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You straighten his tie every morning, which Matt certainly doesn’t need you to do, but you do it all the same because you love him. He cracks a smile as you fix it just right, before smoothing out the collar of his shirt, running your fingers over his shoulder blades.
“Perfect,” you say. “As per usual.”
“Thank God for you,” Matt teases. “Imagine if you weren’t here, and I showed up to my very prestigious law firm with a crooked tie.”
You playfully poke his chest. “I’d never allow it. Come on, I made coffee.”
Matt follows you into the kitchen, where you have two mugs waiting. You press one into his hands. “Drink up. Got a long day of, uh, lawyering ahead of you. Gotta be well-caffeinated.”
Matt chuckles. “Today’s more of a filing paperwork and reading case files type day. Not too exciting.”
“Ah,” you smile, going to sip your own drink. “All the more reason you need caffeine. Can’t let Foggy and Karen catch you sleeping on the job, now can we?”
“Foggy’s fallen asleep in the office far more often than I have, I’ll have you know. Usually after him and Karen spend the night at Josie’s. You can almost taste the beer in his sweat.”
You wrinkle your nose. “Alright, TMI. You should get going. I need to get ready for --”
“You forgot to put sugar in your coffee today, silly.” He’s already reaching for a packet, tossing it to you with expert precision that should be impossible for a blind man… but your blind man is anything but ordinary. You flush.
“And how on earth would you know that?”
“I can smell it on your breath,” he replies. “Or, well, can’t smell it. It’s shocking you didn’t notice. You love sugar. Last time I served you coffee black, you nearly spat it out all over me.”
You roll your eyes, ripping open the sugar packet and spilling it. “Classic. This is what I get for dating the one with superpowers.”
“Enhanced abilities,” Matt corrects, shrugging on his suit jacket. You tut at him, but it’s fond.
“Alright, Mr. Enhanced Abilities. I’ll see you tonight? I’ll be home a bit later, I’m closing tonight.”
“Mm, got it,” he says. “I can cook. Have this new pasta recipe I’ve been dying to try out. Can’t say it’ll turn out great, but this building has a fire escape for a reason, right?”
“Yeah, it does,” you snort. “So you can climb through the window like a spider monkey whenever you don’t feel like using the front door.”
He grabs his briefcase by the front door. “You need to come up with a new metaphor. Spider monkey’s getting old.”
“Uh, flying squirrel, sloth on speed, concrete jungle’s Tarzan --”
“Goodbye,” he interrupts, laughing. “I’ll pick up wine or something on the way home.” You taste the coffee on his lips as he leans in for a quick kiss. His hand rests on your check for a moment.
“Bye, Matt.” There are butterflies in your tummy, which probably shouldn’t be there after over two years of dating, but you just can’t help it. Every touch is so… energizing. You bet he senses it, that sly bastard, because he gives you that crooked smile you’ve learned to love as he turns away and walks out the door, grabbing the cane that he certainly does not need on the way.
The shutting of the door behind him triggers an exhale of breath you didn’t realize you were holding. You make your way back to the kitchen, wetting a dish rag and wiping away the sugar you spilled on the counter, grains spilled precariously close to your abandoned coffee mug. Perks of dating a blind man, even one with super senses, is that you can empty a sugar packet inches away from your mug and and no one would be any the wiser.
Part of you feels guilty. But another part reasons that a slip of the hand is much less tiring than explaining… you. Matt’s life is already complicated enough, with his day job and his… night job… and all the trials and tribulations that follow being a fucking superhuman. Matt has real problems that are certainly more important than your petty weight issues, and you’ll be damned if you added another fucking thing to deal with to his itinerary. The sugar (or lack thereof) in your coffee is the last thing the Daredevil needs to worry about -- by a long shot.
Although… he’s never really been the Daredevil to you. Not even when he stumbled into your old apartment through the window at four in the morning, gave you a cocky grin when you came running at him with a lampshade, and asked for your help in stitching his wounds. Despite the mask over his face and the bloodstains on his teeth, you knew it was him instantly, that damn grin of his.
“Claire’s out of town. I meant to, um, bring this up differently, but this is a little time sensitive. You’re a tailor, you’ve got this.”
And that was how it began -- not your relationship, of course -- that came to fruition over the span of a few months, after you fitted him for a new suit jacket at the boujee tailor shop you managed to score a job at after running off to the big apple and leaving everything behind. Everything including your overbearing parents, soul-sucking corporate job, and, (hopefully) that awful nagging voice that’s followed you since middle school, telling you that every fucking thing you do is absolutely, positively wrong.
