Work Text:
- Math
There are four types of learning: audio, visual, kinesthetic, and reading or writing. At least, according to the American education system. Matt wasn’t sure how much he bought into the idea of it all, that you could condense someone’s experience down into little boxes, neatly tucking away any incongruency. Maybe it was useful to teachers to sort their students like that, but Matt didn’t trust the idea of it all. He was a smart kid, too smart to trust what some school said.
He had to be smart, considering the circumstances he found himself in. “Circumstances”, was of course, a neat little euphemism for “being a blind kid in a math class”, which is a phrase too loaded and wordy to be used consistently. His circumstance meant that he, for lack of a better word, “saw” the flaws of the system. Had them shoved in his face constantly, more accurately. So of course he didn’t buy the idea of a specific type of learning.
Or maybe that was to compensate for the fact that a few years earlier, Matt would have described himself as a visual learner.
Now though, Matt found himself sitting in a basement with a custom Braille math worksheet and the beginnings of a headache. He ran his fingers over the problem for the umpteenth time. It just didn’t make sense . The way it was worded, the numbers, the answer he was expected to know. And Matt was supposed to be smart enough to know it.
If Dad was here, he would draw something to help, Matt thought miserably. His dad was always a bit of an artist. He had collected comics for Matt, doodled in the margins of the newspaper, and left little notes when he needed to go somewhere. Jack Murdock had a special way of putting his thoughts to images, and he could always be counted on to help Matt by drawing whatever problem he was stuck on.
Not anymore, though. Now, Matt hunched over his worksheet alone in a small, cold room that smelled like cobwebs and his own blood from training. He tapped his pencil furiously against the page.
Another tapping sound echoed through the cold walls. Matt perked up as Stick’s cane made its characteristic taptaptap down the hall towards the basement. Stick will know what to do, Matt decided, standing up. He’s smart. He’ll know how to solve this.
A moment later, Stick entered the room. Matt could practically hear him wrinkle his nose in disgust in his direction.
Matt inhaled sharply, but Stick cut him off before he could begin. “Christ, kid, are you doing homework down here?” He gestured towards the worksheet in Matt’s hands.
Matt could only hope Stick couldn’t sense his cheeks burn. “Didn’t want to do it in my room,” he muttered. Honest, of course. It wasn’t as if he could lie to the old man.
Stick set his cane against the wall. “What, doing it at a desk too comfortable? You wanted to ruin your back crouching over it down here?”
Matt bristled. “It’s loud upstairs. The other kids distract me.”
“So you’re saying you still can’t handle your own senses.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“No, but that’s what you meant,” Stick scoffed. “Put that away, Matty.”
A retort died on Matt’s lips as he recognized a shift in Stick’s demeanor. The promise of a fight was rising beneath his wrinkled skin even as his heart remained steady. Wordlessly, he complied, knowing Stick could sense his increased heart rate as he prepared for whatever was coming next.
Matt could hear the smile in Stick’s voice. “Alright, kid. Show me what you got.”
As he fell into a fighting stance, Matt resigned himself to figure out that worksheet later. I can figure it out myself, he promised himself as Stick approached, deceptively casual.
A week later, his bruises were mostly gone, and Matt got the worksheet back. It was the first grade below 70% of his life.
- Emails
“You doing alright?”
Matt removed one earbud, pausing his text to speech. Not strictly necessary, but polite. “Huh?”
Foggy leaned back in his chair. The two of them sat in a secluded corner of the library as Foggy suffered over an essay. Foggy’s drink was almost empty, where Matt’s hardly had a dent. He appreciated the gesture of his friend buying him a drink, of course, but couldn’t bring himself to tell the other that he didn’t like it.
Foggy gestured towards Matt’s computer. “You’ve been frowning over that for like, ten minutes. Something up?”
Matt made a face. One of his professors had the brilliant idea to make their final presentation include a mandatory visual aide. A PowerPoint would suffice, of course but there was the small issue of Matt not being able to see what he was doing with it.
He had reached out in a meticulously polite email to request that he could be exempt from that particular annoyance, only to receive one in return telling him that no, he couldn’t be excused from it. God forbid he receive accommodations.
