Work Text:
matt murdock has the devil in him.
he remembers, vaguely, being old enough to hold his hands in prayer - with a bowed head and closed eyes - as his grandmother tells him the devil is in him.
he remembers his dad in the boxing ring, the vacancy in his eyes as he advanced towards his opponent. he remembers many things when he remembers his dad, and at the forefront of his mind’s eye, it’s the way he looked when he boxed.
draped over the sofa, he runs a thumb absentmindedly over his fist. from the pad of his finger, he can feel the warmth of blood and the minute scratches over his knuckles. with his finger he feels an empty, dull throbbing from bruises, the swell of irritation around his wounds.
not for the first time, he drops his head back, baring his throat to the ceiling - or beyond it, to the sky - and ruminates in his thoughts.
is it really okay? would god forgive him for harboring the devil?
would god forgive him for allowing it to escape?
quietly, he slips up from the sofa, trying to ignore the sharp agony that curls from his spine and flickers through his entire body. he stumbles haphazardly to find the bathroom, trying to gain some clarity with the cold water splashed over his face.
his fingers curl over the sink’s rim, absentmindedly cataloging the omnipresent discomfort in his body. when he clenches his fist, the brief pain is enough to ground him. a sick, perverse version of penance he knows he has no authority to provide himself.
he only lets the devil out to protect the city. in the end, that’s all it is - sacrificing more and more of himself to keep hell’s kitchen safe. even god must know that the intention behind it is pure, that if not for him - who?
the thought doesn’t comfort him. tonight - tonight, the city was calm. as calm as it could be, even if he strains his ears - brief moments of chaos interrupted by sirens, a respite that should bring him peace.
he can only wonder - how long? when will the screaming start again? what must fisk be planning in the calm before the storm?
if he wasn’t out there to stop him, how many people would suffer?
he staggers out of the bathroom only to pathetically slip back to take a seat on the sofa. his breathing is heavier than it was before. blood rushes beneath his skin faster.
the longer he’s devoted to being the devil, the longer he pushes himself from any semblance of normalcy. it’s been too long to repent, and quitting so far along wouldn’t get him any forgiveness.
instead, perhaps he’d be punished for ignoring the people in need - to hear the screams and cries, only to turn the other cheek and preserve his own sanctity under the guise of faith.
it’s unfair to believe he doesn’t deserve penance for becoming who he is now.
maybe it’s worse to hope he’s forgiven.
it’s egotistical to believe that only he can do this. to believe there’s no one else but him that can protect the city - but is it egotistical if it’s true? believing that he’s the sole protector of hell’s kitchen is as lonesome as it sounds heroic.
the path of virtue was never laid out for matt murdock. if he thinks that maybe - maybe this is his purpose, that this is why everything happened - is it worse than believing he’s a hero?
under the pad of his thumb, the rushing of blood, the swelling of a bruise, the small scratches on his knuckles.
from beyond the room, the sound of conversation. feet running across pavement, honking of cars, sirens. from beyond the room, hushed laughter and brief lapses of silence.
in his memories, there are vacant eyes. there are arms dropped to his sides, a man afraid of nothing. letting the devil out.
protecting hell’s kitchen, to him, was as much of a duty and burden as it was catharsis. on louder nights, he can try to guess if this was the same way his dad felt. battlin’ jack murdock, who always got back up.
battlin’ jack murdock, who let the devil out when he was boxing. jack murdock, who wanted him to use his head and not his hands.
he clenches his fists, listens to the straining of skin stretching across bone. he clenches his fists, reveling in the brief pain that flares blood closer to the surface of his skin.
matt murdock, who could have lived his life as a lawyer. who could have listened to the suffering of the people and done nothing. who went through it all for nothing.
could he live with himself if he knew he could have lived a normal life?
would he let himself?
his fists clench in prayer. not to ask for forgiveness, or to beg for penance, or some divine intervention to guide him.
he tries to think of something to say as his head tips back again.
an almost manic laughter bubbles from him when he realizes he has nothing he can apologize for. nothing he’ll apologize for that he won’t do again. because he knows that after this night, or the night after that, he’ll be out there again.
the devil of hell’s kitchen.
he closes his eyes, head tipped back rather than bowed forward. he lays his hands, curled fists into his lap, with only a brief kindness to spare himself only the smallest of pains.
matt murdock opens his eyes, staring vacantly up at the ceiling - or beyond it, to the sky - and drops his arms to his sides.
the man afraid of nothing.