Once you were satisfied with the fit, (and fuck, if he didn’t look good in it), you gave him a satisfied nod and gestured to your right.
“There’s a mirror over there, if you’d like to see how it looks.”
You had realized your mistake the moment you said it, began stumbling over your words to form some sort of suitable apology, but Matt just laughed.
“I’m going to have to take your word for it that I look good.”
“Trust me, you do.”
And that’s where it all began. Matthew Murdock is kind and smart and confident and everything you’ve ever wanted for yourself, let alone a partner. And he loves you unconditionally… for reasons that escape you on your bad nights. And you really, really, hate to fucking say it but…
On your worst ones, you’re so damn grateful he’s blind.
Two years, and you’re surprised relapse hasn’t hit already. Of course, the thoughts have always been there… those loud, heavy ones that amplify whenever you catch a glimpse of your reflection. But hey, it’s all a mind game, anyhow. It’s not a relapse if you don’t want it to be. Maybe just a lapse. Maybe a tiny change in judgment. Or maybe, even, you just don’t like sugar in your coffee as much as you thought you did, and it’s time for a very un-related, not eating disordered change. It can be anything you want it to be, if you’re the one in the driver’s seat. And whatever the fuck this is, Matt doesn’t need to know about.
-
On day one, it’s the uptick in your heart that gives it away. You’re home late, and as promised, Matt has cooked. The smell is delicious, albeit, powerful, and for some reason makes your stomach turn. Matt greets you, clad in sweats and a white t-shirt, with a kiss on the cheek. You can feel the heat of the oven on his lips, the engulfing warmth of the room that nearly makes you dizzy.
“Oh, Matt,” you say. “This looks amazing. How long did this all take?”
Matt shrugs. “Eh, not too long. Nearly swapped cinnamon for cumin by mistake, gave me a near heart attack.”
“Oh God,” you murmur, rolling your eyes and giving him a quick hug. “Well like I said, it looks amazing.”
“You look amazing,” he counters. It’s one of those little inside jokes you have, the type where you respond, you have no idea what I look like and Matt says something along the lines of I just know, trust me, and you maybe smack him lightly in the arm and he kisses the top of your head and it’s cute, something that normal non-mentally-ill couples do. But tonight it feels different. Like he’s lying, which is stupid, because that’s the whole fucking point of the joke, he can’t see you. You have a sudden urge to correct him, remind him.
You glance down at Matt’s feet. Socks… the fuzzy pair you bought him on a whim a couple months ago that you saw in the bookstore -- the ones with the cactuses.
“I don’t know how you feel about cactuses, but I know you said your feet get cold in the winter.”
The memory brings a soft smile to your lips. “You don’t have to say that, you know.”
Matt frowns. “I always say that to you.” You can see the corners of his eyes crinkle in confusion behind his glasses. “Where’s this coming from? Is something wrong?”
The gentleness in his voice nearly brings you to tears, and Lord knows that can’t happen, because that’ll open up a big can of worms you’re not ready for. So you swallow hard and take a breath, let it out slow.
“Sorry,” you say, shaking your head gently. “Think I’m just tired and a little cranky. Long day.”
“Ah,” he says, but you can tell he isn’t convinced. “Alright. Let’s eat.”
The meal is delicious, pasta and vegetables and this wonderful sauce that ties the whole dish together, but it feels awfully weighty on your fork, awfully heavy on your tongue. Maybe a little hard to swallow, and the expensive wine Matt picked up on the way home from work feels like maple syrup in your mouth.
But he went out of his way to make you a nice, pricey dinner, so you can eat it, no matter what the fuck’s stirring in your head.
“Is it spicy?” Matt’s question is an unexpected one, and you glance up from the table at him.
He takes a sip of wine. “Your heart’s kicked up a bit. Wanted to make sure I’m not giving you an overdose of paprika.”
You laugh at that. It might just be the tiniest bit forced, but if Matt catches on, he doesn’t let you know. You shake your head at him fondly and pick up your wine glass, gently clinking its side with your fork.
“No, no,” you say, “it’s perfect. I’d like to propose a toast, actually. To Matt Murdock and his unexpectedly serious cooking skills. May we, the common sighted folk, all learn a thing or two.”