“No, just listening to a lecture I missed,” he lied quickly.
“Is the lecture personally insulting you?” Foggy joked. His heart rate increased slightly. Annoyance?
Matt chuckled. “Just kind of boring. I’m trying to focus but…” He trailed off, waving a hand vaguely.
Foggy’s hair brushed against his shoulder as he nodded. “Ah, so that’s why you look like you’re on the toilet. Concentration, not constipation.”
“It’s an easy mistake to make,” Matt grinned. Foggy laughed.
“So sorry to interrupt your agony, then. Carry on.”
Matt hummed in response, unpausing his computer to listen to the email again. At this point, he would either have to double down on asking for accommodations, or ask Foggy for help. The latter would objectively be easier, but…
“Are you not going to drink that?”
Matt paused again. Foggy gestured towards his drink.
“Sorry. I just pointed to your drink. Are you going to have it?”
Matt huffed a laugh. “No, you can have it if you want.”
Foggy took it without hesitation. “Did you not like it?” Nervousness coated his voice like the coffee that stained his teeth.
“Ah, no, it was- it was fine,” Matt stumbled. Kicked himself internally for his stutter and his pounding heart before thanking God that Foggy couldn’t read him like Stick could.
Foggy nodded, then told Matt he did so before tucking his head back down towards his laptop. Matt did the same, practiced hands resting on his keyboard. Tapped a few times without typing.
He heaved an internal sigh. Doubling down it is, Matt lamented as he began to draft another email. What’s the use of getting a law degree if I can’t argue with my teachers well?
- Bloodhound
The alley stank of piss and week old lasagna. There was more in the garbage, of course, but Matt wasn’t going to torture himself trying to identify each horrid scent he picked up. Not when the telltale chemical scent of spray paint sat on the wall, mocking him.
A new gang was in town, and they had a calling card: graffiti on the walls where drug deals had gone down. Or at least, that’s what Matt assumed. He couldn’t think of any other reason why the burning smell of paint happened to be where traces of heroin and cocaine lingered. It had to be some sort of symbol, or maybe even a clue as to where the next deal would happen.
Matt didn’t often wish he could see. The urge usually only hit him in small moments, where he wanted to see how Foggy looked when he smiled, or the color of Karen’s hair, or the early morning sun illuminating the city. Not in moments like these. But he was frustrated.
If he could just see what was written on the walls, his night job would become a whole lot easier. He could track down the new gang, stop their deals, and keep a few people out of the ICU from overdoses. But he had no such luck, instead, he paced outside in the dead of night in front of a wall he couldn’t see.
Matt stopped his incessant walking abruptly, staunchly ignoring the twinge of pain it earned his ribs as he twisted towards the graffiti. He huffed a sigh.
He could ask Foggy for help; show up at his apartment with a few pictures, or maybe take him down to the alley if he complained about his photography skills. The latter was much more likely. But if he didn’t catch him in time, the graffiti could be washed away. Most tags on the walls would be scrubbed clean within twelve hours, the acrid scent of paint being overpowered with lemon fresh cleaning products. Matt suspected it was whoever put the tags on in the first place covering their tracks. In any case, if he couldn’t reach Foggy in time, it would be very likely that he would just end up annoying him.
Foggy had been preparing for his nephew’s high school graduation anyways. And if he was busy, chances were he had looped Karen into it as well. So Matt really couldn’t recruit him to his cause.
So there it was. His two friends, his only two allies, were not only unavailable but probably unwilling to help him.
Matt grit his teeth. Fine. He would do this the hard way. He would track the gang down by scent alone. It wasn’t his preferred method; not only would the rain wash away any residuals but honing his senses onto a specific smell also came at the cost of lowered awareness of everything else. Not to mention the way that spray paint tended to give Matt a near instant headache.
The telltale sounds of the city waking up alerted Matt to daylight’s presence. Groaning internally, Matt resigned himself to pick up the task the next night. Knowing his luck, he would have to find a new tag if the one he was standing next to got washed away while he was in court.
