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Deep into the ocean, dead and cast away
where innocence burns in flames.
A million miles away from home, I walk ahead
I’m frozen to the bones, I am
Most days, Matt Murdock was fine.
Like a tidal wave stuck in time, moments before it broke against the rocks in the shore, he’d wake up and ignore that pressure at the base of his skull. The unacknowledged soreness all over his body, the weight of exhaustion that should have worn off during sleep, the cold spreading from the tips of his toes to the top of his ears.
It’s spring time, but somehow, Matt is always cold now.
He’d ignore the sore body, it was easy to do that by now. He’s past the point where pain was undesirable and distracting. Now, for Matthew, pain is to be expected. A constant in his life that he not so reluctantly needs - it’s one of the only constants in his life that he trusts to be always there, and that, disturbingly, counts for something.
So he got out of bed everyday with a wince or a falter in his step, depending on how the night before went. He chanted in his head all the reasons why the discomfort and pain were worth it - the people he helped, the criminals he stopped, the lives he saved.
It was worth it. Matt was only one. If he could use his body as shield and weapon for the people that needed him, it was only natural for Murdock that he did.
Most days, he’d stumble through the pain and the chants towards the kitchen. It was mostly a ritual by this point and not an actual desire to pursue food. It was rarely enticing to eat nowadays and the redhead tried not to pay too much attention to that. Coffee, most of the time, will do just fine. If he feels out of sorts or dizzy, a granola bar.
Matt told himself he didn’t need much more than that, surely. After all, Foggy always brought lunch to the office and they always ate together. Not eating at breakfast wouldn’t make too much of a difference.
So why bother?
Well, Matt doesn’t recognize the pain of his empty stomach, since it blends so easily with the pain in his body. It’s become norm, and after his body got used to it, it was just another thing to expect.
So, Matt showered. And maybe he lost track of time under the water, most often then not. It was where his senses weren’t being attacked by a hundred different forms of input, the sounds, the smells, the textures, and the weather is going to have a strong shift tomorrow, rainy day by the weekend, probably Saturday, Fran burned her eggs again, the neighbor changed his detergent for the third time, it’s lavender scented now-
But Matthew was fine. He was trained to deal with it, filter through it. Stick would call him a wimp if he heard his mental whining, surely sighted people had to deal with a whole lot too, right? One extra sense, so many colors and light and movement.
Yes, Matthew was fine.
Eventually, he’d leave the shower, letting the outside world invade and violate his senses again. Maybe, once in a while, he’d take some time redressing a wound or another, checking on stitches. To make sure he wouldn’t bleed on his shirts and concern Foggy or Karen.
He really didn’t know how to deal with people when they showed concern for him.
After dressing himself, Murdock would leave his loft. Cane tapping around to orientate himself. The walk wouldn’t be too distressing, he was used to pain, and to people bumping into him all the time, and he was used to the soreness in his body and wounds too.
Day in or day out the injury in his hip would aggravate him. Twinge like an old, half-forgotten papercut. He’d ignore it, like he ignored everything that had to do with Midland Circle, because he doesn’t think about it. He spends hours of his days to avoid thinking about it.
He ignores the feeling he gets when he walks the narrow staircase up to the office, the feeling of being trapped, unable to move. Ignoring the reminiscence of a nightmare, one that was too real, too recent, the crushing weight of rubble against his back, the air being squeezed out of his lungs. And his own voice echoing in his head.
This is what living feels like.
A step away from the edge, always wondering what would happen if he would only just take the leap.
He’d buy coffee for Karen and Foggy, some days. Mondays were Foggy’s designated coffee day, so, on Mondays, Matt would try to walk as slowly as he could towards the office. His extra time in the shower usually made sure he was the last one to get there, but sometimes that wasn’t the case.
So he tried to take a little bit longer, to make sure he wouldn’t get there to an empty, hollow space.
Usually, when he couldn’t avoid it and he was the first to get there, he’d just sit and stay as still as possible. Feeling like he was underground, where the emptiness was just as echoing as the crumbling building, the tons of debris falling all over them.
Still. Steady.
Don’t move, or it will collapse. Don’t move or it will crush you.
His brain took a few minutes to connect itself with the present. The realization that he could breathe, that he wasn’t trapped and there wasn’t anything crushing him. Maybe his hands would shake the entire morning after those episodes and every little creak of concrete would make him flinch in response, but there wasn’t anyone there to see and so Matthew kept quiet and ignored the issue.
Surely it would pass, once the events were far enough away from his head. He just had to distract himself with work.
Foggy would be here soon. And so will Karen.
Sit down and work. The silence is not growing. You can still hear, your ears are working just fine. It’s fine, it’s there. Matthew can hear a woman talking in the phone in the office next door. It’s okay.
Matthew is okay.
The days they are there, however, he opens a smile. It’s instinct by this point, to smile to Foggy and Karen. He loved the both of them more than anything in the world and it felt a bit like showing them appreciation. A silent I’m happy to see you.
