Archive of Our Own

I

She wakes up abruptly. Her dead brother’s name is on her lips, her heart threatening to explode out of her chest through her ribcage and Matt’s warm hand on her leg. 

Karen comes back to herself, to the present, in phases of colour. The world stripped down from her nightmare into monochrome. A black icy road. The white of snow. The sound of tyres screeching and her brother’s shout. Her scream is white noise. His blood is black. 

First she registers the red of Matt’s glasses, circular lenses that are closer to her than she expected. She can see the faint outline of his eyes though them, concerned and worried.

She thinks she was screaming but she can’t be sure.

This nightmare is a familiar one, one Karen is well acquainted with. The shape of it lingers on her skin like frost on the sidewalk. Kevin. Too pure for this world, too pure for her. There are things about it she will never forget, and some things she has forgotten already. The feel of the brake under her foot as she slams it down is ingrained in her mind, the bite of the cold outside, the feel of blood on her face. But the colour of Kevin’s eyes grows hazy. Brown or blue or something almost golden. His kindness, the way he tried to protect her when she didn’t deserve it. Karen thinks about that conversation so many times it becomes a blur, the words changing slightly each time.

The ghost of a conversation. The ghost of life. The ghost of her brother.

The sky outside the window is the blue of a bruise, dark and vivid. It’s late. Far too late to still be at the office but this case has consumed her, so Foggy and Matt had let it consume them as well. For her. Because they didn’t want her to walk this path alone.

And maybe that’s why she is having nightmares about Kevin again.

Maybe that’s why her guilt is a shadow that never leaves her side.

“Karen?”

Matt’s voice is soft, his thumb stroking her leg over her trousers in a rhythm that is meant to be comforting. She wants to shy away from it, tell him she doesn’t deserve it.

Her breath rattles through her, lungs aching with the effort as she moves to swing her legs over the side of the couch in Foggy’s office. Her legs tangle in Matt’s suit jacket, which has been thrown over her like a blanket. Karen doesn’t remember falling asleep with it.

The clock on the wall of Foggy’s office reads 1:23am. Around her the world lurches, like she is pushing 90mph on an icy road.

“Matt?” She croaks out, feeling his hand on her back as he crouches in front of her, tracking her movements without seeing her.

He looks tired, wrecked honestly and Karen knows she doesn’t look any better. But she stayed to work on their case so Matt had stayed with her, ever her protector.

“I’m here.” He offers softly, “You were having a nightmare.”

She winces, dry throat cracking like splintered glass. She didn’t want him to see this. To see her like this.

Broken and damaged and so fucked up she is shaking. The scars of her soul, the things she can’t escape. She knows Matt is sensing it all, cataloguing it in his mind like she’s braille he can run his fingers over.

His hand stays on her back.

Karen thinks that’s the worst part.

A mercy she craves and doesn’t deserve.

“Where’s Foggy?” She asks because this is his office and she has taken it over in her stolen few hours of sleep.

“I sent him home to shower.” Matt replies, “It was getting questionable in here.”

She hadn’t thought about that, how stale she must smell to him. Her checkered trousers and blue blouse have been worn for the last two days, her breath probably smells of the cold coffee she drank at around eight to keep her awake a little while longer.

As if he can sense her worry, he quickly changes the subject, “What were you dreaming about?”

The gray of his suit jacket filters in next, the threads in the dim light of the office making it look like several different shades when in reality she knows it’s just one. 

She knew he would ask, was afraid of it. 

Sometimes Karen thinks offering Matt her bloody, beating heart would be easier than trying to explain the stains on it or the pain inside of it.

“Kevin.” The word reverberates through her like a gunshot.

Matt’s face softens, his shoulders slumping as if he is powerless in the face of her answer. He looks so large crouched before her, those wide shoulders straining against his white shirt. His stubble is a little darker too, a little longer thanks to all the hours at the office.

He knows, of course, even Foggy does now thanks to this case but that trauma takes a certain weight that Karen doesn’t think anyone will truly get but her. She is Atlas, holding up the sky alone while she buckles under it. 

“This case…” He starts, sighs and tries again, “It’s not the same.”

Her eyes squeeze shut. She knows that, she does. She has been telling herself that for days to try and keep herself objective but it tastes bitter in her mouth.

Jacob Larson was eighteen, he played football for his college team and had asthma and a massive collection of black and white movies that his mother affectionately referred to as his thing. He was also dead. Killed by a drunk driver on his way home for the weekend in a head on collision. A stupid mistake. That’s all it cost for his life.