A few days later, when Mahoney got a call from an anonymous source, he arrived at a warehouse to a bloody scene. At least fifteen men lay groaning or unconscious on the floors, all bearing the telltale signs of a visit from the local devil. Only one had been tied up, a can of spray paint still in his backpack. When he woke up, he furiously recounted what happened to Mahoney almost unprompted. Fucking Devil, he ranted as he was cuffed. What is he, a bloodhound?
- Files
Justice was a tricky thing. Sometimes it could be found in a courtroom, in the voice of a judge as they gave the verdict everyone knew was right. Sometimes it could be found on the streets in bloody hands and fallen foes. Sometimes justice could even be found in death, not that Matt would ever say that in front of Frank. But right now, justice took the form of painstakingly scrolling through court records while a headache threatened Matt’s sanity.
The case was deceptively easy at face value. A client seeking legal refuge after they had spoken out against their employee. The type of job that was open and close as soon as it began.
Unfortunately, the case also had a prosecutor who was a little too well versed in this area of legal battles for Matt to feel entirely confident. Jonathan Douglas was a renowned lawyer whom the company had hired previously. Many times. And he hadn’t lost a case yet.
And so the afternoon turned to night as Matt read through transcripts of each case Jonathan had been a part of to learn what it was that made him so successful. So far, it seemed that his opponent was simply a whirlwind in court: he never let anyone speak unless he was looking for an answer. He interrupted and spoke in hyperbole, and seemed to have a fair amount of charm on his side. Reading the records never quite got across tone, but Matt was fairly certain that Jonathan was rather socially gifted.
Regardless, it still wasn’t enough. Matt’s fingers were cramping from using his screen reader for too long, and he was starting to legitimately worry that he would give himself carpal tunnel. He couldn’t find places where Jonathan slipped, where the tides turned against him and he lost his footing. If Matt wanted to win this case, he needed to find something that worked against his opponent. And given the amount of reading he still had to do, Matt was seriously considering if he should ask someone to trudge through the documents with him.
Foggy had his own work to do, though. Since starting with Hogarth, he had been swamped with cases that she threw his way with no warning. Cases that paid . Cases that took priority over whatever shitshow Matt had gotten himself into in the meantime, either in his official work or his nighttime escapades.
And Karen… hadn’t wanted to see him lately. Fair enough, considering the proverbial bomb he had dropped on her. Her talents were better suited for her new journalism gig than slogging through the unique hellscape of court records.
That left Frank, then. But Matt really couldn’t ask him for help. The last time they had met up, it had ended in yet another shouting match that left Matt’s throat and heart sore as he stubbornly ignored the way that Frank’s heart had jumped at Matt’s latest reckless endeavor. Calling for him now wouldn’t do. Matt couldn’t be the one to initiate a team up again. Not after their last one had gone so sideways. It wasn’t like Frank would be the best choice for this kind of busywork anyway.
It was fine. It was fine . Matt could deal with one more all nighter. He had pulled plenty in college, and plenty more since becoming Daredevil. He could do this on his own.
Matt pulled up the next file and cracked his knuckles. One more sleepless night wouldn’t kill him.
The next day, Matt showed up to court thanking his lucky stars that his glasses mostly covered what he had been told were some serious eye bags. He greeted his client with what he hoped was an acceptable amount of exhaustion and strode into the courtroom with only a slight falter in his step. Jonathan Douglas introduced himself, all that charm that was so imperceptible in the files oozing out of his very pores in person. Matt responded as politely as he could before the court was called to order.
He won the case, but just barely. Any relief he felt was quickly overtaken by exhaustion and stiff joints.
- Pool
Matt quite literally fell into his bed, half tripping over himself on his way, and half collapsing from pain. He took a brief moment to thank his lucky stars that no one else had to witness that embarrassing display. Or so he hoped. He wasn’t able to tell if anyone was in the room, after all.
Since waking up in St. Agnes, Matt’s waking days had been consumed with a litany of nuns fussing over him, children peeking into his room and asking invasive questions, and Matt’s own maddening incompetence. His body, though still bleeding and bruised, was the least of his concerns. No, the real kicker was his senses. Or rather, his lack thereof.