Sometimes, that smile would be a sheepish one, confronted with Karen or Foggy’s disapproval in face of his newest bruises. But those days were nice too, because Karen would take him to a seat in his office and help him cover the bad ones with concealer. She always kept it in her bag, nowadays. Matt was bruise more often than not, after all.
Karen, the days she sounded happier and lighter in her feet, would try to flirt with him. Matt even tried sometimes to flirt back, but he just didn’t feel the connection between them anymore. That... willingness to reach her. Not in that way, at least. She felt more like a sister than anything else.
Flirting, making small talk and trying to find normal topics are just... tiring, these days. Like a fight he knows he can’t win. Something so mundane that has been taking so much of his concentration.
Matt knows he doesn’t necessarily need to find normal, regular topics. They both know who he is, now. But he can’t think of what to say. His head is either white noise in an endless, torturing loop or a chaos of sounds, memories, regrets and grief.
Every day, sitting in his office, hearing Karen’s and Foggy’s sweet, carefree laughter and the noises of the place he calls home, he’ll pretend his skin doesn’t crawl with anxiety from a minute to the other. Unprompted and abrupt. He smiles to them, tells them he’ll just walk home, and no, no daredeviling tonight.
He puts on a beanie and a trench coat, he takes a bus or a taxi to somewhere nearby the supermax where Wilson Fisk is kept. And he listens for an hour or two, to make sure he’s there. To make sure he’s not plotting his way out.
Matt isn’t sure he’d survive a third round with Fisk’s machinations. Between Nobu and Poindexter, he knows what it feels to touch Death’s hand and fight so hard not to be taken by it.
He tells himself he’s not paranoid. It’s just insurance.
When Foggy or Karen asks him about his night the day after, he doesn’t lie. He doesn’t need to, he knows how to direct the conversation to them, how to use vague words that satisfy them enough not to pry. Murdock knows how to keep the conversation going on about them, because he couldn’t answer if they made questions about him.
When their eyes focus on him now, all he can feel is guilt.
Matt wouldn’t even know where to start if they asked where does that guilt come from. What does he feel guilty for?
He longs for their warmth, even then. Warmth of their affection, their company, their support. Somehow, it always feels just out of reach. Like he’s not worthy of it. Undeserving of so much light.
You’ve gone soft, Matty.
Stick’s voice is always the first one to pop into his head.
Silk sheets? Playing office?
Stop.
Playing friends as if you were any good at it. Any good to them.
A soldier on my own, I don’t know the way
I’m riding up the heights of shame
I’m waiting for the call, the hand in the chest
I’m ready for the fight, and fate
Matthew knew how to do his job.
Not only the one with the pristine suits, court meetings and polite smiles. He also knew how to do his job at night. He perched on the rooftops where he could hear the most and it was the only moment in his days where he felt completely and undoubtfully alive.
With a sense of purpose that keeps his moving forward. It doesn’t matter where he’s headed if he finds his way back in the morning, right? Gang meetings, robberies, domestic violence, weapons dealing. He let the sounds and the voices take him where he was needed and Matt felt right.
It was the part of the lawyer which he felt was w orth something. That could actually do good. Matt Murdock isn’t, most of the time, worth the trouble of getting to know and staying close to.
The people he helps, they don’t know him. Only the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen. The man in a black mask who wouldn’t let their kids be taken by child traffickers and that would make sure any uprising gangs would end up locked up before they could cause too much trouble.
So he listens for those who need his help. The tide is under his control, while he keeps himself out there. He keeps it at bay for as long as he can, while adrenaline sets his body alight with energy.
He filters for the sounds, so he knows where to go. Too much happens at the same time and Matt learned from the beginning he had to filter through what he could help, what he would have to sacrifice, what could be dealt with by the police.
Couple fighting, the man has no weapons in hand, his body temperature is elevated but not by much. The neighbor called the police six minutes ago, they arrive in another five. A man is already knocking hard on their door, the crying woman will be fine.
A robbery. There is no one at the closed shop, no one that could be hurt by the two amateurs. Their face were going to be caught on the surveillance cameras, they would be found by the end of the week.
Now, two young women being followed home by three men coming from different directions. One of them packing a firearm, the other two with knives. That’s where he needs to go. And so Matthew does.
He deals with it in the most efficient way he can. Maybe he’s not as sharp these days, maybe he actually came up with an excuse not to eat his share at lunch in the office, maybe he hasn’t slept well in weeks.
It’s fine. The men still can’t see what hit them in the first place and the two ladies are safe. He hands them over to the police with fresh intel on the minor branch of the Italian mafia trying to regain back their space after Fisk’s downfall.
Some nights out, like this one, he runs into him.
His senses all focus on his heartbeat as soon as it’s in Mathew’s hearing range. The steady drums crawls above all others, even the ones closest to him. They sound indeed like war drums, although steady and slow, loud and encompassing, and Matt always feels like he’s drowning on it.
It gets him dizzy and numb. Lost in the sounds until they turn into scents: Kevlar, coffee, gunpowder, shaving cream and, most nights, blood. As he comes closer, he can taste the coffee and dinner off his lips (he ate hot pockets, as Matt learns he does every time he is on recon), the sweat off his skin, the minty shaving cream.