Matt laughs at that, one of his big, hearty laughs that always makes you smile and feel an itty bitty relieved, that there’s something good about you that keeps him around. He raises his glass in return.
“You know I’ll drink to that.”
You both do, and you swallow the wine, despite the sudden urge you have to spit it up all over Matt’s perfectly plated pasta.
-
Day four of your relapse, you’re caught by the Devil. Caught is a strong word here, because you’re not technically doing anything wrong, but it just feels wrong, someone walking in on you doing sit-ups at three AM.
It’s no secret to you that Matt keeps strange hours, ever since you found out about his whole night gig. Matt tells you not to wait up for him, when he goes deviling, and sometimes you don’t… but more often than not you have the urge to wait by the window and watch the fluorescent color change of the billboard until he comes home and you can feel him, live proof that he’s here and alive and whole, because God knows what you would do if he wasn’t.
It wouldn’t hurt to get back into your old exercise regime. And hell, you barely have time to breathe during the day, with your job and your commute and the babysitting you do for the little girl in the complex downstairs. You’re already up anyways, waiting for Matt to get home, so might as well sprinkle it in. Working out is healthy, anyhow, and this isn’t a relapse unless you say it is. Maybe it’s just convenient scheduling, doing sit-ups and burpees in your living room at one in the morning until you can’t breathe.
Matt’s home earlier than usual, or at least, you think he is, because you nearly jump out of your skin when the window slides open and Matt eases in, the deep blue light of the billboard soaking into his dark red suit. He seems to scan his surroundings, attention falling to where you on the floor, in the midst of your set. You’re scrambling to your feet, nearly hit with a wave of vertigo as you rise to your full height. Bracing yourself on the arm of the sofa, you smile at him, maybe a bit too wide.
“Matt! Hey, you’re home early!” You hope he doesn’t hear the strain in your voice, or the race of your heart, but you know that hope is in vain. He hears everything. Especially when it comes to you.
“Not… not really,” Matt says, tugging off his helmet, tossing it haphazardly on the ground next to him. “It’s almost half past three. What are you doing up? Are you alright?”
You wish he’d stop asking you if you were alright. It makes you feel self-conscious… flawed. As if there’s reason to think you’re not alright. Like everything’s not okay, and you hate that feeling.
“Couldn’t sleep,” you shrug. “Figured I’d wait up for you.”
He wrinkles his nose. “You’re dripping in sweat.”
You scoff. “Oh, c’mon. So are you.” You scan him up and down, as you usually do, checking for any stab wounds or bullet holes or something that would indicate your mediocre first aid skills are needed. “You okay? Hurt at all?”
“I’m good, don’t worry about me.” Matt says. “What have you been doing?”
You resist the urge to remind him that you’re always worried about him. Licking the salt from your lips, you try and think of an explanation that would make this any less fucking weird than it already is. No dice.
“Uh, trying to get in shape, you know. Working out a little bit, nothing crazy.”
“Oh,” Matt says, raising his eyebrows. “At three AM?”
“You’re one to talk about nightly activities, Matty,” you laugh, and he can’t help but chuckle.
“Alright, true. You know, you can always come to the gym with me, right? I’d love to have a plus one.”
Oh no. Absolutely not. No way in hell Matt’s seeing… this. This is a strictly individualized activity. No one else need be subjected.
“Yeah,” you grin. “That sounds like a good time.” You bring him in for a hug, and he reciprocates, but something’s off. He’s squeezing you a little less tightly than usual. Like maybe you’ll break.
-
On day seven, you ruin sex, because of course you do. Can’t do anything without making it about you, can you?
Sleeping with Matt is fun. It’s fun when it needs to be, and hot when it needs to be, and hilarious when it needs to be, because you two fit together like pieces of a puzzle. For a blind man, he surely knows you. Every inch of you. Exactly where to touch you that has you squirming, exactly where to lock his fingers to leave bruises that you like to wake up to in the morning. He knows exactly how to leave you breathless or begging for more. It’s just the way he is. The way you are. The way you fit together.
The way he nearly flips you 180 degrees to put you on top always leaves you swooning, because he’s just so damn strong, and it’s so damn hot. Matt does it again tonight, grabbing you by the hips and swinging you on top of him, so that you’re straddling his hips. It’s hot and heavy and sensual and he’s already panting in your ear, but suddenly your stomach is bottoming out, and not in the sexy kind of way.