It was like being underwater. Matt had almost drowned several times in his life, the first time being the worst. Matt hadn’t swam much as a kid, due both to not living near a safe body of water to swim in (the Hudson definitely didn’t count as ‘safe’) and not having the time. Once he was blinded, his swimming experiences fully stopped. At least, until Stick came into the picture.
Stick could swim. Very well, in fact, he had repeatedly insisted. And so when he took Matt under his wing, swimming was one of the lessons he sought to impart on him. Just because you’re blind doesn’t mean you can’t swim, he had said one fateful night as the two broke into a gym.
It had been almost one in the morning by the time they finally got in. Stick had made Matt do all the work, from scouting the area to picking the locks to finding a route that didn’t go past security cameras. Matt was exhausted, seething, and sweaty from climbing over one too many walls. Stick had laughed at that last part, assuring him that the pool would be his bath for the night.
As the two of them entered the room with the pool in it, the chlorine instantly overwhelmed Matt. He almost gagged at the smell, heavy and thick in the air like smog. Stick scoffed at him, before leading him to one end of the pool. Before Matt even had the chance to take his clothes off, Stick placed one bony hand on his back and shoved him into the deep end without warning.
Matt hit the water and instantly inhaled. The smell of the chlorine invaded his lungs, even as he coughed and struggled valiantly to the surface. Water engulfed his head and filled his body, and he couldn’t breathe .
He sank like a stone. Still making half hearted attempts at swimming, thrashing about uselessly. Matt couldn’t tell which way was up- it was dark . Darker than his usual, the water muffling everything until even his body became fuzzy and incomprehensible to his own ears. His lungs burned as he gasped for clarity, only to sink deeper into the pool and true, terrifying blindness. Matt spent his last few seconds of consciousness confused and scared as his world on fire was so efficiently doused.
He came to eventually, coughing up what felt like a bucket of water on the floor of the gym. Stick sat beside him in stony silence, eventually commenting that they would work on swimming some other time. Matt spent the rest of the night with the distinct impression that he had failed some sort of test.
Today though, he had the brilliant idea of walking about by himself. It had been almost a month, after all. Matt’s wounds were mostly closed, save for the one on his stomach that seemed to have developed an infection. His bones still grinded against each other, sending dull vibrations down his spine whenever he moved, but he could move. And his senses hadn’t returned in any noticeable capacity, but his left ear was mostly working. So he was fine. He should have been fine to walk.
Were it not for the fact that he had no cane and people moved things around too frequently for his taste, he would have been fine. But he didn’t have a cane. And there were at least two separate pairs of shoes left haphazardly out that he had tripped over. And now here he was, laying on his bed after a truly sorry attempt at the simple task of walking around.
The dull ache in his side had increased to a burning sensation. He must have ripped a stitch or two. Matt turned to his side. Someone would come by eventually.
He lay there, thinking of that dreaded pool as one of blood slowly grew under him.
+1. Winter
The snow was falling gently but persistently, painting the streets white. Underpaid workers tried to salt the sidewalks enough for pedestrians, and citizens shoveled paths where need be. A thick blanket covered the city, muffling the world and slowing people down. The kind of weather you would want while drinking hot cocoa and watching some holiday movie.
It was picturesque. Matt couldn’t appreciate it. In fact, he rather despised winter. The snow sent his senses all out of whack, and while crime did tend to become more concentrated in indoor areas, it didn’t necessarily stop. He kept going as best he could, of course, but sometimes even his own bullheaded stubbornness had to concede to the relentless chill.
Since returning to his life, Matt had only used the black suit. Not just for the symbolic aspect. He preferred the dexterity it granted him, as well as its dark palette making him difficult to see. Much to everyone else’s distress, he continued to wear it even as the days got shorter and colder.
Let the record show that Matt did enhance it for the winter. Sneakers became heavy boots that wouldn’t let snow in to freeze his toes off. He wore thermal leggings and shirt under his regular gear, and even bought a rainproof black jacket for when it got too stormy. (Matt had yet to use this feature as its material tended to be very loud and bad for any lurking around he might be doing.) He double wrapped his cowl and brought extra gloves in case they got soaked through. The suit was truly ready for snowy weather.
Sometimes though, Matt himself might not be ready for the simple wrath of a winter storm. Tonight was such a night.