The taste of aluminum from his thermal, sharp against Matt’s tongue. He also mixed painkillers with whiskey, not too long ago, probably morning. He has a bullet graze healing on his left side, three days old. The stitches are about ready to come out.
“Painkillers and whiskey are a bad combination, Frank” he mutters, still perched on the edge of the rooftop.
Sometimes, when the adrenaline starts to fade out of his system, he feels like a deep tingle inside of his guts. Like the shivers when you thought you were about to fall in your sleep. Like his body was telling Matthew not to trust himself. That maybe the edge would be just too tempting for that one part of him that wishes he had stayed underground.
That small part of him that he ignores most days, but in others feels like a thorn digging into his side, puncturing his lungs, taking off his air.
“So is vigilantism and catholic guilt, but I ain’t nagging you, am I?”
“Catholic guilt is my superpower” Frank snorts at that and it brings a soft smirk to Matthew’s face. It’s a good sound, although it does nothing to draw out his heartbeat. Which sounds so loud now that he’s close.
“Yeah, I bet it is” the ex-marine concurs, opening the thermal bottle once more to drink the rest of his coffee. Matthew feels as the adrenaline slowly starts to recede, his energy leaving with it, the weight settling back in his shoulders and making him sigh in fatigue.
The static, at least, hasn’t made a comeback yet. His brain feels slightly numb, processing things slower than usual, but it’s not completely blanket out and fatigued again. And it’s not chaotic and hysterical either, singing a symphony of pain, rage and grief.
“You done?”
Matt can’t bring himself to open his lips so he just tilts his head towards Frank’s patient but curiously grump figure. Castle is built like a wall of solid bricks, all muscle and righteous rage, heart thrumming so loud and alive. Body brimming with warmth even in the cold night air.
He lets himself wonder, for one second, what it would feel like to be as close as possible to that warmth. To be buried in it. Murdock wonders how would an embrace from a man so torn by pain and trauma and yet so steady would feel. Matt may never agree with Frank’s methods but the man dragged himself out of hell and pieced himself together as best as he could to keep moving forwards. And that is something Matt can appreciate, and admire a lot too.
The lawyer feels a kinship to Frank, even when he’s cross with the mess he leaves all over Manhattan. Like they are two ghosts walking parallel lines, and yet they keep diverging from their lines so their paths cross one time or the other.
“You done brooding?” Matt can only offer the man a small, uncertain smile. His bones feel heavier than ever once more, his muscles fatigued in a way they shouldn’t be yet. Suddenly, he just wants to find some place warm to curl himself in and sleep.
Murdock doesn’t recognize the lump in his throat because it has no business being there. The foretelling soreness of something about to choke him from the inside.
He’s fine. He won’t be soft. He won’t be weak.
It’s a bad day, is all. He’s just a bit more tired than he expected. He will make it home soon, lay down, sleep and tomorrow, maybe, he’ll wake up better than the day before.
And all the others before that.
“Target?” it’s all that he manages to squeeze out of himself, and it sounds a bit more raspier than it should. The redhead clears his throat, faking nonchalance. Frank, on the other hand, remains silent for a moment more. Heartbeat steady and slow, never giving Matt any hint of what must be going through his head. Always controlled, as if prepared for it all.
Sometimes, Matt thought you could throw anything at the man and he would bounce right back. Once upon a time, that was what he thought of himself too. Someone who never stayed down, who always got back up. But now, he wondered, he doubted.
Did he ever really come back from that rooftop, holding the girl he loved close to his chest as she bled out? Did he ever really come back from Midland Circle, rubble and debris pressing his body to the ground? From the days he spent without seeing, strayed away from his friends in a Church’s basement, in the care of someone who had been his mother all along?
Matthew had forgiven Maggie. He really had. But sometimes, the pain came back all of a sudden, bothering him again, taunting him.
About how lonely he had been. How he had wished to be worth anyone’s attention, and maybe, if he was very lucky and feeling particularly hopeful, someone’s love. Oh and how dirty Matthew had felt. A sinner, through and through. With the Devil lurking inside, eating at his guts and gnawing at his bare bones.
Did Murdock boys really always got back up? Dad certainly didn’t, not in the end, when it had mattered the most. And every time Matthew remembers that, the unwanted feeling of tacky blood staining his childish fingers comes back, the feel of the hole right in the middle of his Dad’s forehead.
“Think it’s the same as yours” Frank’s voice startles him out of his reverie, mind reeling back to try and recall what exactly were they talking about. He stands up then, using all of his energy to do so. Immediately, he takes a step away from the edge, feeling dizzy with the knowledge of it. Of how close-
“You good there, Red?” Frank’s voice is inquisitive and matter off fact. It makes Matt startle and take another step back.
He’s not thinking of it. He isn’t. It’s just late at night and he isn’t thinking straight. He’s exhausted to his bones and all he wants is to find a place to sleep, forget everything for a moment.