When his mother, Dora, came to Nelson and Murdock because she couldn’t afford anyone else, Karen had begged them to take the case. The driver was pleading not guilty to murder and the DA was going to push for a manslaughter charge with an alcohol recovery program rather than jail time. Foggy had agreed immediately. Matt was too worried about her to cast a vote.

But he eventually agreed as well because this is what they do. 

And Karen had punished herself with the grisly facts since. She had walked the crash site for hours looking for evidence. She accompanied Matt to visit the driver, Baxter Rowe, and looked him in the eye as he insisted it was an accident. That it was Jacob’s fault. Matt knew he was lying.

In another life, that would have been Karen. Drunk and high and stupid, her brother’s blood on her hands.

So, Kevin was haunting her. It was his right. 

Except Karen wasn’t sure how to separate them out anymore. Kevin Page and Jacob Larson. Lost boys who never came home.

She was to blame for one of them.

Maybe putting Rowe behind bars will help make peace with the other.

“Maybe it’s not the same.” She bites out, “But there are enough similarities.”

Her fingers play with the button on his jacket in her lap as Matt takes the seat next to her, the couch cushions tilting under his weight. 

Karen refuses to look at him.

“It was an accident, Karen.” He tells her softly, “You were trying to get him away from a bad situation.”

“That I caused.”

Matt’s hand slides from her back at her words, “You can’t control other people’s reactions.”

“I shouldn’t have been driving.”

“No.” He agrees, “But if you hadn’t then you could have died or Kevin could have. Not a car but something else. You were trying to protect him.”

She swallows the shards of glass in her throat, “It should have been me.”

“Please don’t say that.”

Matt shifts on the couch, one hand stilling hers on the button of his jacket, “I hate myself for it. My dad hated me for it.”

“So we send Rowe to jail then what?”

She shudders, “I don’t know.”

“Does this put it to rest?” His voice is gravel and whiskey, “Does it mean you let it go?”

“Of course not.” 

Matt’s fingers squeeze her hand, they slip between the spaces of hers with a familiarity he shouldn’t have when they are just friends but Karen’s nails dig into his skin anyway and he lets her.

Her guilt is a black hole, a darkness that devours. Karen can’t escape it, can’t hide from it. If it swallows her whole she wonders if it will stop the hurt.

“The bible is big on redemption and forgiveness.” Matt tells her, “One of the first things they teach you? You have to forgive yourself first.”

She shakes her head, “I don’t know how.”

“I’m not a priest but if it helps, I forgive you for it.” Matt replies, “It has never made me think any less of you.”

“It should.”

“Karen, you took that tragedy and changed your whole life because of it. That’s redemption. That’s more than I have ever been able to do. You left with nothing and made something of yourself. You dedicated your life to helping people, to making the world better. I didn’t know Kevin but I think that’s what he would have wanted for you.”

A tear slips down her cheek without her permission, another soon following. 

She watches it fall onto his jacket, turning the gray darker, “I didn’t fall asleep with this.”

As if he can hear the rustle of the fabric he responds, “You were cold.”

That small kindness makes the tears come faster, silent and continuous until her nose is blocked and her eyes hurt.

It’s been a rough forty-eight hours. All of them are suffering. 

“I need to see this case through, Matt. I can’t explain it but I need to.” She tells him, voice thick.

“Then that’s what we’ll do.” He replies, “But you need to do something for me in return.”

“What?”

“Work on forgiving yourself.”

Her laugh is a bitter thing in her chest in the dark, “You work on commission?” 

“I’m serious. I know it’s not easy, I struggle with it everyday, but I don’t think we can move forward without it.”

It’s the first time she has realised his hand is gripping hers just as tightly, “I think I want to visit his grave. After this case.”

It’s not an answer or even a logical step but it’s a start.

And right now, it’s all she has.

Matt’s thumb strokes her hand, “I could come with you.”

“I’m not sure I’m ready for that.”

The idea of Matt in Fagan Corners, Matt with his bruises and his new openness. Matt, who has never left Hell’s Kitchen, who offered so quickly to go with her. 

One step at a time, she thinks, and that would be a leap.

He understands, still stroking her skin softly, “I could just say here instead, keep you company tonight. We don’t have to talk. Just let me be here for you. Let me comfort you this way.”

Her heart clenches, the black hole in her chest stops expanding, “Okay.”

