Work Text:
Your phone rings when you’re halfway through stuffing a bunch of files into your bag, intent on returning home as soon as you can. But one look at the screen tells you that this is not a call you can ignore.
‘Hi Foggy. How is he?’ you ask as soon as you pick up, not even bothering to disguise the fatigue in your voice.
‘We need to talk ___.’
The words are terse, clipped, and Foggy sounds angrier than you’ve ever known him to be, with the possible exception of the day when he’d discovered Matt’s biggest secret.
So you know you’ve got to go check on him—make sure he’s holding up fine—despite the fact that you’re too sick with worry to think straight, and all you want to do is go home to Matt. Because you imagine Foggy’s just as worried right now.
‘Um, sure. I’m just leaving work—heading home—I can meet you for a bit at that coffee shop near your office if you’d like.’
You cannot help the note of apprehension that leaks into your tone despite your best efforts. Once Foggy curtly agrees and hangs up, it only flares up, and by the time you enter the café it has grown into a gnawing ache in your stomach.
Foggy doesn’t smile when he sees you, nor does he bother to greet you when you plop into the seat opposite his at the corner table he has occupied.
“Is everything o-”
“No, everything is not okay,” Foggy whispers fiercely, cutting you off before you can finish your sentence, one finger poking the tabletop to emphasize his point, “He’s going to get himself killed, ___! We’ve got to stop him.”
You fall silent, unsure as to what to say, and after several minutes pass you manage to string together something that sounds acceptable- at least in your head.
“I’m sure he knows what he’s doing, Foggy.”
“How could you say that ___?! He’s your husband- I thought you’d agree with me.”
Your eyes widen in shock and you gasp, the thinly veiled accusation hitting you almost like a punch to the gut.
“I’m sorry, that came out wrong,” Foggy gasps immediately, looking as shocked as you feel, and sounding genuinely apologetic.
And yet, it is all you can do to push yourself to your feet, grabbing onto the edge of the table when your knees begin to shake. It takes you a minute to regain your balance, and Foggy’s apologies continue coming during that time.
“- so sorry, ___. I didn’t mean that. I was way out of line. I-”
You cut him off with a weak wave of the hand that isn’t clutching your bag.
“It’s alright, Foggy, really,” your voice sounds weak even to yourself, but you can’t find it in yourself to muster up anything more confident, “You were only trying to help. I know how much he means to you.”
Foggy looks visibly defeated, worn, and you wish you could say more, you wish you had the fortitude to stay and comfort him. But his words have only added to the already long list of doubts you harbor regarding the way you’ve chosen to handle Matt’s nocturnal occupation, and all you can think about is going home.
If only you could get home to Matt, everything would be okay.
“I, um, I have to go now…I’ll talk to you later, Foggy,” you tell him, barely hearing his protests through the sudden rushing in your ears. And the tears that begin to slide down your cheeks as you push open the door and step out into the warm evening breeze show no signs of stopping.
X
You take the stairs up to the flat you share with your husband as slowly as you can, determinedly scrubbing away at your tear-stained cheeks with the heel of your right hand.
Please be here, Matt. Please be okay.
By the time you reach your door, you’ve gotten rid of all visible evidence of your tears apart from the redness of your eyes. You know that Matt will probably figure it out anyway, though you cannot help but hope otherwise.
“Honey, I’m home,” you call out as soon as you let yourself in, surprising yourself by managing to pull off a teasing tone.
“Welcome home, sweetheart,” he returns, his amusement sounding like less of an act than yours.
You set down your bag on the bench in the corridor before making your way to the couch where he is sprawled out in his pajamas, and some small part of your panic is eased away as you note that he looks significantly better than he did in the morning. And you remind yourself that you owe Foggy for that—as you do for so much else—in an attempt to soothe the sting of your conversation: needless to say, it doesn’t work.
So you firmly push away all thoughts of that and find that Matt has pulled himself upright, waiting for you. So you sit down next to him, place a light kiss on his smiling lips, take his hand in yours, and ask him how he’s feeling.
“Not bad,” he tells you, and then his smile quirks into something mischievous, “and I’m sure I’ll start feeling even better now that you’re home, my dear.”
Normally, you would retaliate with a quip of your own, but today has been as far from normal as it could possibly get, and you feel almost numb. Only too soon, he catches on to the fact that something is very, very wrong.
“You’ve been crying,” his voice is soft, and yet he isn’t asking- no, he already knows.
There’s no use in denying it, you know that from experience, but oh how you wish that you didn’t have to talk about it, so you try to deflect.
“And you’re off your game,” you make an attempt at light-heartedness, really you do, but you know that he has heard the undercurrent of concern in your tone.