“Tired” is all he manages to mumble in explanation. He hopes Frank won’t ask too many questions.
He’s doing that he does, Matt can tell, for his heartbeat always slows down a little bit more when he does. When he squints at someone, studying them from head to toe, unraveling, deciphering, not missing a single detail. It makes him feel laid bare every time he does, as if the man was breaking and entering on Matt’s safe space.
He wonders what Castle sees on him, now. If he can read weak, and hypocrite, and soft written and branded on his skin. He wonders if he looks as pathetic to the man as he feels right then, too weak to take another step on his own.
I can’t keep doing this alone. He remembers telling Karen, three years ago. When Wilson Fisk was the worst of his problems. I can’t take another step.
She had hugged him, then. Gave him the comfort Matt would never deserve. He remembers holding onto her for dear life, asking himself how long will it take until you leave too?
Like Mom, like Dad, like Stick, like Elektra.
And then she did leave. And so did Foggy. And it was all on Matt.
Frank grunts, still studying Matt. Usually, he’d either rise up to the challenge, or simply loose his patience and bug Frank until he gave him the information he had so they could work together.
Today, Murdock doesn’t know what to do. So he remains as still as he can. What could he say anyway?
I’m exhausted, from the moment I wake up to the moment I go to bed. All I want is to sleep, and yet I keep waking up with nightmares all night long. Maybe I’m not sure if I want to wake up at all.
He has a feeling that wouldn’t go over too well. But it doesn’t matter, it’s not like anything would change if he told anyone, right? He just needs to find a way to have a good night of sleep and this will all go away.
“Go home, Red. You look like shit”
“Tell me about the target” Matt can’t explain where the strength to talk and to think came from, he just doesn’t want to let people down. He’s here and he’s alive, so he better put it to good use.
Frank seems to consider him once more.
“Not gonna hit ‘em tonight. Need more intel. Thought the Devil’s ears would have picked on something by now” how could he not, when everything was so insufferably loud?
“The Italians”
“Yeah. They’ve been taking over the drug traffic in the docks, all through Manhattan. They have a distribution point right in the middle of Chelsea”
“Hm. Harlem, Bronx and Chinatown too, if the info I got is correct. They’ve been using mules, flying right under the radar. The import seems to have something to do with the дроздів, it seems”
“The what?”
“It’s Blackbirds in Ukrainian. Seemed like a small gang at first, but they’ve been growing ridiculously fast” Matt explains, forcing the fatigue out of his tone.
“Shit. That’s more than I hoped I’d get” he sounds reluctantly admired and it makes something stir in Matt’s chest that he doesn’t acknowledge. Approval and disappointment are the two easiest ways to get a reaction out of him, always had been.
“I have an address too. One of their small fishes let escape a location, one of the higher ranked men in the family. Fresh”
“Recon?” Matt shrugs. He had been hoping for action, the adrenaline always succeeding at keeping the white noise and the exhaustion at bay. But he’ll take what he can get. “Not today. You look done in”
“I’m fine”
“Yeah right. I won’t cover your ass if you can’t keep up. Go home, Red. We do this another day”
Matt sighs slightly and nods to Frank. Stopping to mutter him a good night, not expecting anything but a grunt in return, as it usually happens. Frank, however, mutters it back this time and even nods in his direction, eyes following him as he walks down the fire exit.
Matthew gets home and he rips the black clothing out of his body in slow, sluggish movements. He goes to sleep and the static in his head is loud enough to last the whole night.
He has no nightmares. It’s all empty and hollow darkness.
The sound of iron shots is stuck in my head
the thunder of the drums dictates
the rhythm of the fall, the number of deaths;
the rising of the horns, ahead.
There are days Matthew’s heartbeat is loud even to his own ears. Thumping hard and too fast against his ribcage. Those are the days he’s antsy with barely restrained energy, knees bouncing every time he sits down. It’s usually on those days that he tries to convert that energy to get things done, be it during the day or night.
He forgets to eat because he’s too wired up thinking about enjoying the day for as long as he can before the nothingness, the overwhelming numbness comes back and takes it away from him.
When night falls, Frank finds him once again. Matthew feels the complete opposite of what he had felt two days before, when they had met to talk about the Italians and the Ukrainian Blackbirds. Frank studies him carefully, noticing the pacing, the constant moving. Even then, the man trusts him to do his job and what must be done, so he doesn’t stop him this time.
They make an agreement and Frank aims to incapacitate instead of killing. They track goons and higher-ranking members of the family all the way to one of their bases in Chelsea. By one in the morning, they’re wrapping it up and leaving enough evidence behind for the cops to find it and make sure they get to supermax.
Matt smiles a sassy thing towards Frank when they gather all their transaction books. Frank, not much more than two hours earlier, had argued they surely wouldn’t be stupid enough to keep their books and documents together in one place. Matt had argued they had been careless, leaving DNA evidence and witnesses behind - it wasn’t too far from the realm of possibility that they were that stupid.
Well. Matt was right, at the end of the day.
“Red”
“Hm?”
