookie dough, taking a scoop. The sweetness makes you hum, licking the dough off your fingers. “Thank you, honey.” You hum, and Matt smiles. 

“You’re welcome. How about you eat, while I shower?” He wonders. You know this is the routine, even if you’re usually asleep for it. 

“Then we cuddle?” You wonder, and Matt smiles. Sure, he shouldn’t be falling for you, but how could he deny such a request? 

“If that’s what you want, then sure.” He promises, “But no more eating raw meat, okay?” He confirms and you take a second. Then, you nod. 

“Okay.” 

-

Matt doesn’t really care about bookstores, especially the big ones, mostly because they’re usually too loud for a store with a limited number of books he can actually read. But you’ve made your way through the two or three books that had been left at his place from old flings at least twice. 

So, of course, he stands a foot away as your fingers graze against the spines of various books. You’re examining all of the titles, trying to find something familiar. You know, from the few books you’ve been able to get your hands on since meeting Matt, that you really like reading—

You’re sure you did. You miss feeling normal, even though you cannot remember what that was really like. Matt keeps assuring you that it’ll get easier, that you won’t feel this way forever. You don’t respond when he says this, but you want to tell him that maybe this is it; this is as normal as you’ll ever be. 

You find yourself in the young adult section—why, you do not know. Then, you pluck a book from the stands, finding a.. familiar title. The Hunger Games. You blink, startled. You know this book. 

You love this book. 

Although, you cannot for the life of you remember why, or what the story is about.

You clutch the book in your hands and immediately open it, starting to read the first page, and although you don’t remember the contents of the story now, you are hooked on every single word. 

In the middle of the aisle, you sit down, your eyes still following the sentences, only getting to the end of the page when you hear Matthew’s voice—

“Honey, you can’t just sit in the middle of the aisle and start reading. We’re here to shop, remember?”

“Can’t. Your favorite word.” You’re getting better at full sentences, and Matt is hoping that through reading, you’ll only get better.

“I’m sorry,” He sits down next to you in the aisle, and you find yourself not minding his closeness. “Was that sass?” he wonders, and you glare at him, although there’s no anger in it. Not yet. You know he’s teasing. You hate it when he teases, your face always gets too red. But you hate the silence more.

“I want to read.” You grumble, looking down at the page. You squirm when you feel Matt’s hand on the back of your neck. 

“I know,” he promises, and he’s honestly on the verge of pissing you off. You really like him, he’s the only person you feel safe with, and yet, you can feel yourself grow frustrated. He’s cooing at you, like you’re stupid, but you’re not stupid, you just don’t have the words to express yourself, not like everyone else does. “But we should find you more books, that way we can—”

“No.” You say firmly, turning the page of your book. You want to know more, you want to understand why you feel so drawn to this book, why it was so important to you once upon a long fucking time ago, and Matt doesn’t understand. Does he understand what it’s like to lose everything, to feel so disconnected from who you once were? 

“Kid, I know, you want to read, but—”

Oh, my god, you hate this. Why isn’t he listening to you? He’s supposed to be on your side, and you can feel your heart beating faster with frustration, your head rushing—you can hear the blood rushing through your skull, and you hate it more than you hate this frustration--

“No!” You snap, and when you do, a nearby light overhead goes out with a dramatic snap!, causing numerous gasps to erupt form nearby patrons, and you close your eyes, trying to get control of your breathing. You can’t think about Matt right now, can’t think about how horrible you feel. Why are you like this? Once you’re sure you won’t do it again, you open your eyes to look at Matt. “I did not…” you shake your head, and his face is tilted up towards the light, face twisted in confusion, as if he’s trying to figure the light out. 

“I know,” he repeats, and you exhale, trying to not get more upset. “I’m not mad—"

“Say something else.” You demand, and his shoulders deflate. He nods, before continuing, 

“Maybe you could read some of your book to me.” He offers, and your lips tilt up a bit, the tension melting from your shoulders. 

“Okay.” You say softly, and then Matt gently rubs your arm up, and down. 