In his haste to get out on the streets as fast as possible (a new drug dealer was on the streets and Matt wanted to end it quickly) he had forgotten his rainproof jacket and extra pair of gloves. Normally, this wouldn’t be such an issue. But this night had been a bit more eventful than Matt had thought it would be.
He had tracked the drugs back to an abandoned schoolhouse, its broken windows nearly negating the shelter the roof provided. Matt had crept upstairs to find a room full of scheming assholes. From what he heard, the guy he was looking for wasn’t there, but he might as well take these guys down while he was there.
Luckily, the fight would be easy indoors. Unluckily , one of the goons happened to be a behemoth of a man who quite literally picked up and threw Matt through a window. Matt only had a second to be thankful for the fact that he had only been on the second story before he hit the street.
That’s when it all went to shit. Foggy might have argued that the night started off bad in the first place, but Matt was quite confident that landing in a bunch of snow was when things started to go downhill.
Senses befuddled, Matt hadn’t noticed the large man jump out of the window after him. Matt did realize the fight had been taken outside when two hands grabbed him by the throat and shoved him back into the snow.
Instantly his hearing was shot. Matt struggled fruitlessly against the enormous man as his hands tightened on his throat. For a brief hysterical moment, Matt had understood how David felt fighting Goliath. He punched the man harder.
The man had loomed over him and suddenly it wasn’t just a fight. It wasn’t just a man holding him down, it was rubble and steel and a building . The hands on his throat were smoke and ash and words failing him. The snow around him was the cold certainty of death and the embrace of a dead lover.
Matt had let out a strangled sound that he hoped didn’t sound as desperate as he felt as he ripped off a glove. His punches having been proved fruitless, Matt had reached up and grabbed the man behind his ear before pulling , raking his nails into the others’ head as hard as he could.
The man howled, his hands coming up on instinct to pull Matt’s away. Matt took his chance and somehow freed himself, stumbling away in the snow and barely missing running into a wall. The rush of adrenaline overpowered the embarrassment of running away, but Stick’s voice still lingered. Couldn’t even take on one guy? Fucking pathetic.
Now, Matt returned early to his apartment, soaked to the bone, hearing impaired, and missing a glove. He came in through the window with shaky hands, quite ready to be done for the night, only to realize he wasn’t alone.
Normally he would have recognized this several blocks away. The heartbeat and scent of gunpowder were unfortunately very familiar.
“You look like shit,” Frank said in lieu of greeting.
It was the first thing he said to Matt after he returned to being Daredevil. Matt had almost pushed him off the roof the two had been on.
If he wasn’t so cold, Matt might’ve been tempted to do it now. “Not like I would know,” Matt replied, ripping the waterlogged cowl off his head and squeezing the water out of it.
Frank was silent for a few seconds. Studying him, probably. “Funny,” he eventually said. “Go put on some clothes that aren’t holding half the Hudson in them.”
Matt made a beeline for his room, huffing about how it wasn’t river water, it was snow , thank you very much. He pulled on warm clothes as fast as he could, staunchly ignoring how his hands were almost too numb to unzip his pants. Tucking his newly donned sweatpants into his socks, Matt marched back out into his living room.
Frank was still there. He put something down on the kitchen counter. A phone?
“What are you doing in my apartment, Frank?” Matt asked. It came off even more aggressive than he had originally planned. Good.
Frank snorted. “Little hard to take you seriously when you’re wearing socks with dancing avocados in them.”
So that’s why Foggy had been holding back laughter when he gave them to Matt. “You didn’t answer my question.”
“What, I can’t just stop by?”
“We’re not friends , Frank. What the hell are you doing here?”
Frank sighed and picked up the object on the counter. Definitely a phone if the way he was tapping it was anything to go by. “Karen texted. Said you’ve been antsy all week. She wanted me to check on you.” His heart stayed steady. It wasn’t a lie.
Matt folded his arms across his chest. “I can take care of myself.”
“Yeah, that’s why you look like a drowned rat right now. Because you can take care of yourself.” Frank said dryly. He typed something else on his phone.
“Okay, well you’ve checked in on me. Now get out of my apartment.”