“You’re bleeding” the ex-marine warns him, tone blank and yet, careful. Matthew tilts his head at that. He knows he is a bit too good at blocking pain and discomfort, but surely he would have felt it if he had been injured enough that Frank could spot the bleeding through his black get up?
Well, apparently not. Matt soon finds the source of the blood, following the elevated heat towards a deep cut in his back, right under his shoulder blades. It wasn’t too wide, thankfully.
“Hm. Thank you for warning. I’ll deal with it” Frank’s heartbeat is slightly unsteady, and that is confusing for Matt. His heart was always ever so constant, never-changing. He is uncomfortable or unnerved by something.
“I’ll patch you up, com’on”
“There’s no need-“
“It’s in your back, Red. You either call your nurse friend or I’m patching you up” Murdock takes a while to think. Well, Frank is offering, so maybe he won’t be burdening him too much. And it really will be difficult to deal with it himself, even if he can work something out with the dressings, stitching it up would be downright impossible.
Calling Claire isn’t really an option. He promised himself never to involve her in his bullshit anymore.
Matt ends up nodding with a small sigh, following Frank towards his van with twitching muscles. He still can’t exactly stand still, heart rate probably something around 110 bpm, at least. Maybe that’s what had been unnerving Castle, making his heartbeat falter ever so slightly. Probably annoyed at all his moving.
Matt tries to contain it as best as he can. The man is offering to patch him up even if he doesn’t owe him anything and the least he could do is stop his useless, senseless squirming.
They get to an apartment complex that probably has seen better days, right in the outskirts of Hell’s Kitchen. Frank walks up the stairs but Matt insists on walking up the fire escape, making sure no one has followed them and giving himself time to try and get his shit together.
“Sit there” the man makes a gesture, probably pointing at something. Those are really hard for Matt to track, but since it’s in the general direction of the couch, he heads there, sitting down gingerly. The redhead tries to maneuver himself so his bloody back won’t touch the marine’s couch.
He waits and he listens as Frank goes to the toilet to fetch his first aid kit. Is that lavender soap Castle’s neighbor uses? It’s the same brand as Karen’s. The one downstairs still watches Law and Order reruns on the television, and the lady going out for a date is wearing so much fucking perfume-
“Red?”
“Yeah” the lawyer hadn’t even noticed Frank had found a seat by his side already, med kit set by an old wooden chair.
“The rag” Matt tilts his head and takes him a while to grasp the meaning of the man’s words, brain still trying to disconnect from the things he’s hearing in such an unfamiliar place. As soon as he does, he passes Frank the wet rag he had left by Matt’s side.
He cleans methodically around the wound, wiping the excess blood out. Matthew barely feels the pain, mind disconnected with his body, his heartbeat finally settling slower and slower with each deep breath he took. The numb sensation of being out of his own skin is ripped out of him when Frank’s fingers brush the skin of his back and it feels like a shock of reality.
It feels good. Warm. Precise. And also unusually gentle.
Matt can’t help but melt into it, and Castle must notice it. He’s observant, of course he notices it. He can hear as the other man’s heartbeat jumps the slightest bit, faltering for a split second. But it’s almost out of his control, he can’t help but enjoy it.
He feels present in his own skin. Like he had a place underneath those hollow, aching bones and scar tissue.
And then, Frank’s heartbeat jumps for a completely different reason, his breath catching in a swift inhale.
“What the hell, Red...” his whisper shows barely contained disbelief and it makes Matthew tense all over again, spine going ramrod straight. His body tightening up doesn’t go undetected by Castle, who puts a grounding, big hand in his shoulder.
“What is it?”
“You been eating?”
That makes the muscles of his legs twitch, senses involuntarily reaching out to the exits, trying to plot a escape in his mind. What does he mean, has he been eating? It messes his thought process for a second too long and Matt swallows hard.
He does eat. He really does, he ate enough. It’s just... difficult to swallow sometimes. Too much of a hassle.
And it’s not like Matt can weight himself, it’s difficult to keep track of his own weight loss or gain. And okay, maybe he got cold all the time now, and maybe it had something to do with his lack of appetite. Maybe it always felt like his hands and feet were freezing, even when he wore winter socks in the peak springtime.
Maybe, sometimes, his fingers, hands and feet would go numb to the touch for minutes on end. Maybe his skin was bruising way easier than it did before and his wounds took days longer that they usually did to completely heal before.
Matthew wasn’t stupid, he knew the symptoms of malnutrition. He just denied it for as long as he could. It wasn’t a big deal, he was fine.
“Yes, I have. What does it have to do with the cut?” his answer is sharp and is closer to a snarl than anything else.
“I can count your ribs, Red-” Matt immediately puts his shirt back on, squirming away from Frank’s touch. Missing the warmth immediately when he stands up and gets away from it.
It feels like he had just showed his belly to a feral predator. Like he had just given Frank ammunition to... do something. He didn’t know what exactly, but it made him antsy and his body had strong reactions to it.