You’re going to fucking crush him. And he’s, like, a superhuman, a gorgeous superhuman, and you’re on top of him, and you’re probably going to suffocate him, or he’s just going to feel you on top of him but not say anything about it because he’s just a nice guy like that, and you can’t let him do that for you, you just can’t. So before your brain can connect with your body, you know, like normal people, you’re scrambling off of him, scooting as far away as possible to the edge of the bed. Your lip is trembling. You want to cry, and nothing fucking happened.
It’s ridiculous, all of it’s ridiculous, and that’s on you.
Matt’s confused. You’re not looking at him, but you can feel him scooting towards you, placing a gentle hand on your shoulder.
“Hey, hey.” he says, softly, and even more guilt blossoms in your stomach for being so damn dramatic, so dramatic that he has to talk to you like this, like you’re a spooked animal. “What’s wrong? Are you alright?”
“Yeah,” you bark, and it comes out quicker and harsher than you expect. You feel Matt’s hand still on your shoulder. “I’m just… I don’t want to, like, crush you or anything.” You laugh, or at least you try to, because even a fake, half hearted laugh would be better than tears.
If Matt thinks you’re funny, at least you have one thing going for you.
Matt looks so, genuinely confused. It’s weird to see him like that, because Matt’s the type of guy that knows everything, has an answer for everything. But here, he seems a bit stuck, mouth opening and closing, as if he knows what he wants to say but the words just won’t form on his tongue. You want to tell him he doesn’t need to go through that effort.
And, that you’re sorry for being such an incredibly emo cockblock.
When Matt speaks again, his voice is low and hollow.
“You’re not… what? You’re not heavy. You’ve never been heavy.”
“Don’t lie, Matt.” It was cold. Colder than any tone you usually use with him. So cold you feel a shiver yourself, running down your spine to your extremities, wracking your body, the same body that felt so warm moments before.
“I’m not lying,” Matt says softly. He sounds… hurt. “What is this?”
You suddenly feel incredibly naked. The thought of it makes you want to vomit.
What is this? That’s a great question, actually. It’s not a relapse unless you say it is. But you’re not entirely sure where it falls under your anthology of terrible life choices.
“It’s nothing, Matt,” you say, shifting to find your clothes. “Sorry. I’m tired.”
You’re so, so incredibly awake that it hurts. But Matt doesn’t push it.
-
Day thirty one and you’re feeling… bitchy. It’s what anorexia does to a person. Or at least, that’s what it does to you, and you hate that about yourself. Memories of screaming at your parents, your friends, your shrink, the nice people in the hospital that certainly don’t get paid enough to deal with your bullshit, they all surface when you get like this, absolutely irritable. You’re not proud of it. You never have been.
But this isn’t a relapse unless you say it is, so maybe this mood shift isn’t your eating disorder after all. Maybe you’re just tired and PMS-ing. This is what you’ll tell yourself when you start yelling at Matt for something completely benign, like leaving a fucking shirt on the ground after you just cleaned the bedroom -- something that would have never bothered you before. Maybe you would have thrown it at him playfully, or just hung it back up like a normal fucking person, but you’re being a raging bitch today. Surprise surprise.
“Matt,” you growl. “You can’t just leave your shit all over the place! I just fucking cleaned in here, too.”
Matt looks perplexed, and you feel a bit of shame down deep in your belly, but you shove it aside in favor of your anger, because anger is much more powerful in situations like these when the control you have over anything else in your life is slipping day by day.
“I’m sorry,” he says lowly. “Must have slipped off the hanger. I’ll pick it up.”
“No, Matt!” you nearly yell. “That’s not what this is!”
Frankly, you have no idea what this is. You don’t want him to pick up the shirt. It’s not about the shirt. But in this moment, your entire fucking life revolves around the crumpled dress shirt on the floor. You scoop it off the floor, bunching the soft fabric in your hands.
You’re losing your fucking mind.
Matt puts his hands on his hips and tilts his head, studying you in the way he always does when he’s trying to get a read on your feelings. His next words are tentative.
“Then… what is it?”
You had vowed at the beginning of this whole mess not to cry, because that would open up a whole can of worms that you, and Matt, and Daredevil, cannot afford to deal with right now. But now you just can’t help it, and it’s only mere moments before the tears bubbling up in the corners of your eyes begin to roll down your cheeks. You try to stifle your sobs, but you know he knows, from the way that his face falls and he takes a tentative step towards you, as if testing out the waters.