“You’ll get there, Karen. You’re the strongest person I know.”

The clock slides to 1:29am, the dark blue filtering in through the window as they sit in the dim light of the early morning. 

Outside, the Larson case files are scattered on the conference table. The coffee pot on the side is empty and there are several phone calls waiting for her when office hours start.

Her nightmare doesn’t fade but it does ease, like Matt is a painkiller taking the edge off. Karen thinks about her brother, about whether he would like the man next to her, whether he would think she should give him another chance.

A hot-shot lawyer, really?

“Matt?” She asks softly, almost afraid of the vulnerability in her own voice.

“Yeah?”

“Don’t let go of my hand.”

He doesn’t. He holds it all night, fingers laced together, palms pressed tightly. Even when the sun comes back and Karen’s fingers are white with her grip. Even when Foggy comes back with three coffees and a duffel bag of clothes like he doesn’t plan to leave until she does.

Matt holds her hand and Karen anchors herself to it, not quite forgiveness but something that isn’t guilt.

A start. 

II

The flood wasn’t her fault but Tina from the apartment above hers definitely hated her so Karen can’t be certain it wasn’t a little vindictive on her part. 

She doesn’t know what she has ever done to Tina but she is always lingering whenever Foggy or Matt appear at her door and Karen has eyes so she knows Tina is checking out Matt’s ass every damn time from the slats in the banister on the stairs. She is pretty sure Matt knows it as well if the grimace on his face when he comes in is any indication.

So, when water starts trickling from her ceiling where the light fixing is in a steady stream that is determined to ruin Karen’s day, she calls her landlord then she calls Matt.

Because if Tina is trying to get revenge on her for something then it’s partly his fault and she is too wired to deal with it.

Her landlord is an ancient man called Dev, with a comb-over and a beer belly and a permanent smell of crayons which Karen really doesn’t want to know about. He takes one look at her apartment then goes to Tina’s before delivering the grim news. Structural integrity issues, building work, a team of guys.

In short, she needs to move out for at least a week so they can get to work.

Which is how she ends up staying at Matt’s place for a week, throwing Tina a smug look when he carries her bag out of the apartment while Karen locks up just in case this was some kind of vendetta.

Karen 1. Tina 0.

Matt places a hand on her back as she guides him down the stairs as if he is thinking the same thing. Despite the fact she is apprehensive of accepting Matt’s offer of letting her crash with him, she can’t help but feel a little smug when she sees Tina’s glare as they leave. 

As it turns out, sharing space with Matt for a week is equally the easiest and hardest thing Karen has ever done.

He is the perfect host. Insists on giving her the bed while he takes the couch, using the same argument he used when she last stayed over and adding on the point about his nightly activities meaning he sleeps less than she does anyway. He also stocks her favourite foods in the fridge, an impressive feat when Karen wasn’t aware Matt even knew what they were.

And it’s all so achingly domesticated that she feels a bubble of bitterness at the ease of it.

The way he brings her coffee in the morning on his way to the shower. The fact he is always quiet coming in at night so he doesn't wake her and the routine they slip into each night where Matt cooks dinner (because Karen is a health and safety risk in the kitchen) while she keeps him company, chatting about anything and everything as she watches him work. Honestly, the way that man dices vegetables unlocks a turn on in her that Karen could never see coming but with his sleeves rolls up and the veins in his forearms popping as the knife hits the chopping board lightning fast, she finds she sacrifices more than one pair of underwear to their innocent routine. God, she hopes Matt doesn’t notice.

What makes it hard isn’t just how quickly they acclimatise to each other or how easy it is. It’s the fact that Karen realises on day three of her stay that she still has feelings for him. 

And of course, she knew that. She just thought she had gotten to a place where she had locked them away tightly so they weren’t a factor anymore.

But well, a few glimpses of Matt Murdock in black boxer briefs and his rough sleep voice in the mornings and she’s back to being hopeless.

So, as much as she shouldn’t, she looks forward to the nights when he leaves early to protect the city and she’s in bed by the time he gets back because it allows her to breathe without overthinking what he can hear from her.

Matt’s senses need to come with some kind of disclaimer.

Maybe she should write one.

That night, she falls asleep quickly. The case they are working on is tiring and she keeps hitting dead ends but she isn’t expecting a nightmare to find her.

It comes in fragments, snippets and flashes of memory.

That’s enough.

The feel of a gun in her hand.

The fear at the threat to her life, to her family and Matt and Foggy.