“Maybe,” he allows, a wry smirk flitting across his face, “but I’m not wrong now. What happened, ___?”
He sounds even more worried now, a sentiment that is reflected in the furrowing of his brows, the sudden tension in his posture.
You take a minute—maybe even more— to compose yourself, looking past him out the window into the fading light, and when you finally speak, you end up addressing your words to the billboard which has yet to light up.
“I,uh…I spoke to Foggy today, before coming home.”
The tension from earlier is nothing compared to the way his entire body stiffens at those words, his hands immediately clenching into bone-white fists that he makes an obvious effort of will to relax. And for several minutes the silence stretches between the pair of you, filled with a hitherto unknown pressure. Matt is undeniably on the defensive, and you can’t say that you blame him.
“I’m sure he had a lot to say,”
“Matt, it’s not like that,” you almost cry out, eyes flashing up to his face, sounding far more wounded than you’d like, “I’m not going to say that you should stop.”
He exhales sharply, turns towards you, let’s you watch him as your words sink in.
“You’re not?” he sounds almost tremulous, and you know that he is as vulnerable now as he’s ever been.
“I’ve never tried to stop you before, I’m not going to start now,” you pause, swallow, and continue, “and I won’t in the future either. I know you feel that you’ve got to do this.”
“That’s it?” he is still hesitant, still lingering in that state of uncertainty to which you are both almost complete strangers, “You’re not angry? You don’t think I’m suicidal, or selfish, or arrogant?”
“You could never be any of those things.”
“Then what am I, ___?”
Everything, you’re everything
“You are a good man, Matthew Murdock,” you tell him instead, “a brave man, exactly what this city needs, a man who fights for the things he believes in.”
Even as you finish speaking you are scared that you’ve fallen short, that your words will not be enough to pull him back from the brink, from the edge of the abyss of pain and self-doubt that he is teetering on.
Barely seconds later he proves your fears unfounded as he reaches out and pulls you into his arms. You slip your arms around him in turn, mindful of his bruises in a way that he never is. You are engulfed by his warmth, his lips ghost over your hair, his heartbeat thrums against your right temple.
And suddenly, Matt, just Matt, floods your senses, overloading them almost, and you let your eyes fall shut.
“I don’t deserve you ___,” he whispers finally, after several minutes pass, the words muffled because neither of you can find it in yourself to let the other go, “Why did you choose to love me? Why do you stay?”
You pull away—but only a little—open your eyes, and brush your lips over the line of his jaw, light, barely there, ignoring the almost rough scrape of the stubble lining it. And when you speak, your words are whispered into his skin.
“I stay because I believe in you. As for love,” you pause, draw a breath, exhale, and against your palms you feel the shiver that runs down his spine, “I have no explanation to give you Matt, there is none that could do my love justice.”
He kisses you so fiercely, so suddenly, that you gasp in surprise, allowing him full access to your mouth. He wastes no time, deepening the kiss, pressing you back into couch and covering your body with his own. You are lost, almost incapable of rational thought by the time he kisses his way down your neck, and his hands slip under your shirt.
“Matt, stop,” you manage to whisper, and immediately, he pulls away, letting your shirt drop back into place, but you keep your hold on him, stopping him from lifting himself off you, “you need to rest.”
He sighs, and you know what’s coming next, even as he rolls onto his side, still holding you in his arms.
“I…I have to go back out there ___, before the trail gets cold.”
There is something of a question to his words, as if he is awaiting your reaction.
“I know,” you admit with a sigh of your own, “and I know you need to visit Melvin to get your mask fixed. But you can’t go alone, Matt, not tonight.”
“___,” he begins, his tone carrying a warning, telling you to brace yourself for disappointment.
You cut him off before he can get any further.
“Just for tonight, let me watch your back. You know I’m good enough,” you speak as firmly as you can, with as much confidence as you can muster, because you are not willing to take no for an answer, not this time.
He remains silent, and you practically hear him arguing with himself, so clear are the conflicting emotions playing across his face.
“I’m not asking for this to be a regular thing. I’m not saying I’ll be by your side in every fight, but let me go with you tonight,” you ask again, softer this time, hoping to sway him, “Please, Matt.”
“Okay,” he says, letting out a long breath, “Okay, you can come with me. But just this once.”
“Yeah,” you reply, letting your eyes fall shut as you lean into him and press a kiss to his collarbone, “Okay.”
You remain tangled in each for a minute, then another, and then another still, before he sits up, tugging you with him.
“I love you ___,” he whispers, cupping your face in his hands, his breath playing over your lips, “Now come to bed. Apparently, I need to rest.”
You smile your first smile of the day—which in turn makes him grin— and let him take one of your hands, your fingers lacing together as you trail him into the bedroom.