“I’m sorry,” you murmur. A tear slips past your lips and rolls into your mouth, and you spit it out, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand. “I don’t know what’s gotten into me.” You will yourself to stop, to pull your fucking act together, but you just can’t. Maybe you’ll let yourself cry. Just for a minute.
You bury your face in your hands, and you don’t realize that Matt’s stepped towards you until his arms are wrapped around your waist, gently pushing your head into his chest. His scent and his breath and the steady beat of his heart make you cry a bit harder, and you give in, sinking into his touch. His arms still around you, gentle and tentative, a soft hand climbing up your ribcage for a moment before moving back down and settling around your waist. Maybe his own heart is a bit quicker. Maybe it’s not. At this point, you don’t fucking care. You murmur apology after apology into his now tear soaked shirt, and Matt lets you.
It’s not a relapse unless you say it is. Right. So why does this feel so fucking hard?
-
It becomes a problem when you skip work. You don’t mean to, you really don’t, but it just happens like that. It’s day forty two, and you had just kissed Matt goodbye. You needed to start getting ready for work yourself, but you’re just so fucking tired, and you honestly can’t remember the last time you weren’t tired, and maybe it’s eating at you a little bit.
So you sit on the couch for a minute, just to gather your bearings. You close your eyes, just for a second.
And then Matt is shaking you awake.
His hands are a little rougher than they usually are, and he’s also gently patting your cheeks. You open your eyes blearily, and you’re surprised to see it’s already dark. Matt’s face comes into focus, confused and maybe even a bit scared as you come back to yourself. You sit up for a second, before you’re hit with a tiny wave of vertigo, and Matt is pushing you gently back into the couch, grabbing a pillow to slip behind your back.
“Are you alright?” he asks, and it’s that fucking question again. “Did you go to work today? What’s going on?”
“Oh, God,” you grumble. “No -- I guess I didn’t. I must have fallen asleep. Shit.”
It’s not like you, and you both know that. You’re the one who can do anything, from overtime to part time gigs to dropping off Thai from that place you know Karen loves during your lunch break to heading out on the weekends with your friends and splitting fancy, highly overpriced New York cocktails. It’s something you’ve always prided yourself on -- your reliability, the way you can take care of others. Now, you can hardly take care of yourself.
“Have you eaten anything today? Drank water? You didn’t eat before I left, when did you fall asleep?”
You blink groggily. You almost feel delirious. “Uh, no, I guess I didn’t. My bad.”
“Come on,” Matt said. “I’ll make you something real quick.”
That’s the absolute last thing you want him to do, but he’s already heading towards the kitchen, and your heart drops into your stomach. You’re up and following him.
“It’s alright, Matt, really, I can handle it. You want to take a shower or something?”
“It’s no big deal,” Matt says. “I just want you to eat something.” He cracks a smile, but you can see it’s a bit forced, and it drops almost immediately. “Are you feeling sick?” He turns and places a hand on your forehead. “Do you have a fever?”
You smile at him. “No, doctor, I think I’m alright. Just tired, I guess. Shit. I have to call my boss and --”
“Drink some water first,” Matt commands, and his voice is a just a smidge more firm than usual. The change is so subtle, but it has you staring down at your feet, like you’re a kid who got caught snatching a cookie from the jar.
“Alright,” you say, and walk dutifully to small kitchen table that you and Matt had invested in shortly after you moved in. He already set out a glass of water for you, and you take small sips, eyes tracking him as he takes something out of the cabinet.
And holy hell, it’s peanut butter. You love peanut butter. He knows you do. And he also knows that a classic peanut butter and jelly sandwich is one of your comfort foods, which surely explains why he’s making it for you now, because he’s nice like that, and certainly not running an entire nutritional analysis of Skippy’s smooth peanut butter. It’s a nice thing he’s doing -- but right now it feels awfully equivalent to watching someone menacingly sharpening a knife before cutting off your fingers. You simply cannot have peanut butter right now. But Matt simply cannot know that.
He places the sandwich in front of you, and it’s like a loaded gun.
This isn’t a relapse unless you say it is. So why is peanut butter so fucking scary?
Matt’s grabbing a beer from the fridge, and you need to put a stop to this right fucking now.
“I’m not hungry,” you say, and the words make you cringe as soon as they escape your mouth, because it’s an old, ugly, out-dated excuse that you thought you left behind since the last time you relapsed.
Matt turns towards you. “You’re not? You said you hadn’t eaten.”
You should have fucking lied. “I think maybe I’m sick.”