“I will as soon as your friends get here.”
Matt froze. “What?”
Frank huffed what might’ve been a laugh from anyone else. “Told Karen you were here looking like you fell in a river and she said she’s on her way.”
Matt’s face burned. “I don’t need your help,” he hissed, stomping over to grab Frank’s phone.
“I know, that’s why Karen’s coming,” Frank replied easily, putting his phone in his pocket. “Go sit down, Red, you look terrible.”
Matt didn’t know how he looked, but he felt it. His throat still burned from when it was grabbed, making a potential shouting match out of the question. His back was covered with scrapes and glass from the window he was pushed out of. At least his shivering had gone down somewhat, though his apartment wasn’t the warmest place in the world. Matt weighed the options. Fine , he decided. Karen can come over and see that I’m alright.
Matt turned around and marched over to the couch, sitting down with as much anger as was physically possible to convey. Frank didn’t move from his spot at the counter.
As the minutes passed in stony silence, Matt slowly unfroze. His hands, while still cold as ice, were returning to normal function. His shivering came to a complete stop, and his hair was starting to dry.
As soon as he noticed this, the radiator made a truly terrible sputtering noise. If Matt’s hearing had been fully restored, it would have given him a near instant headache. As it was, he simply cocked his head in its direction. Frank got up from the kitchen counter and stalked over. He mumbled something about Matt’s living space that was almost certainly an insult.
Matt sat up straighter when he heard a group of footsteps climb the stairs to his door. Four… no, five heartbeats were approaching. Matt’s own heart jumped to his bruised throat.
He threw a pillow at Frank where he was crouched by the radiator. Frank grunted, turning around in annoyance and opening his mouth to speak before Matt shushed him loudly and pointed to the door. A second later a knock echoed through the living room.
Matt and Frank both sat in silence, completely still save for Frank’s hand wandering towards a sidearm. Matt was calculating the odds of being able to fight off five people while stopping Frank from killing anyone when a shrill voice spoke through the door.
“Matt? It’s Karen, open up.”
Both men instantly relaxed. Frank got up and opened the door, greeting Karen more softly than Matt thought was possible. Someone scoffed.
“Hello to you too, Castle. You still killing people?” Foggy asked, pushing past Frank and sauntering into the living room.
Frank stepped to the side to let the others in. “Keep an eye on the news and find out yourself.”
“Real classy,” the familiar drawl of Jessica Jones supplied. She stopped briefly to look at Matt. “Wow, you do look like shit.”
“Hey, Matt,” Luke Cage greeted amicably, stepping inside with Claire. Jessica made a beeline for the kitchen.
“What are you all doing here?” Matt asked, baffled by the amount of people in his usually empty apartment. He stood up shakily, frozen legs tingling at the movement.
Claire knelt next to him, opening a small first aid kid and pushing him back down onto the couch. “Frank texted Karen, who was out with Foggy, so he came along. Foggy texted me in case you needed help. I was with Jess and Luke, who also wanted to help.”
“Not true,” Jessica called from where she was rummaging for booze. “I just wanted to see you miserable.”
“She wanted to help,” Luke stage-whispered as he followed her. Matt cracked a smile.
“That’s really nice, but you- you all don’t have to be here. I’m fine.”
Foggy sat down on the couch next to Matt. “Nope, none of that. We’re here and you’re not kicking us out when you look like…” he gestured towards Matt’s general being.
Claire reached out and gingerly touched Matt’s throat, which was no doubt turning all shades of purple. He miraculously managed to not flinch, but stiffened at the touch. Beside him, Foggy’s heart did an odd flip.
“That looks like it hurts,” Claire murmured. Matt’s shoulders untensed slightly at her soothing voice. She smelled like roses and spice. “You might want to drink some tea.”
Karen turned on a lamp and sat at the end of the couch next to Foggy. “Besides, you haven’t been talking to us this week. We wanted to check in on you.”
Despite the teasing in her voice, something in Matt’s heart clenched at the words. “Been busy,” he muttered. “And I don’t have any tea.” Frank made a noise at that from the doorway.