“Would you like to pick out a few more books? Maybe we could stop by the CD section, too.” He offers, and you smile more. You glance down to your book, and you know you can’t keep being so stubborn, that you need to agree to going with him, because he’s assuming you can’t understand as much as he does. 

“No money.” You sigh. 

Matt shakes his head and waves his hand, like it doesn’t even matter. 

“My treat.” He says, and then he stands up, and offers you his hand. “C’mon. I’m getting hungry, anyways.” You know he’s not, but he always says that when your stomach rumbles, and you’re wondering if he’ll always have the upper hand on reading you, on knowing your cues. 

Then, you think it’s nice to be known so well, and you can’t find it in yourself to be angry about it. 

-

You find that you really love the sun. You love the way the warmth feels on your skin and you love the brightness of it—closing your eyes and tilting your head right up to see all these different dull oranges behind your eyelids. 

Maybe Summer was your favorite season, before. Maybe you had days like these, before. 

Karen hates that you’re always so cooped up in Matt’s apartment. He’s your only friend, and when he’s at work, Karen wonders what you do to keep yourself entertained all day. Matt says you have books and music, but how fulfilling can that really be? 

So, Karen asked you if you wanted to go to the farmer’s market they were having by the docks. When the sun shines and it’s warm, the people of New York tend to come out of hibernation, so Matt was a little worried about you being suddenly around so many people. 

But he didn’t save you from that lab just for you to stay cooped up in his apartment all day when he’s not around. He told you that you should go. 

You wore one of Matt’s button ups and a pair of shorts he had gotten for you, your shirt only half tucked in, sleeves rolled up to your elbows. Your arm hooks around Karen’s, mostly because it’s what you’re so used to doing with Matt. She smells different than him, though, more like lavender and clean laundry than his coffee-cologne, hint of vanilla scent. You don’t mind, it’s a good different. Ten minutes into your exploration of the farmers market, you bought a small bouquet of roses, before picking the petals and popping them in your mouth. You tried Karen’s strawberry matcha from one of the booths, and you thought it was fine. You sipped a lemonade as she perused some pretty crochet creations that a young woman with many piercings was selling—you were amazed by her piercings.

Overall, you were having a nice day. 

You’ve been happily humming for a few minutes now, letting yourself be guided by Karen, only occasionally pulling her towards something that catches your eye. 

Your eyes scan the crowd, back and forth, just looking. Maybe you’re watching for danger, although, you aren’t sure what danger there would be in this place like this, where younger kids wander far from their parents who don’t want to stop their wine tasting to look at blind boxes. 

Your eyes land on a man—he’s staring at Karen. He’s staring at her like he wants something, and it makes your nose twitch. You don’t like it. Your humming ceases as you stare the man down, your gaze hardening as Karen finishes buying some tea she knows Foggy wanted to try. She turns back to you when she hears you start to growl, the type of low, back of the throat growl a pitbull might do when they sense danger. 

You’re not sure why, but as you glare at him, your ears start to ring, and you hear the rushing of blood—but not your blood. His.

You’re weird. She knows that. She doesn’t really mind it, all things considered. But, she’s trying to learn your cues. 

“What’s wrong?” She asks, then follows your gaze to the man who’s staring at her. She scoffs and then rolls her eyes. “Weirdo. Don’t worry about him, okay?” You can’t stop worrying about him even if you wanted to, but you’re pulled back to reality when Karen hooks her arm with yours again, before smiling. “Don’t worry,” She taps her bag with her hand, and you listen to the faintest click of metal, “Mine’s bigger than his.” 

You don’t fully know what the joke is here, but she says it with the same cadence as Matt does when he’s joking, so you know she’s not worried or upset. So, you laugh, and it makes Karen laugh—and the two of you walk away from the staring man to go get lunch at one from one of the vendors on the other side of the farmer’s market. 

When you find something yummy, you and Karen sit next to each other on a bench, people watching as you eat and sip, like nothing about either of you is anything except completely normal. 

And then, your mouth starts to water when you notice a pig being set up to be roasted, still raw, and the illusion of normalcy is broken.  

-

You have good days and bad days. 

Today is a bad day. 