The blood that blooms against a white shirt.

The frantic way she scrubs at the table with her sleeve to wipe off her fingerprints.

The smell of the warehouse. Ink and chemicals and musk.

Wesley’s body, lifeless in the chair.

The gun heavy in her hand.

“Karen!”

She bolts upright like she has been shocked, legs shaking as she throws them over the side of the mattress to feel solid wood beneath her feet.

Matt is there. Of course he is. He is perched on the edge of the mattress, a pair of gray sweatpants and an expanse of smooth chest.

Karen’s chest feels tight.

Her breath isn’t coming.

She panics, hands wildly trying to grasp the sheets or the mattress or anything to ground herself.

His hand grabs hers, “Karen, breathe for me. I’m here. You’re okay, just breathe.”

She can’t.

Her lungs aren’t working. Her chest is caving in.

Her throat closes up and oh god, is she suffocating?

Matt guides her hand to his chest, palm pressed tightly against warm skin, “With me.”

She can feel the thrum of his heart against her fingers, sees the worry in his face when her vision swarms back into focus.

She heaves out a breath.

Matt’s hand is still on hers, “Again.”

She obeys, forcing air into her lungs and then expelling it again. Calming when she finds she can do it, her body cooperating under his instruction.

“Shit.” She wheezes out.

“Stay focused on me.” He replies, two fingers tapping the back of her hand in the rhythm of his heartbeat so she can follow it more easily. Karen draws in another breath, releases it. Does it again.

Matt smiles.

“Good.”

She is still shaking but her chest loosens a little at the praise. She continues to match his pace, exaggerated breathing that makes her feel foolish.

Eventually she feels a little more solid.

“Wesley.” She tells him softly before he can ask, “It happens a lot.”

His brow burrows, “Panic attacks?”

“Sometimes.”

“Jesus, Karen.”

Her hand slips from his skin, landing back in her lap to fiddle with the drawstring of her pyjama bottoms. They are blue with little cats on them, a ridiculous thing to be wearing when he looks like that in a pair of sweatpants.

“I’m sorry I woke you.” She offers weakly, her eyes catching sight of the litany of bruises dotting along his ribs like splatter art.

Another night he has spent bleeding for this city, hurting for it. Karen wishes she could hurt it back, just a little. Give him some peace. 

“I don’t care about that.” He says, “I care that you’ve been dealing with this alone.”

Her throat is dry and she winces when she tries to swallow, “It’s just when I wake up, once I figure out where I am it’s okay. Being here isn’t what I’m used to so it looked worse.”

“You’re still shaking.” He points out.

“It will stop.”

Eventually. Sometimes it takes hours. Sometimes she has to sit in the cold porcelain of her bathtub to ground herself, no water, just the frigid curves against her skin until her panic recedes.

Sometimes she feels unmoored, adrift, cracked. Her heart keeps getting faster and faster as the cold porcelain settles into her bones like a disease. 

Matt’s hand is rubbing her arm now, her back, like he is trying to inject warmth into her skin, “What do you need?”

And her heart aches because that question is one she has never been asked before. She doesn’t know. Never had anyone witness her like this before.

“To get away from this bed.” She bites out, knows she won’t be getting any more sleep tonight. She never does when Wesley haunts her.

Matt’s face softens, “How about a distraction?”

“Like a bedtime story?” She means it as a joke but she isn’t there yet and her delivery is off.

He gets to his feet, one hand outstretched for her to take, “Something a little more grounding.”

The idea is appealing and Matt’s voice is a balm to her shaky soul so Karen reaches for his hand, wrapping her fingers around his as he hauls her to her feet and out into the living room that looks purple thanks to the billboard outside displaying an ad for juice.

Once she is standing in the center of the room, he lets her go. Karen hovers awkwardly, her cat pajama bottoms distorted by the light as Matt fiddles over by the record player. His back is an impressive expanse of bruises and muscle, a purple sheen coating it as he drops the needle. Karen is baffled at how someone can look so large but be so trim at the same time. In another life he would have made one hell of an acrobat.

Music filters into the space. A song Karen knows by the soft chords alone. 

“It helps me when I have a nightmare.” He shrugs as if the statement isn’t important. As if he isn’t.

Karen has a million questions on her tongue, wants to know the shape of his fears and the way his demons haunt him but Matt’s face is soft and she doesn’t want to ruin that look.

Not when it’s so rare to see it.

So, she smiles instead.

