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Sometimes you wonder if it is possible to feel something for a person you know nothing about, whom you’ve never met, whose name you do not know. And then you look out your window at the flat across from yours and think of the—rather handsome—man living in it and you know that the only answer is a resounding yes.
You’re not in love with him, this man who keeps ridiculously late hours, who goes through furniture at an alarming rate, who rarely turns on the lights, and hardly ever has any visitors. No, you are not in love with him but you have watched him go about his life for a few weeks now, long enough to develop something of a crush on him. A bit of an attachment even, and the nights when you sit up in your living room with a cup of tea, reading a book, and waiting for the sounds that signal his safe return, grow increasingly frequent.
That is what you are doing now—1:26 am last time you looked at the clock—in the middle of the night: you are curled up on your sofa, a cup of chamomile tea on the coffee table beside you, and The Complete Adventures of Sherlock Holmes, Volume 1 propped open in your lap. You haven’t read a word for the past ten minutes or so, your thoughts have been far too distracting.
Just as you wrench yourself out of your musings—mostly revolving around your mysterious neighbor—and look back to the book with a determined huff, you hear a noise in the flat across from yours. You cannot help your reaction: you sit up, and turn towards the window immediately.
You are greeted with a rare sight, the lights have gone on in the apartment and you think you see movement in the far corner of the kitchen. And then, all of a sudden—far too quick for you to be able to look away and pretend to be absorbed in your book—he is by his own window, and you think you’ve pretty much perfected the deer-in-the-headlights look.
He smiles, and gives you a wave, and you, flustered as you are, return his actions with rapidly reddening cheeks. You consider what to do next- certainly, your buildings are close enough that you can have a conversation if you speak just a little louder than normal. But you can feel your blush darkening and you decide that this is enough for one night- actual conversation can be saved for another time.
So you smile again in his general direction, too shy to actually meet his gaze and then you get up, turn off the lights, and retreat to your room- head swimming with the realization that this man who you have spent so much time thinking about has just acknowledged your presence in his life in so direct a manner.
And you allow yourself to consider the possibility that maybe, just maybe, he spends some of his time thinking about you too.
X
As it turns out, the events of that night had been a sign you had failed to read, a sign that things are going to start happening, things that will change almost everything about your life.
And so they do, the very next morning when you rush out of your building in a hurry, not particularly attentive to your surroundings and run straight into someone, dropping your keys and bag as a result.
“Oh god, I am so sorry. I wasn’t paying attention to where I was going,” you exclaim as you gather your stuff from the sidewalk, cursing yourself internally for your stupid mistake.
In the midst of your profuse apologies, you finally straighten up and catch a glimpse of the unfortunate person you had run into: and you stop mid- sentence. It is the man from the flat opposite yours, and within seconds of laying eyes on him, you are already more embarrassed than you had been last night. For all of a second, you stare at him, trying to wrap your head around the fact that he is blind and god, you are so stupid. And then you snap out of it, telling yourself that he must have heard you moving in your apartment- yes, that is the only possible explanation for him actually smiling and waving at you.
“That’s alright, no harm done,” he smiles at you as he says this, a smile that is only more striking now that you are actually standing face to face with him.
“Right,” you begin, unable to quite regain your composure, and he saves you the trouble of fumbling through more words.
“Do we know each other?”
“Uh, I kind of live in the flat across from yours.” You give yourself a mental pat on the back for actually stringing together a sentence.
“Oh, hey. It’s nice to finally meet you,” he sticks out his hand in your general direction, “I’m Matt.”
“I’m ___. It’s nice to meet you too,” you say, shaking his hand—it is rough but warm—and ignoring the slight shiver that passes down your spine.
A silence that is only slightly awkward reigns for a few moments after you drop his hand, and then you realize with a start that you are already running late for work.
“You need to be somewhere, don’t you?” he asks, as if on cue, startling you yet again- how on earth had he known that?
“Yeah, I’m running late for work,” you say with a shrug, “Sorry.”
You don’t what you’re apologizing for- your shrug that you should have known was not an acceptable method of communicating, or the fact that you have to leave, probably a combination of both.
“It’s fine. I’ll see you around ___.” He smiles yet again and you can practically feel yourself melting.
“Soon, hopefully,” you reply, blushing as soon as you realize what you have said and chuckling a little in an attempt to cover it up. You decide that you really need to leave before you make things worse and so you give a little half- wave of farewell—that you stop before it can become an actual wave and yet he returns it, a fact that doesn’t strike you until much later.
And when you do realize it, you rationalize- Matt did not know that you waved, he just decided to wave on his own.
X
You do run into Matt increasingly often as the days pass, and every time the two of you talk for a little longer until finally one day about two weeks after your first proper meeting you ask him out on a date. Your heart had felt like it was going to burst out of your chest and you had been hoping with everything you have that you hadn’t read the signs wrong and that he is actually interested in you.
Needless to say, your nerves had been wasted- he had accepted with another of the breathtaking smiles that you have come to adore.
And the exhilaration from that one conversation stays with you throughout the day- so much so that when you return to your apartment after work that evening you find yourself humming and moving about with a spring in your step. You wonder if Matt can hear you and the thought is almost sobering enough to make you stop but not quite. And your perseverance is rewarded because soon enough, you hear him pick up the tune.