“You don’t have a temperature.”
“My stomach hurts.” You feel like a deceptive teenager. Fuck, you might as well be.
Matt’s face makes you want to cry. He knows you’re lying to him. He just doesn’t know why. You’re not used to this, lying to Matt like this, but that’s what an eating disorder is built on. It’s built on lies and deception. Even deceiving the ones you love most.
“What’s going on?” he whispers. “What’s happening to you? You’re changing.”
“I’m not changing.” You can no longer look at his face.
“I want to help you,” Matt quietly pleads. “Please, let me.”
“There’s nothing to help, Matt.” You’re trying to keep your voice from shaking.
He shakes his head at you, pulling out a chair from the other side of the table and sitting across from you. “Why is your heart pounding over peanut butter?”
The lie is a broken record on your lips. “I think maybe I’m sick.”
Matt squints at you. “I don’t understand.”
“I think maybe I’m sick, Matty.” you repeat. You’re not sure what you mean by it.
-
It all goes to hell when you fall in the shower, because that’s arguably the worst place to fall, because in the shower you’re naked and vulnerable and absolutely not in the state to be seen by anyone, even a fucking blind man. Unfortunately, the shower is also the easiest place to fall, especially when it’s as boiling hot as you make it, because the steam proves so overpowering that it makes you helplessly dizzy. It’s day fifty of your relapse and you’re just about done.
You don’t realize you’ve fallen until you open your eyes. You instinctively raise your hand to your throbbing head, pulling it away to see blood on your fingertips, and a small trickle of blood on the shower floor, mingling with the falling water. You must have whacked your head on something on your way down. It hurts like a bitch, and you curse yourself for being so damn clumsy.
The next thing you’re aware of is the banging on the bathroom door. It certainly doesn’t help your growing headache, and you groan quietly, bringing your thumbs to gently massage your temples. You realize that someone is calling for you. Matt is calling for you.
“Open the door! Please, open the door. Are you alright? What’s going on? Are you hurt?”
Questions you can’t even comprehend at this point, let alone answer. You will yourself to get the fuck off of the floor, or at least come up with an answer. It takes you a second, as you’re suddenly distracted by your blood mixing with the water, creating shapes and patterns that take your mind from the situation at hand, if only for a mere moment.
Matt’s knocks are getting louder, and as something hard suddenly slams against the bathroom door, you realize he’s going to break it down. Your heart plummets. You did this to him. You made him this scared. It’s all your fault, and the least you can do is fucking answer the man who you love. You try to make yourself sound chipper.
“It’s fine, Matt! Just slipped, that’s all.”
He doesn’t buy it. You know that much, because suddenly the door cracks and caves in under Matt’s strength, nearly flying off the hinges. He’s at your side in seconds, hands skimming up and down your naked body, investigating for injuries. His hands stop at the wound on your head, blood slowing, but still leaking out of the gash. Your hand clings to his shirt sleeve, nearly soaked through already by the shower spray. You don’t think he realizes the water’s still on. You also don’t think he cares.
Matt pulls you into his chest, his hand finding your spine. You feel his breath hitch as his hand runs up and down your back, pulling you tighter to him. You cling to his shoulder, heaving. Matt’s hands are everywhere, finding the small of your back and the bumps in your spine and the contours of your ribs. He’s shaking, you realize. And you did this to him. It was all. Fucking. You.
He sees you clearly now.
To be fair, he always has.
You hold him for a minute, the shower water growing colder as you sit there, fingertips digging into his biceps like you might float away if you let go. Finally, something seems to click into place. Matt slowly disentangles himself from you, goes to grab a towel. He pulls you off the shower floor, nearly picking you up off your feet, and wraps you up. There’s only one thing he keeps murmuring into your hair, over and over again, voice breaking and putting itself together again upon each syllable.
“What did you do? What did you do?”
-
It’s half an hour later, and you're sitting on the couch, cross-legged in an oversized sweatshirt and a pair of sweats. Matt’s draped a blanket around you, which you went to insist that you didn’t need, but the expression on his face stopped you in your tracks. He presses a mug of something hot into your hands -- tea -- and you will yourself to take slow, even sips. Matt’s cleaned and bandaged the gash on your head, a small butterfly bandage serving as somewhat of an impromptu hair clip. He’s sitting across from you on the couch. His hands are clasped, as if in prayer.
“I don’t get it,” he finally says.