“I don’t think I can pick up the vibrations in the sound like you can.” She tells him as he makes his way back to her, sweatpants low on his hips.

Matt had told her once that was why he preferred records to anything else when it came to music. With his senses, the cleaner sound meant he could feel the music in a way most people can’t. When Karen had asked what it felt like, he told her it was like vibrations in the air, against his skin. 

She had desperately wanted to experience it as well.

His hand finds hers again, “We’re dancing.”

She startles, numbly letting Matt guide her hand to his shoulder. The warm skin beneath her fingers. He pulls her closer, gone is the way they normally act around each other. The almost touches before they think better of it, the uncertainty of where the lines are now.

“You dance?”

Matt’s grin is devilish as he places his hands on her, swaying them gently in place so she can get a feel for it, “A blind man can dance.”

“I just didn’t imagine Daredevil as the type.”

But Matt is good at it, the confidence of the steps as he leads. The ear he has for the music so their dance matches up without even trying. 

It feels nice.

Dancing with him.

It might be rapidly becoming one of her favourite things.

It’s stupidly late and the nightmare is still on her mind but Matt’s large hands are on her, his body so close Karen cannot deny she isn’t alone. Her own hands are still on his skin, almost afraid to touch him.

And as if Matt can tell she needs to loosen up, he spins her.

It’s sudden and ridiculous. Karen doesn’t have the balance so Matt overcompensates for it. He spins her outwards and the laugh that escapes her is surprise. Then he pulls her back in just as quickly, her head a little dizzy. From him or the spin, she isn’t sure.

But it works.

When she is pulled back to him again, she melts. Trusts Matt to have her. Trusts him period.

She wonders if he can sense it, the shift in her. He must because he holds her tighter this time, and Karen tucks her arm behind his back, clinging to his skin in a way that blurs several lines.

“You’re dancing, Miss Page.” His smile is evident even if she can’t see his face because her chin is tucked against his shoulder.

“In cat pajamas." She muses.

“If it makes you feel any better, I can’t see them.” He reminds her, “But I’m sure they are adorable.”

God, she needs to put duct tape over his mouth because when he says things like that, things that put her at ease and set her on fire, Karen is sure her little crush is everything Frank once said it was.

You love him.

She pulls back a little, wondering if it’s his skin that’s intoxicating when it isn’t covered in blood and hoping for more clarity. 

But that puts her face close to his as they dance and this is worse. Much worse.

Matt spins her again, catching her off-guard and Karen, she is spins out.

She can’t have feelings for Matt, not like this, not aloud and in his arms.

They agreed.

She fucking drew battle lines.

“Stop thinking.” He tells her, pulling her back to him, “All your senses are in overdrive.”

Her stupid body is waging a war on her at his mere proximity. Overdrive doesn’t begin to cover it.

Somewhere her mind tells her she is literally dancing with the devil, a metaphor for this relationship if she ever heard one. 

“Sorry.” She utters, and doesn't offer anything more.

Matt, to his credit, doesn’t ask.

One song becomes two then three then four. Most of the time, Matt just holds her close, only throwing in a spin or twirl when he seems to think she needs the extra distraction.

And Karen lets him, lets him hold her a little too closely. Lets his lips brush her ear when he pulls her back in. His fingers find the small gap between her trousers and her vest and she lets him do that as well.

Dancing with the devil. Dancing with Matt Murdock. It makes her ache. Makes her feel like she has been asked to pilot a rocket into outer space when she doesn’t even have a college degree. Simply put, Karen is so unqualified it’s laughable. But Matt is soft with her, so open and the things Karen wants could fill the pages in a bookstore.

Eventually, the album ends and she is swaying on her feet from exhaustion rather than the dance but is also reluctant to let him go.

Her protector.

Chasing her nightmares away with bruises and a dance.

Shit, she still loves him.

“You’re about to drop.” Matt remarks softly, probably feeling how heavy she is in his arms.

Karen hums, “Tired.”

“Come on, I’ll walk you back to the bedroom.” 

And he does, one arm around her back like he doesn’t want to part from her either.

But the second she sees the bed, tangled sheets from where she escaped them, Karen feels the panic set in.

“Matt, I don’t think…” She stops, trails off and hopes he can fill in the blanks.

“It was just a dream, Karen.” He tells her softly, “He can’t hurt you. Or anyone else.”

Logically, she knows that. But the idea of trying to sleep when those memories are still fresh in her head feels like torture.