You wake up restless. You wake up unable to find words, unable to talk. You’re looking over your shoulder all through breakfast. You’re watching Matt get ready for work. You’re tapping your foot anxiously, as if you’re trying to outrun your fears, all while sitting in the same place. 

You know there’s uncooked steaks in the fridge, and you have this desire to sink your teeth into them, lick the drops blood out of the container. Everything is wrong. You can hear Matt’s blood swirling through his veins. You’re dizzy. 

“Doin’ okay over there?” He asks, a small smile on his face. He really tries to keep a sense of normalcy when you have these bad days, but it’s not easy. He’s worried about you, he’s so fucking worried, and you won’t talk to him. 

You let out a whine, and the smile drops from his face.

“I’m sorry, honey,” he starts gently. “Is it the food? Can I get you something else?” 

Of course it’s the food, but It’s also everything else. 

You whine again, burying your face in your hands. Matt’s frown deepens, and he steps closer to you. 

“I can’t help you if you don’t talk to me,” He reminds, and you want to kill him. You’ve never had that thought about Matt before, it scares you, but you’re mad. You’re mad that he doesn’t understand that you can’t, that the words aren’t even available for you to use. You want to cry, but something in you insists that you don’t, that you cannot show vulnerability, even to this man that you lo—really enjoy the company of. 

Matt sighs at your silence, as his shoulders fall. 

“Okay.” He nods, “Okay. Then, I have to go to work.” He moves away from you and goes to the door to get his jacket. You’re up in an instant, following him. The only thing worse than him being so close is him not being here at all. Your breathing becomes uneven as you struggle with the thought of being without him. You need him, you think, you cannot live without him, you won’t—you’re not safe here without him, you’re not safe anywhere without him. 

Matt is also dealing with an internal conflict. He wants to hold you, cradle you close. But you need to work through your emotions, you need to be able to not shut down every time you have a bad day, you need to heal. And if he babies you, if he keeps running to your aid whenever you whine, you never will. 

And then you’ll spend the rest of your days in this apartment, where he’ll fall deeper and deeper in love with you. 

Besides, Matt never claimed to be a perfect man. 

You grab at his arm, pulling him away from the door. It doesn’t do much, instead leaving Matt more annoyed than before. 

“No, C’mon, you know I have to go.” But this isn’t good enough for you. You tug harder, willing yourself to communicate without words that you need him, that you’re sorry, that you’ll never ever do anything bad ever again. Matt sighs, before putting his free hand on his hip like a disappointed mother. “Tell me. Use your words and tell me you want me to stay, and I will.”

You try. You open your mouth to tell him, but the words die in your throat. In your captivity, you had forgotten how to speak. Now, the effects of what you have gone through render you speechless once more. 

Matt tries not to let his frustration show on his face. 

He moves his hand from yours and brings it up to your face, cupping your cheek. 

“I’m sorry. I gotta go. But I’ll bring home food, we’ll have a nice meal, and I’ll hold you for as long as you want. I promise, Honey, it’ll all be okay—”

But you’re not listening to a word he says. Your eyes are glued onto his arm, static and the sound of rushing blood filling your ears again. Your mouth starts to water, and whatever primal instinct that has aided your survival up until this point wins when he retracts his hand. 

In a flash, Your teeth sink into the skin of his forearm. Not the light, teasing nibble of a lover, but the crazed, blood thirsty gnaw of an animal, one that has been tortured for too long. You draw blood, tear skin, and then, Matt pulls his arm away with a cry. 

For a moment, you don’t even feel bad. You relish in the taste of him, in the way his blood overwhelms your tastebuds, at the way his skin tastes. You don’t tear off a lot of flesh, but it’s enough, and he’s bleeding. It’s not pretty. 

Then, Matt loses it. 

“Are you.. fucking kidding me?!” He doesn’t mean to raise his voice, but you just tore a chunk out of his arm, after weeks and months of gentle care. “Did you just bite me?! I cannot believe you,” he huffs, and he doesn’t process your shaking or the way you flinch away from him. He’s just so angry. 

You back away from him, before turning and walking towards the bedroom. That makes him even angrier. 