“No tea!” Foggy said dramatically. “Matt, this is an emergency. You can’t go about winter without a hot drink!” Claire pulled at Matt’s sweatshirt until he relented and took it off. The cuts from the glass likely bled through the thin fabric. Foggy and Karen’s hearts both stuttered.
“Damn man, do you have anything here?” Luke called from the kitchen. Jessica mumbled something about the distinct lack of whiskey.
Matt’s face flushed, hopefully obscured by the dim lighting. “Not enough to feed all of you ,” he said. Claire shut him up with an antiseptic wipe on the small cuts littering his body.
The front door opened and shut. Matt frowned, opening his mouth to ask about it when Claire hit an especially deep cut. He hissed at the burning sensation, clenching his jaw back shut.
Foggy grabbed his arm. His heart was still racing- anger? Adrenaline? “Did you fall into a blender or something?” He said.
“Window,” Matt replied tersely. Karen inhaled like she wanted to say something, but cut herself off.
Foggy didn’t have that kind of self control. “You fell through a window ?”
Matt bristled. “No, I got thrown through one.” He would never just fall through one.
“Oh, because that’s so much better! Was that before or after you got strangled by the Hulk?”
“Foggy,” Karen said gently, “I don’t think Matt needs a lecture right now.”
As if to prove her point, Claire disinfected a particularly deep cut again. Matt hissed, tensing but managing to stay still. Foggy’s heart stuttered yet again.
“Fine. But this isn’t over, mister. You and I are going to have words ,” Foggy declared. Matt snorted at that.
“For now, though, how about we watch something? Foggy, you brought your laptop, we should watch New Girl.” Karen said. Thank God for her negotiation skills .
Claire nodded, carefully applying butterfly stitches to a deep cut. “We might as well have a movie night at this point.” Guilt rolled in Matt’s stomach at that. How late had it gotten?
Foggy got out his laptop as Claire finished wiping down Matt’s tattered torso. Jessica and Luke wandered over, clearly not having found the alcohol they (mostly Jessica) were looking for. Briefly, Matt wondered what the best strategy to kick them all out politely would be, but as soon as Foggy started an episode, he grabbed Matt by the shoulder and enforced a side hug that glued him to the couch.
Well. It wasn’t like going out in his soaked suit would be the best choice, anyway. The criminals he was chasing would still be there tomorrow. Matt grounded his teeth. They would be out there, but how much damage would be done in the meantime? How many lives would be lost, would Matt hear before he got to them? He shouldn’t be here. He should be out, doing what he could. Get to work, Matty.
“Stop thinking so loud, you’re going to give me a headache,” Foggy said, flicking Matt in the ear before launching into a colorful narration of New Girl. Mollified, Matt pretended not to hear Claire giggle at that.
At some point, Matt ended up with his head on Foggy’s lap and his body across Karen and Claire’s. Frank came back from where he had apparently been at the store. He brought with him some tea, hot cocoa, and much to Jessica’s delight, whiskey. Foggy laughed outright at that. Frank threatened to hit him with the wrench he also apparently brought to fix the radiator. Foggy mimed zipping his lips.
The night went on shockingly smoothly. As if this was something they did regularly. As if tomorrow wouldn’t hold the same problems as today. Matt marveled at it all as he sipped his hot chocolate. It had marshmallows in it.
Here he was, surrounded by ‘soft things’- the sort of things he was told not to have. The things he shouldn’t have. Things he hadn’t earned, things he didn’t deserve. And yet the guilt was an undercurrent for the night. Softly simmering below the surface, but not overpowering. Instead, Matt mostly felt warm. From the hot chocolate, from his friends’ bodies, from the radiator that was finally working.
It wouldn’t last forever. But just for tonight, Matt would indulge. He would let Claire patch him up. He would let Karen play mediator and unofficial event planner. He would let Foggy gently comb through his hair with his fingers, scratching mindless patterns into his scalp. He would let Jessica and Luke bicker and banter and cover him with their solid, reassuring presence. And he would let Frank do the little odd jobs no one asked for so he could feel useful.
Matt would let it happen. As the night bled into day and everyone’s eyes struggled to stay open, Matt secretly resolved to do it again. Maybe one day, he wouldn’t just let it happen; he would invite it himself.