You stare into your tea. “You don’t need to.”
“But I do.” You look back up at him. With his glasses off, the fear in his eyes is nearly tangible from across the room, heavy in the space between you. “I do,” he continues. “Because you’re my partner. I love you. You know I love you, right?”
That, you do know. You can’t explain why he does, but you surely know it.
“I love you too, Matt.”
“Then help me, please.” He’s pleading with you, scooching towards you on the couch and taking your hands in his. “Help me get this. You’re not eating. You’re not talking to me. You’re up at all hours of the night. You’re not seeing your friends, you’re not doing… anything. Your heart is either beating so fucking fast or barely beating at all when you sleep. You feel like… like you’re about to fall apart. You’re scaring me.”
“I’m sorry.”
Matt’s shaking his head. “Don’t be sorry. Be… Jesus, I don’t know. Talk to me.”
“You don’t have to stay,” you murmur. “Stay, with me. I know this is fucked up.”
He looks so genuinely stunned by the notion that your eyebrows raise too. Matt goes to cradle the back of your head, pulling you into him, expertly avoiding the gash near your forehead.
“You mean everything to me,” he says. “Everything. You’ve kept all my secrets, hell, put me back together more times than I can count. You’re everything.” His hand stills in your hair for a moment, before gently grabbing a thinning lock and twirling it in his fingers.
“Let me help you. The way you help me.”
“I have anorexia,” you blurt out. The word feels like poison on your tongue, and you fucking hate that word, and you know it’s not a relapse unless you say it is, but --
It’s a relapse. You’re not in control anymore.
Matt falls silent. Curled up in his arms, you can feel his heart beat against you, quick and low, and you know his mind must be racing. Fuck it. You’re in too deep.
“It’s dumb. But, yeah. I’ve had it for a while. Before I met you. Thought it was…”
You can’t bring yourself to look at his face. “Thought it was over it. Guess I was wrong.”
“Oh,” he says. You can’t place his voice. Maybe it’s disappointed. Maybe it’s sad. Maybe it’s the tiniest bit angry, and you wouldn’t blame him for it.
He sighs, running a hand down your back. “Oh, sweetheart.”
“And, well, I didn’t want to tell you about it, because you have problems, real, adult problems, like keeping people out of jail and saving the city and this stupid thing is nothing in comparison. And I’ll get out of it. I have before.”
“No, no.” Matt’s pulling away, and you already miss his arms around you.
“Look at me,” he tells you, and you do, because you know he’s looking back, somehow. You just… do.
“This is important,” Matt tells you. “This is so, so important. You’re so important. The most important thing to me. We can do this. We can get through this.”
You don’t want to cry again, but you know you’re going to start, because you already feel the burn behind your eyes. We.
“You don’t need to,” you choke. “You don’t need to. It’s stupid.”
“Nothing about you is stupid, sweetheart. Nothing. I just wish… I wish I knew before. There were so many…” Matt clears his throat. “So many signs.”
“No, no, you couldn’t have known.” You’re shaking your head. You need to fix this, now.
You can assure him that it’s going to be fine. That once you’re happy with your body, you’ll stop, and everything will be okay, and you’re not going to faint in the shower anymore because that’s completely unsophisticated. You can tell him this isn’t a relapse unless you say it is, and tonight is just a slip, and you’re getting back on the horse and he can get back on his and everything can be the way it used to be. But you don’t say that.
“I feel like I’m losing my mind,” you whisper. Your voice is hoarse.
Matt’s wrapping an arm around your shoulder. His shirt, the nice dress one he wore to work today, is still damp. “We’ll figure it out. Get help. Me and you. We can do this, baby.”
You’re not the type to ask for reassurance, but you need it.
“Are you sure? You can do…this?” You don’t know what this is. You don’t think Matt knows either.
“When it comes to you,” Matt whispers, “I’m always sure.”
You look at him, the way the night sky illuminates his dark eyes, the way his arm has shifted to wrap around your waist, pulling you back into him. The firmness in his jaw and the small, sad smile on his lips. You pull him in for a kiss, soft and chaste, before breaking away, finding his sightless gaze.
“Okay,” you whisper. “We can do it.”
Matt might cry, and you might cry, and you both might cry wrapped in each other’s arms, but that’s not what you’re thinking about, not now. You just want to look at him, because you haven’t in a while, too busy obsessing over the control you thought you had in the wake of your relapse.
He’s looking too, somehow. You’re sure of it.