“I’m not even that tired, I might do some more work on the Nakaro case.” She is pulling out of his arms, stubbornness setting her spine to lead.

Matt’s hand finds hers instead, “You’re exhausted.”

“I just can’t…”

“What if I stayed?” He asks, “Until you fall asleep?”

She knows he will read an essay in the way her heart picks up speed. The idea of sharing the bed with him, of having Matt lie there next to her, all that skin and warmth.

Her feet sway, “I don’t know if that’s a good idea.”

“Will it help?”

She sighs, squeezes his hand, “Maybe.”

“Then let’s try it.”

So, she climbs into his bed, tries to remember it’s not a prison and watches in the dim light as Matt makes his way to the other side.

The bed dips when he gets in, settling on his back with the sheets pulled up to his stomach.

Karen turns to face him, getting comfortable on her side to study the profile of him. He is beautiful in the dim light, like a sepia photograph. He is miles of skin she wants to kiss, measured breathing she wants to ruin, raw strength she wants to test.

“You have to close your eyes for this to work.” He points out a little cheekily.

She tucks her legs up close, her arms against her chest, trying to make herself as small as possible beneath the sheets in the hopes it helps.

“Okay.” She replies. 

It takes effort to close her eyes, to trust the dark. She isn’t tired. She’s far too afraid for that.

Her nightmare still lingers at her sharp edges, the tight corners of her mind. That night had made a graveyard of her, caskets of pain and regret and fear that find their way to the surface no matter how much soil she pours on top. 

The dead don’t stay there, not even when she is with Matt. 

“If I could find a way to take this from you and bear it instead, I would.”

Karen’s eyes snap open again, focusing on his side profile in the dimness of his bedroom.

Matt hasn’t moved an inch but said it with such conviction that Karen feels it inside her chest. A wildflower blooming after an earthquake.

“I wouldn’t ask that of you.” She replies softly.

“I know.”

“And it’s not your job. To get me through the night.”

His sigh is deafening in the silence, “I know.”

“So stop trying to fix it, Matt.”

“Is it so hard to believe that I care about you?” His voice is gravel, “That I want to fix it because I hate how scared you are?”

“Maybe.”

His chest expands in her line of vision.

“No, that’s not it.” He muses softly, “It’s hard to admit you want that. Someone to take care of you.”

Karen snorts, “What are we in the 1950s?”

“I don’t mean it like that. I mean you want someone to share the load, to understand it, to catch you when you’re exhausted and scared and fed up. And maybe you’re telling yourself it’s crap, that you don’t need anyone, but your heart is telling me something else.”

“Is this you volunteering?”

“What if I was?”

She feels impossibly cold despite the heat his body is radiating and for the first time in years, she is starting to question if Matt still has feelings for her as well.

If all this time and distance has just made them softer.

“Maybe someone would be nice.” She tests, “But we agreed it wouldn’t be you.”

It feels like a lance through her stomach. Through his. She doesn’t say it to be cruel, just honest. Because she isn’t sure Matt is ready for any kind of relationship, especially one where he can’t hide and Karen is terrified of it.

He hums gently, “We did.”

And just like that, the moment passes. Snow landing on a wet pavement and dissolving in seconds. Karen is sure they wouldn’t have gotten this far if she wasn’t sleep deprived and he wasn’t worried. Too many walls coming down, too many fears bubbling up through the cracks.

Because Matt Murdock bleeds for his city. Karen doesn’t want him to bleed for her too.

She tries to settle, to get her muscles to cooperate and wonders if she pretends to sleep whether Matt will give her that lie. To save them both. 

But sleep doesn’t come, the cold doesn’t go away and somewhere outside the window, a hint of orange is lightening the dark sky.

“Karen, you’re still tense.” His voice surprises her, the vulnerability in it reminds her of the time she held his bleeding body in her arms and begged him not to die. “Can I… Can I hold you?”

Her heart stutters. Her whole body does really.

And it’s stupid and reckless. 

But some part of her brain is telling her Matt held her for an hour whilst they danced and despite everything, she can’t deny his presence soothes her in a way it really shouldn’t.

“Just for tonight?” She asks, as if making terms of a deal in the voice of a child.

Bartering with the devil now, she really is made for him, huh?

Matt’s arm is already stretching out above her head, “As long as you’ll let me.”

Tonight.

She will let him for tonight.

Karen shuffles across the mattress, her hand finding his chest and that warmth she craves. God, he is so warm. Matt tucks her in closer, one arm around her back as Karen shoves her cold toes against his calf, the material of his sweatpants bunched up. He jumps in surprise, his grin curving against her temple as he relaxes.