“I can deal with this on my own, thank you”
“No, hey.. hey hey. Easy” Castle talks as if calming down a frightened stray kitten and it makes him twitch, even if Murdock knows he’s acting exactly like one. It just feels wrong, like Frank is cracking open a wound and peering inside, reaching all of his soft parts and poking it with a sharp knife.
“I’ll just close the wound and clean it. Quick and easy, yeah? Sit down, Red”
Matt eventually does, after standing still for a moment too long, skin shivering against the slight night breeze coming from the half-opened window. Frank doesn’t mention anything, although he does get up and closes it as the redhead takes his shirt off once more.
Frank is slow and careful, almost gentle, as he sutures the deep cut and cleans it twice before dressing the wound. When he finally lets him go, the both of them are tense, muscles tight and heartbeat slightly faster than usual.
“Red...” Castle calls out, body attuned to his movements.
“Thank you for your help, Frank” he interrupts, doesn’t want to hear him mention it again. The marine sighs, eyes never leaving Matt’s face as he does. When he nods, Matt takes it as his cue to leave and disappears through the window.
From the down of time to the end of days
I will have to run, away;
I want to feel the pain and the bitter taste
of the blood on my lips, again.
Matthew is tired. He’s exhausted to his bones and everything aches.
It feels like everything in his body is twice the weight it used to be and, therefore, he feels unable to move. He keeps repeating endlessly in his head that he has to go to work, since he’s not seriously injured or sick in any way or form. The blind man doesn’t want to make Foggy and Karen responsible for everything in the office, he needs to pull his weight too.
He has to get up, he knows that.
But he’s so tired. The fatigue is heavy on his shoulders and it feels so warm inside of his fleece blankets, although his skin is still so cold. Is the radiator broken?
Matt doesn’t even notices when he drifts off, shivering even after his consciousness fades out into the silence.
He wakes up hours later, the sun already beginning to set, with heavy knocking on his door. It startles him enough that he jumps off the bed, head hitting the headboard. When he takes a moment to listen to the heartbeats of whoever is on the other side of the door, he sags against the bed, recognizing Foggy and Karen.
They keep knocking as he takes his time getting up, shivering violently when he steps off his blankets. When Matt finally does open the door, he’s assaulted by a flurry of two concerned, distressed voices.
“Matt what happened?-“
“You didn’t show up-“
“Didn’t answer your phone-“
“We were almost looking for you in the rooftops again!”
“We were scared to death!” Karen finishes it, the both of them panting by the end of their small rant. During all of it, Matt had physically recoil from the both of them, until his shoulders sagged with guilt. He can’t figure out how to explain himself, he doesn’t even remember drifting off back to sleep.
Fuck, what a shitty partner he is, huh? Missing work, important cases and letting his friends down for a day-long nap. He feels pathetic then. Is tired what it takes to take Daredevil out of the picture? Not bombs, gunshots, stab wounds or collapsed buildings. Not even a murdering copycat.
Simple exhaustion.
“Matt.. were you hurt?” It’s Foggy that asks then, voice concerned when Matt takes longer to answer them. He even opens his mouth to answer, but it suddenly just feels too much. The lump in his throat grows heavier and it chokes him in silence.
He won’t cry. He has no reason to. He’s not soft, no matter what Stick used to say.
Murdock finds himself wanting the numbness again. The all-encompassing nothingness and humming static that was so much easier to deal with than all the overwhelming feelings.
“No...” he answers, voice weak and choked up. But the lawyer keeps going, even then “I’m so sorry I didn’t come, Foggy, Karen... I was tired, I... I let you down, I’m sorry”
There it is. That staggering, paralyzing guilt that preyed deep into his guts.
“You could have called, at least, Matt! Is that so hard? Or at least answered us when we called!”
“Foggy” Karen interrupts him, voice pensive and calm. She’s observant too, not in the same way Frank was, but she knew her friends by now. Suddenly, he just wants to hide from her knowing eyes. “Matt, are you feeling alright?”
“Yes, yes, of course- I’m sorry, I was just tired- I’m sorry” he can’t stop apologizing now. Oh fuck, Stick must be sneering at him from whatever part of Hell he is in right now.
“Hey, hey. You don’t look too good, Matt. Have you eaten today?” why does everyone keep asking him that? Is it just that obvious he hasn’t been feeling very hungry lately? Murdock can’t bring himself to feel angry or affronted however. If Karen keeps showing him kindness, though, he might just break. And he doesn’t know if, this time, he’ll find it in himself to put his pieces back together again.
“Hm.. I’ll eat soon, I promise”
“Matt, it’s almost night” Foggy mutters, voice uneasy. Matt knows, he does. He was just tired and food hadn’t even crossed his mind on the last few days.
His toes are cold and the skin is almost numb. His head drops and he can’t answer to the both of them.
Thankfully, Karen doesn’t make him, taking his arm gently and guiding him to his couch, sitting him down with the blanket Matt had forgotten there a few days ago. They talk to him. Matt can hear their muffled voices underneath the loud static in his brain. He nods to what he can understand and, what he can’t, he tilts his head.