“Hey! Don’t walk away from me!” He snaps, “You bit me like a damn animal, you do not get to walk away from me—” He follows you, but you can’t hear him. You can’t breathe, everything about this is nauseating. You walk into the bedroom, and Matt sighs. He takes a deep breath, not realizing how uneven his breathing had become. “Honey, I’m sorry, I—” 

You slam the door behind you, and Matt blinks, flabbergasted. He holds his bleeding arm with one hand but quickly drops it. 

“Fine! You want to be like that? Like a fucking stray dog that I picked up? Fine!” His hand forms a fist and he slams it against his—your bedroom door. It rattles the entire wall, and he can hear you wailing on the other side, but he’s so angry—he does have the devil in him, after all, as much as you have a deep-rooted bloodthirstiness in you. 

You cover your ears with your hands, as the lights in Matt’s room flicker, a glass mirror he had bought for you, when he realized he didn’t have one in the apartment, when he realized you probably had no idea what your reflection even looked like, cracks, and then shatters. 

Matt, too angry at himself, and honestly, at you, simply grabs a dishtowel from his kitchen, pressing it into the fresh wound in his arm. God, he’s filled with a rage he hasn’t been in months. You calm him, as strange as you are, but this is other worldly. It seems, just as much as you can calm him, you fuel the fire of rage that settles in the pit of his stomach. 

He slips on his jacket and leaves, slamming the door behind him. He forgets his cane. 

Of course, he’s angry the entire walk to the office and when he gets there. He stews, and then rants, angrily, to Karen and Foggy about it as Foggy fishes his through the first aid kit that he keeps, specifically for when Matt gets his shit rocked during the day instead of late at night. 

And then, of course, he feels horrible. 

He knows he’s allowed to feel frustrated, that he’s allowed to be upset, that even anger has it’s place. But, you’re not just a girlfriend he’s had a rough fight with. You’re the poor girl he saved from a lab, where your blood was being extracted out of you. And you’re some kind of freak of nature (Although, Matt would put it much more delicately than that), desperate for any sense of normalcy. 

And he failed you. Yes, you absolutely did bite him, and he’d have a whole conversation about that with you, but when you were vulnerable, when you really needed him, he let his emotions get the best of him and yelled at you. 

He feels awful about it all day. He barely gets any work done, but he assumes you need space. By the end of the day, his wound has clotted, and he’s called in to the Chinese place you both like to get you dinner. You were crying so much, you must be hungry. He thinks about the bitemark on his arm. 

He’s home by ten to five, but you’re not there to greet him. He places the takeout on the table near his doorway, takes off his jacket, and then his glasses. He sighs, and then he listens for where you are. 

You’re in the closet, on top of the trunk, just like the first day he really met you. He makes his way to the bedroom, and then, to the closet. He notes the broken mirror, and the pillow stained with tears. 

He knocks gently on the armoire door. 

“Honey?” he asks gently. You give no response. Matt’s heart aches in his chest. “I’m gonna open the door now.” He sighs, and then he does. You cower into the corner, like the frightened animal you are. And he can’t deny the way he missed you today. You’re whimpering, and dry heaving like you want to cry more, but you can’t. And of course, you’re trembling. Matt hates it when you shake.

He sits down in front of the closet like he did that first day. 

“My arm is fine. And I’m not mad at you.” Then, he pauses. “Well.. I am, but.. we can talk about that later. I shouldn’t have reacted like that. I should’ve stayed home.” He sighs. You still don’t respond, so he offers, “Can you please come out here, so I can hold you and apologize?” He wonders, and you, being just as devoted to him as he is to you, and having had hours to make yourself sick with guilt, completely dissipating your frustration, crawl right out of the armoire and into his lap.. like a cat. He sighs, wraps his arms around you, and just like he does when you have a nightmare, rests his chin on the top of your head as it curls into his neck.

“There she is, there’s my girl.” He mumbles, and the tiniest part of you, you’ll admit, wants to bite him again. Not out of anger, but out of a need to taste the love he has for you. You overcome that instinct. 

The two of you sit in silence for a long, long while, before he talks again. 

“I’m so sorry. I never should’ve yelled at you. You’re just.. scared, and alone..” And doesn’t he remember how that felt? How horrible it felt to have nothing, and no one? “I’m sorry.” And he presses a kiss to your head to prove it. You purr in response. He can’t help but smile. 