Your smile is wide enough to make your cheeks ache, only you are too happy to care.
Then your front door is bashed in and all your cheerfulness is gone.
You are in the kitchen when it happens and for the first few seconds all you can do is crouch behind the counter and try to calm your breathing and come up with some kind of a plan. You listen carefully and make out two voices, one is gruff, the other as standard as they come, both rather heavily accented though you cannot tell what kind of accent it is.
They are here for you and they mean to do you harm, that much is clear from their words, though you cannot tell why. You reach upwards and slide open a drawer as quietly as you can, familiarity with the organization of your possessions serving you well as you wrap your fingers around the handle of a carving knife and retract your arm without hurting yourself. One of the voices draws closer to you, the other seems to be heading in the direction of the bedroom. You bide your time, waiting until the footsteps come nearer your hiding place and at the opportune moment you spring forwards and latch your arms around the man’s neck, holding a knife to his throat.
“Don’t you dare move an inch,” you hiss into the intruder’s ear as you hear a thud in your bedroom where the second man had gone. The one you’ve captured stays still enough and you listen as a series of grunts and moans issue from the bedroom.
But you’ve waited too long and the guy you’re holding captive decides that you’re not actually going to use the knife. He squirms, pushing back against you, attempting to turn, and the next thing you know, he has pushed you to the floor and he is reaching down towards you. You slash out wildly and he yells, and drops to the floor beside you, his thighs bleeding.
For a few seconds you can do nothing but stare and then the man shows signs of moving so you take a deep breath, and slam the handle of the knife into his head as hard as you can. He goes quiet at that and you scrabble backwards, still clutching your makeshift weapon and trying to stop yourself from hyperventilating.
Slowly, the noises issuing from your bedroom come back into focus- someone else is in there, you realize, and you wait with bated breath. And suddenly, there is a short yell, followed by the creaking of a window and a slightly muffled crash.
Minutes later, a figure dressed completely in black emerges from the room and you stop breathing for a bit as you recognize your savior- it is the man they call the devil of Hell’s Kitchen.
“___, are you alright?” your defender asks, moving towards you, and it is all you can do to give him a shaky nod in response.
Because in that moment, you feel the pieces of a puzzle that has been troubling your subconscious for days begin to come together. This man addresses you by name and speaks to you in a voice that is only too familiar.
But you are still thinking straight enough to know that you should deal with the body lying next to you first.
“I think I killed him,” you whisper, fingers clenching around the knife.
“No, he’s still breathing,” he tells you and you shudder; immediately, he starts speaking again, slowly moving towards you and kneeling down in front of you. One hand finds your cheek, turning your head away from the body next to you and towards him, and when you stop shaking, his other hand gently reaches down to yours and pries your fingers off the knife.
“Hey, ___, listen to me. Everything’s going to be fine.”
The knife falls to the floor silently, and he slowly puts his arms around you, drawing you to your feet and leading you towards your couch. Once there, he pushes you down gently, and placing his hands on your shoulders, squeezes reassuringly.
“Wait here. I’ll take care of this.”
You manage to nod and watch as he takes hold of the body and disappears out your door. Your eyes never once leave it though a quarter of an hour—or perhaps even more, you can’t really keep track—passes before he returns.
He shuts the door behind him, locks it, and walks straight towards you, stopping inches before you and you ask the question that you have been holding back.
“Matt?” You end up sounding incredulous, though you are fairly certain you already know the answer to your question.
He sighs, sounding almost defeated, and tugs off his mask, giving you your answer.
“I…I don’t understand,” is all you can get out when you finally manage to speak, mind whirring as you try to fit everything you know about Matt Murdock around this new discovery.
“I can explain ___, if you’ll let me,” he tells you, voice quiet, and you are certain he is looking straight at you. You nod—a short jerky movement that you realize he must be able to see, or if not see, feel, or something—and he sits down next to you, shoulders relaxing when you don’t move away from him. Had he actually thought you were scared of him?
He opens his mouth, about to speak, but you reach out with a newfound sense of confidence—perhaps it is the adrenaline?—and press a finger to his lips, silencing him.
“Wait, Matt. There’s something I need to say first,” you pause and it is his turn to give you a nod, “Thank you. You saved my life just now.”
“You’re welcome ___, but really- there’s no need to thank me,” he replies before taking one of your hands, and pressing it gently in what feels like gratitude when you don’t pull away. And then he begins to speak.
Accident with radioactive materials, world on fire, Russians, Wilson Fisk- it all comes spilling out and by the end of it all you don’t know quite what to say. So you lunge forwards and wrap your arms around him, and when he embraces you in return, it is as if a great weight has been lifted off your shoulders.
“You’re not going to ask me any questions?” his voice is quiet, still doubtful, and you press closer to him in response before speaking.
“They can wait. Everything can just.. wait.” You speak with conviction because you know that you cannot handle any more tonight, questioning Matt, and finding out the reasons behind the attack on you- those issues will still be there in the morning.
Matt seems to understand this.
“Okay,” he says, drawing you closer and moving back onto the couch until he is lying down with you almost draped across him, “Okay,” he repeats with one arm encircling your waist as he strokes your hair with the other hand, soothing you to sleep.