“Here” Karen’s voice cuts through the white noise when she comes close, offering him something. Matt extends his hand to take whatever it is she’s giving him and, surprisingly, he misses the direction completely.
Huh.
That’s... odd.
They don’t say anything though. Karen just puts the plate down on his hand. A sandwich and an apple.
Matt starts with the apple. Easier. Simple.
It’s tasteless, but Matt eats it. He nods along and pretends he’s listening to their conversation, and he feels bad about it. He can’t concentrate, however, his thinking stagnated at the simple things.
Bite, chew, swallow.
“Matt” Karen addresses him for the first time in a while, after making small talk with Fogs. The sandwich is cold and he ate half of the apple. He puts the fruit down and takes a bite off the sandwich. He doesn’t want her to think him ungrateful.
“Have you... hum.. been tired a lot lately?” Matt pauses completely in his movements.
How can he answer that? How can he answer that?
How can he tell them everything that has been going through his mind? How difficult it is to concentrate on the most mundane things? How can he explain to them just how deep the exhaustion goes? Just how many nightmares he has per week?
How can he tell them about the times he wakes up with his muscles strained and aching, completely still, afraid he’s going to be crushed by rocks and rubble. Thinking he’s still underground and just hoping that it would be over quick.
“It’s fine... just-“
“Matt”
He can’t lie. Not to her. Not to him. Not again.
“A lot. I think. I’m sorry”
“Hey. You can stop apologizing now, bud” Fogs jokes, nudging him with his knee.
“I’m sorry though. I didn’t show up. It won’t happen again”
“Matt” Foggy stops him again.
“Yes?”
“I really think that maybe.. you should try and see a doctor, buddy”
“I can’t go to doctors, Foggy. You’ve seen my scars-“
“I meant... a therapist? Maybe a psychiatrist?”
“I don’t need one” Matt whispers back, browns furrowing in a thoughtful, uncomfortable expression.
“Matt. You’re your hot self as always, but buddy you’re skinny as hell right now... You don’t look too good, Matt”
“You should think about it Matt. It’s nothing terrible, just... maybe get an opinion?” Karen adds.
“What do... do you think I snapped?” he’s being stubborn and he knows it, but it’s just not something he’s willing to accept. He should be able to control all of it. The nightmares, the exhaustion, the appetite. Everything. Mind controls the body, right? He can’t have his mind out of his control.
“I think there’s only so much you can go through before it starts piling up, Matt!” Karen bursts in frustration, and Matthew goes quiet. He knows there’s truth to her words, he isn’t ready to accept it. “Just.. think about it, okay?”
Murdock nods. He’s not entirely sincere.
The thought of opening up to anyone, for someone like Matthew, is like giving the person a knife and drawing an X right in his belly, exactly where they can bury it deep in his guts.
This steady burst of snow is burning my hands
I’m frozen to the bones, I am;
A million miles from home, I’m walking away
I can’t remind your eyes, your face.
It doesn’t take long before Matthew gets in a fight he can’t win in the state he’s put himself in.
From a second to the other he has a bullet graze bleeding sluggishly in his thigh, a knife stuck to his side. Someone hits him hard with a piece of metal over the head and his ears ring long enough that manhandling him to a kneeling position is just too easy for the little group of criminals left standing.
He’s still trying to account for his surroundings when he feels the cold press of metal against his covered forehead.
There’s blood everywhere. Matthew can smell the sharp, metallic smell of it as it keeps staining the place up in dark red. And he is trained to deal with guns, had been dealing with them for a long time. Even then, he stays in his knees, hands dropped to his sides.
It’s just to easy to close his eyes and wait for the shot, a distant part of his mind asking forgiveness of Foggy, Karen and Maggie.
The sound never comes from the gun pressing against his but from somewhere a block away, probably in a rooftop. It makes his already banged up ears ring a bit more.
When the ringing fades, he registers the steady, slow heartbeat that consumes all other sound for seconds. Always claiming his attention, it doesn’t matter what is happening around him.
Frank.
He’s as imposing as always, even standing far away from them. Two of the men are smart and run as soon as they spot his vest, although one gets a bullet to the back even then. Matt stands, unable to keep kneeling on the ground on his own pity party and watch those men die one by one.
He fights them off for as long as he can. Frank helping occasionally while aiming for kneecaps and arms.
When Matthew finally finishes it, knowing the police is probably already on their way, he uses all of his strength to walk ahead and away from the scene, limping with his bad leg. The gash in his head is bleeding steadily, covering his neck in red.
His whole body hurts and his skull is throbbing, but Matt’s sure he can make it home.
It’s not long into his walk back to his loft when Frank catches up to him, marching like a true soldier, steps heavy and purposeful. He’s pissed and he wants to make sure Matt has no doubt about it. When he finally comes close enough, his big hands immediately close around his upper arm, with enough strength behind the hold to bruise his skin.
Although it didn’t take much to make him bruise these days.
“What was that, huh? What was that?” Frank’s voice sounds deeper than it usually does, tone menacing and calculated. But even then, furious underneath all the calm, collected act. Matt takes a few steps back from the bigger man, hand holding his side where the knife is still stuck inside.