You trace patterns on his arms, before finding your first words since you woke up this morning,

“I’m sorry.” It’s a gentle whisper, but Matt hears it all the same. 

“I know,” He sighs. “We’re both awful, and we’re both sorry.” He decides, before shaking his head. “No, You’re not awful. I’m sorry, you’re wonderful.” He presses another kiss to your head.

But you are awful, you want to tell him, but it hurts to think, let alone talk. 

Matt holds you for a long moment, before asking, 

“Can you tilt your head up for me?” He wonders, “I want to see your face.” 

And although talking feels like a herculean task, you cannot help but offer him an olive branch. Your hand leaves his arm, and a finger traces the space between Matt’s eyes, down the bridge of his nose. 

“Can’t see.” You whisper, and Matt smiles. What a pretty smile, you think for the millionth time. 

“I know,” he says softly, “Just let me..” his hands move now, coming up to your face. Even with his senses, he needs this right now. He places his hands on your cheeks and begins to map out the details of your face with the pads of his fingertips. “Oh my god, You’re beautiful.” He says softly, and it almost comes out as a whine. 

Then, because Matt really never claimed to be a perfect man, his lips are on yours. It’s perfect. You taste of salty tears, a vague mint toothpaste and.. a copper taste he doesn’t care to think about. But you’re perfect. You’re beautiful, and you’re perfect. He’s kissing you, cradling your face with his hands, and then, he comes to his senses and pulls back.

“I’m so sorry,” he gasps, “I never should’ve—I should’ve asked you before I did that, please don’t—” But then, you’re kissing him. And he likes that even more. He responds with a hum and he continues to kiss you, your hand gently rubbing small, comforting circles around where you bit him. 

You pull away and bring his arm to your lips. He inhales sharply, and you kiss where you’ve torn his flesh with your teeth over the bandage.

“I’m sorry.” You mumble softly, and Matt shakes his head. 

“I told you, we can talk about it later.” He offers, and then he kisses you again, but he pulls away after a moment. “But maybe you should wash the taste of it out of your mouth. Just so I can keep kissing you. Then, we can have dinner.” He offers, and this seems reasonable enough, besides, you need to wipe the crust and exhaustion from your meltdown away with a warm washcloth. 

But, you can’t help yourself.

“Kiss?” You wonder, the word coming out as a chirp more than anything else. 

And of course, Matt obliges you. Even if he thinks, maybe, he can taste his own flesh on your lips. It’s not exactly a turn on, but you’re his beautiful, perfect, freak of a girl. So, he kisses you again. 

-

Well, tonight sucks. It didn’t start out so bad, not really, and then it started to rain. It always made it harder for him to be Daredevil in the rain, the extra noise always distracting him or hiding sounds. As he made his way home, it really started to pour, just as Matt was really processing the growing ache in his side from when someone landed a particularly powerful punch.

Then, as he made his way home, back to his beloved apartment, his apartment where you wait for him, where you sleep soundly in his bed, completely oblivious to the bad night he’s having, he hears a woman cry for help, the click of a gun, and a whisper for her to stay quiet. 

She got away as soon as Matt dropped down, as soon as the man who deserves much worse than Matt will ever give him turns his attention towards the devil. But a loud clap of thunder caught Matt off guard, and suddenly, he’s the one who’s getting the shit beaten out of him.

If he can survive tonight, tomorrow is going to be just as bad, he’ll be in pain and you’ll be so sad, and the idea of that is somehow worse than when the man hits Matt right in the nose and he hears a devastating crack!

Then, the man finds his gun that Matt had kicked out of his hand. 

Matt’s thankful he can only hear so much since he’s so concussed. 

He was stupid, letting his guard down like that.

Now, he’ll die the same way his father died, with someone waiting for him to come home, depending on him. He feels the end of the gun on his forehead, ribs aching every time he inhales or exhales. Will you ever know how much he loves you? Will you ever know what happened to him, how he was really on his way back to you, to your arms, to your lips, when he died? 