“I can turn the thermostat up.” He offers.

“No need.” She replies as she nuzzles closer, “This works.”

And it does because the scent of his skin is clean and fresh, his arm grounds her better than anything else she has tried and his breathing helps hers sync up without a second thought.

Matt places a kiss against her forehead, forgetting himself for a moment and Karen lets him. 

Wants him to do it again.

When she does eventually fall asleep, it’s anchored to Matt like a ship and it’s mooring. Sliding into the darkness with the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen by her side.

And in the morning, when Karen pulls herself away from the best sleep she has had in months, she lets her overthinking stall because Matt Murdock is a cuddler. Somehow in those hours before dawn, when they found comfort in this one thing, Matt had managed to crush Karen underneath him like he could protect her from the world and her nightmares with his body.

So, while she is trapped and helpless because he weighs more than his lithe frame gives away, she finds she doesn’t mind Matt holding her. Not when she gets to hold him right back. 

III

Trials make them all nervous. 

It’s the intensity, Karen thinks, the endless hours that culminate in the fate of a life. 

It’s different for Daredevil, he holds more power but when Matt and Foggy are held at the whims of a jury, it makes them both tense.

So, practice becomes something of a tradition. Mock trials, taken from their days in law school to Landman and Zack and now to Nelson, Murdock and Page.

Honestly, Karen loves watching them like this. The way they bounce off each other, their friendship as bright as a summer day and as neon as a billboard. This is Nelson and Murdock at their very best and she, by some miracle, gets a front row seat.

They are representing Helen Dawes, on trial for the murder of her husband. Matt and Foggy are arguing self-defense because Eric Dawes was a piece of shit who liked to hit his wife and if she hadn’t hit him over the head with a bust of Saint Michael then he would have killed her.

Matt delivers opening remarks, Foggy closing. 

But this case matters, they all do, and Karen is in awe of how seriously they take it. How much it means. 

Which is why they are all at Matt’s place on a Sunday night gone eleven, containers of Thai food scattered on the coffee table and several empty beer bottles littering the floor.

She will never get over this, the three of them. That fate or the universe (or God if she asks Matt) brought them together and made them a family. Everything feels right when it’s the three of them against the world. Even in Hell’s Kitchen where so very few things feel right. 

Karen is curled up on the couch, yellow legal pad in her lap as she jots down questions and theories that will help them firm up their case. She’s in jeans today, casual and relaxed. A soft blue sweater over them. Yet, there is nowhere else she would rather be. 

Matt is on one side of the room in front of her, Foggy on the other. The obnoxious billboard outside his apartment painting them in shades of blue from a toothpaste advert.

“This isn’t about murder. This is about survival. How many of you good men and women of the jury could say they wouldn’t have done the same? To protect their life. To save it. Mrs Dawes shouldn’t be punished for a split second decision where she wanted to live. Because that was her intention. Not to kill. To survive.” 

Karen gets chills as Matt finishes, his voice strong and passionate in the way he always gets when defending the innocent.

He is in sweatpants and a t-shirt. Soft. At ease. 

It might be her favourite version of him.

Foggy has also dressed for comfort, a cable knit sweater engulfs his frame. His socks are black and purple stripes, something that is so Foggy it makes her smile when she catches sight of them. 

“I don’t want to follow that.” Foggy remarks, taking a sip of his beer, “We have this in the bag, Matt.”

“We need to run through our questions, practice counters from the prosecution. Karen?”

She is on her feet, handing Foggy the pad with her messy handwriting scribbled on it, “There are a couple of obvious ones, I think you cover a lot of it with your clarifying questions though.”

“Crime of passion angle.” He recites from her list.

It strikes Karen sometimes, the way she belongs with them, the way she fits. Ripped pieces, spilled ink and yet, with Matt and Foggy, she still feels whole. As if they are a trilogy rather than a standalone.

“The prosecution would be really grasping at straws. We play up the history of violent behaviour from the husband. Neighbour testimonies confirm the frequent fights.”

“And hospital records document Helen’s injuries well enough. No one falls down the stairs in a one floor apartment that often.” Foggy agrees, “Next one, Jesus Karen, your handwriting, revenge?”

She elbows him in the ribs as she bends to retrieve her own beer, “I was a reporter. I do short hand.”