Frank notices it, of course.
“Fucking hell...” and starts dragging him away.
Maybe it’s a sign of how out of it Matt still is that he doesn’t struggle or complain about the manhandling as Castle puts him in the passenger seat of his black, probably stolen van.
It feels cold as they start driving their way to Matt’s loft and he curls up around himself, arms protecting his belly and chest, mindful of the knife tearing into his muscles and fat. Thankfully, no organs were wounded.
Frank fumes silently all the way to Matt’s place, not sparing much attention besides checking on him from time to time. His heartbeat is louder and faster than Matt had heard in a long time.
As always, his brain imprints on the man’s heart like a duckling, the steady thumping enough to lure him into a semi-conscious state. Frank snaps him out of it, however, bringing him up by his arm and dragging him all the way to his rooftop access.
As soon as he sits Murdock down, he’s already checking around for his medical kit.
“You’re gonna tell me what was that stunt you just pulled?” Castle growls out, tone low, as soon as he sits down and starts patching Matt up.
“I fight criminals. Sometimes they pull their guns on me Frank”
“Yeah. You usually just kneel and wait for the shot too?” the marine’s tone is scathing and hard to listen to, and so he turns his head away, feeling heavy with the blood loss and the mild (probably mild) concussion.
He doesn’t answer, and therefore, Frank takes the silence as response enough.
“Yeah... Probably thought it would look perfectly accidental, huh? If you just let some random thugs get the drop on you”
Matt stays silent. There’s no use in talking back or fighting. It’s not like what Frank’s saying is untrue.
“Yeah..” he grunts out, tone deep and hard. “What is it, Red? You think you deserve it, is that what this is? You giving up now? Is that what’s happening here?”
“Shut up”
“What? I’m sorry, you want me to shut up why? You hearing one too many truths, it that it? That you’re walking around in your pajamas with a suicide wish-“
“Stop” his voice comes out as a sick, thin whisper. Maybe that’s what makes Frank stop his verbal tirade, staring at him for a minute or two, studying his face. He goes back to wrapping up his wounds then, silently thinking as he does so.
Matt ends up sagging against the touch anyway, unnerved by how easy Frank sees right through him or not, the gentleness of it always gets him melting and he’s too tired to be embarrassed now.
“I don’t know what shit’s going through your head now, but you listen to me” Castle finally speaks again, throwing the bloodied rags by his side and closing the distance between the two of them. Matt finally smells it in him, the thick smell of adrenaline, the concern, the fear.
Was that all because of him?
“You’re not calling the shots here, yeah? You’re going to call your buddy Nelson or Karen, you’re going to ask for their help” he must notice the immediate change in his body language for he gives him another option soon enough: “or, you leave that to me. You hear me, Red?”
He wants to protest. Tell Frank he’s very much capable of taking care of himself, but after what had just happened, after the conversations he had with Foggy and Karen... how can he truthfully tell anyone he has his own best interests in mind?
Matt ends up curling against his own stomach. It’s just so hard to accept help. He was trained to cut ties, to work alone, to be a perfect warrior. No attachments, no weaknesses. But it was clear he was unable to maintain both of those.
He startles slightly when two big, warm hands touch his face gently but firmly, bringing him up to meet the other man’s eyes, even if he can’t actually see them. His scent is so very strong then, heady and overpowering. Heartbeat thumping so loud Matt can’t tell which one is his and which one belongs to the marine.
His body fights at the same time it wants to let go. To trust the man that so often has his back out there, when it’s just the two of them against the rest of the world.
“You don’t” Frank’s voice starts in a whisper, face so close to his now. “You don’t deserve it. You do good, Red. I see you, you know? You show up at the news, the three of you. Taking the impossible cases for the people who need the most. And I see you at night, too. You try so goddamn hard. I may not see you as often as Karen and Nelson but I see it, yeah? I see you”
What an strangely comforting phrase. I see you. Isn’t that what he had longed for, for such a long time? For someone to see him for who he was, not the blind orphan, not the lawyer with the glasses, not the devil vigilante. Just Matt.
He only notices the tears when a rough calloused thumb wipes it away from his cheek, still holding him close, holding him up. He thinks of swalloing it down, the way he did all of the other times, but he’s just so tired. The weight on his shoulders just keeps piling up and getting heavier everyday and Matthew just wants a break.
“Hey... I got you. I got you, Red”
He feels how close Frank comes to his lips then, feels the warmth against them. But he’s vulnerable right now, and Frank would never let himself take advantage of that.
So he settles for a slow, lasting kiss on his temple instead. And the dam breaks right then.
Castle still holds him up after the first sob. And after the second and the third, too. He puts his head against his chest, ear right over his heart, embrace warmer than Matt could have ever imagined it would feel. All encompassing. A silent, subtle promise of support.
“I got you, Matt. Got you”
For the first time in such a long time, his skin feels warm. It’s only a beginning, but it’s enough for his heart rate to match the man’s who’s holding him close.