Will you ever know that he would do anything for you, that the very love you’ve been craving is just two blocks away, head throbbing? 

He thinks about the sounds you make when you cry, and it makes his heart ache. He’s saved you just to tear you right back down, devastating you by rehabilitating you, making you fall in love with him, and then, leaving you. 

His weird, perfect girl with scars from needles, with an affinity for blood, a craving for flesh, and an ability you probably don’t quite understand yourself. His perfect, strange girl who he could drink up like lemonade on a sunny day, who snuck up on him, and yet, he feels like his life lead right to your side. 

Silly, silly him for thinking he could be happy. For thinking that things could work out for poor, tortured Matthew. 

He closes his eyes behind his mask and waits to die.

But the shot never comes. 

Instead, the man drops his gun from Matt’s head, as he starts to cough, and then, Matt can smell his blood. 

From what he can tell, it’s dripping down the man’s face from his nose, then, he’s gurgling on his own blood as it pours out of his mouth, and then, blood is coming from his eye sockets, and the balls of his eyes roll back— complete with a subtle snap, coming from somewhere in the man’s skull. He falls to the ground then, lifeless. 

Matt feels like he can’t breathe, and that’s when he processes you, at the end of the alleyway, blood running down yourface from your nose. Your hand comes up to wipe it away, and then you’re kneeling in front of him, your hands on his cheeks, cradling him softly.

He’s shaking now, and you hate the man you just killed with everything you have for making him so scared. 

“You are hurt,” you tell him, studying his features. Matt shakes his head, even though that makes it worse,

“I’m okay...” He mumbles, which is true, he will live but he does feel shell shocked, not to mention his numerous injuries. “I’m alright.” He comforts, and then he pulls you in close, wrapping his arms around you, still shaking, still freezing from the rain, still concussed and still terrified, of dying, of the man lying on the ground— and you wrap your arms around him, gently stroking his head like he has done to you so many times— 

“It’s okay, Honey.” You echo a familiar comfort, and then, your lips are on his, kissing him. Matt can’t help himself. He didn’t think he’d be able to kiss you again, so he relishes it. The idea that any kiss with you could be the last one freaks him out, maybe even more than the thought of dying. 

Matt has exactly one thought as he inhales the smell of so much blood—

At first, everyone is super frustrated with you.

You don't want to go out and use your special power to make money, instead preferring to float around camp, help the women, guard duty, weapon detailing, the like.

No one understands why.

Hosea is the one who confronts you about it, rather harshly too.

He stops when he notices that you had basically curled up into a floating ball.

He asks why, and you tell him, making the older man laugh.

Turns out you just really didn't want to go out alone.

Hosea tells you to just ask someone to go with you.

You didn't think it would work, and, well,

You were right.

You had learned about this house a couple days ago that you thought would be easy pickings.

You had asked if Bill or John wanted to go with you.

But they just laughed at you saying that you just wanted them to do all the work.

It hurt.

You handed the information over to Arthur, who thanked you and you floated away.

For the next couple of days, all you did was clean the weapons and sew.

Literally, everyone in camp knew that you had gone into a funk, but weren't sure how to approach the matter to find out why.

Charles was the first to approach, with some gentle coaxing he managed to get you to tell him why you were so down.

When you did he frowned and said he'd be right back.

He'd gone to his tent and picked up his bow along with a few arrows, and holstered his sidearm.

He told Hosea in about what happened and that he was taking you out of camp for a bit.

When he got back to you he said he was going to take you out of the camp to go hunting.

"But I don't know how to hunt."

"That's alright, I can show you."

You smiled and you two were heading out to hunt.

Charles shows you how to grip the bow, how to nock the arrow, draw the string, and release.

After a few tries, you think you got the hang of it enough to try hunting a deer.

Thanks to your floating you could get up high enough that the deer won't smell you, and since you weren't on the ground they couldn't hear you coming.

Giving you ample time to line up your shot right to the back of the head.

Once you brought the beast down you gave a huge grin and looked back at Charles.

Who gave you a thumbs-up.

After loading the deer onto the back of Taima, and snagging a couple rabbits, you two made your way back to camp.

"Hey, Charles? Thanks."