Take me to the sea and drown me in the clouds

Matt Murdock thinks you’re the closest to heaven he’ll ever reach.

You’re sweet, kind, gentle.

Everything that he bloodies his hands and soul to protect.

Everything good and holy he worships. 

And as he drags his bloodied, scarred, lump of a never fully healed body back to you, he keeps thinking that over and over like a broken record.

You would never hate him for it.

For finding peace in you.

For finding love in you.

Letting your soothing presence be the balm for his weary soul.

So he rapped once again at your window.

A broken man, and a bloodied hand print.

And he heard it once again, the fastening of your heartbeat, the worry emanating off you, as you helped him inside.

“Matty?”

God, he could die peacefully in your arms, the rumble of your voice in your chest, the sound of your thrumming heartbeat, the sound of your lungs expanding and contracting as you breathed— the life in you.

He turned to bury his face in your neck, taking in the smell of you, underneath the smell of the life lived, of the day spent.

You’d given up your normalcy to be with him. 

That had to count for something, surely.

That had to mean he was worth saving.

“Matthew, honey, what ha—”

He just shook his head, leaning into you.

Giving you him.

His body.

His heart.

His soul.

Your worry seemed to ease at that, somehow. Knowing that he was still just as clingy if not more.

He could feel it, your muscles loosening just a bit as you finally held him back, hands travelling the leather covering his body, the other going to his head and into his hair.

He wanted you to keep your hands on him, to absolve him of his hurt and sins, he wanted you here like this till he breathed his last breath.

When he dies, will you come to stay by his side while he lays himself down in his grave— the one he dug so willingly?

He wants to ask that of you.

He wants to continue being selfish.

He wants to tell you everything.

He wants to spill out the poison festering in him, rotting him from the inside.

He wants to tell you just how much he loves you.

But, God, it’s hard to say it all. So he won’t say it at all.

He’ll just hope that you feel it.

He’ll just hope that you know that this world couldn’t hold the sheer amount of love he has for you.

He’ll just hope that you understand it, the love he tries to show through his touch, through his blood.

He’ll just hope that it finds its way out of his lonely and ramshackle heart and soul.

He doesn’t care if he’ll survive loving you.

He doesn’t care.

Because you’re the life, the love, the soul, he’s needed all along.

Even if he loses you, he knows he’ll always be a man in love with you.

“Let me patch you up?”

Your voice eventually breaks the silence, the denseness he’s been feeling in his bones returns.

He doesn’t remember nodding.

But he feels the touch of your hands.

Patching up the broken pieces of him, knowing he’s going to break them again tomorrow night.

And the next night.

And the next night.

And you’ll be here tomorrow night.

And the next night.

And the next night.

He’s never truly gotten to know the people he loves, and the people who love him.

But he knows he knows you.

He knows you like you’re the smell of the thunderous clouds approaching the city.

He knows you like the smell of incense on old church pews.

He knows you like the smell of thick blood on skin and leather.

And he also knows that every time he steps into home— into you— he can leave behind the bad. He can shed off heartache, his misery, his ghosts.

And he can be alone, with you.

His suffering, a silent vow of blood, that you wash from his skin.

And he’s left alone.