Matt’s smile shines brighter than the billboard, “She was leaving him. If she wanted revenge she would have taken it. She wanted to run. She feared for her life. We have the bus ticket she brought, the cash she borrowed off her sister.”

“Plus she’s a kindergarten teacher. Hardly the type to plot murder.” Karen muses softly.

Matt tilts his head in her direction, “Character angle. Nice.”

They stick at it out hours, firing questions and angles back and forth. Foggy runs through his closing statement, human and poignant and speaks to the injustice of people in domestic abuse situations. 

Then they do it again. 

Matt isn’t willing to take a loss on this one. Not after hearing Helen Dawes’ heartbeat that spoke of her innocence. Karen and Foggy aren’t either. 

It’s well into the morning by the time they give into sleep. The apartment is still a mess of takeout containers and empty beer bottles, legal papers scattered around like confetti. A stray pillow was abandoned by the window when Foggy threw it at Matt for catching him out on the last question. 

Both of them insist she take the couch, and Karen just raises an eyebrow at Matt when he curls up in the seat opposite, head thrown back like he intends to sleep there. Foggy has less grace, making himself a nest of blankets by the window, that abandoned pillow coming in handy, fully covered from head to toe to block out the light of the billboard.

Karen hopes they can get some precious hours before they need to reconvene at the courthouse for the start of the trial.

In truth, she only gets about two.

When she jolts awake, it’s still dark outside and Fisk’s voice is in her ear telling her they will fail.

Her nightmares about Fisk are always the same. He taunts her. Sows seeds of doubt into her head until Karen wants to claw at her own skin. She doesn’t tell Matt or Foggy about it, doesn’t want to give Fisk that kind of power over her.

It’s not the type of sudden nightmare where she wakes gasping. Not the type that lingers in feelings of dread for the rest of the day. It’s a punch to the gut, quick and fast and then gone. 

But her skin feels hot and clammy when she wakes, Foggy’s soft snores filtering in through her ears as she sits up. Matt’s head is tilted at an odd angle, chest rising and falling deeply. The billboard has changed, a sickly yellow this time which makes her wince at the brightness. She can smell the Thai food, aromatic and spicy in the air. Foggy loves the specialty noodles, proudly told her he handles spice better than Matt.

“I have heightened senses.” Matt protests weakly, but his smile is enough for Foggy to continue teasing him about it.

Karen doesn’t want to wake them so she climbs to her feet, padding up the stairs before slipping out the door onto the roof.

She just needs a minute to wallow, to think then let it go. Something she learnt from a grief counsellor after her mom died.

Allow yourself to feel it for five minutes, then you carry on.

She can see the whole city from up here, knows why Matt likes it so much. The gravel jabs at her feet as she makes her way to the edge, perching on the lower wall that braces the building. 

She allows herself those five minutes. Overthinks her fears until they grow wings in her chest. Then she rationalises. Reminders herself that Matt beat him. They beat him. This city beat him. 

This city, so alive even at this early hour like a heartbeat that doesn’t know how to quit. 

The air is cool and crisp, clinging to the back of her throat. The sky is the blue of the ocean, murky but getting lighter every minute. If she squints, Karen is sure she can see a hint of orange across the edges that tell her dawn is on the way.

The lights and the bustle of Hell’s Kitchen chase Fisk from her mind. Not his city. It calms her, she wonders if it’s the same for Matt. If he grounds himself in the reminder that Fisk tried to take all of this but failed. 

A breeze stings against her skin but she welcomes it, the roads below starting to pick up traffic and people and noise.

She exhales, lets Fisk go.

Letting her nightmare go.

Because Karen has been powerless so many times with Fisk that she refuses to ever be powerless again. Even to the version of him that lives in her mind. 

She isn’t expecting to be up there so long that her boys have to find her but she hears Matt and Foggy’s rumbling voices and knows they are here for her.

Maybe she’s been out here longer than five minutes after all.

Foggy drapes a blanket around her shoulders, tucking in the ends so she doesn’t lose it as he settles on her right, heaving himself down to the wall with a dramatic sigh.

“I really hate heights.” He grumbles.

Matt fills in on her left, swinging his legs over the side of the building like a show off, mug of coffee in hand. His shirt is still rumpled from sleep, hair a tousled mess on his head. Even his stubble looks darker this morning, something she should probably point out to him so he can smarten it up for court.

“What are you doing out here?” Matt asks softly, offering her his mug of coffee like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

Friends share coffee.

Karen takes it, her shoulder brushing against his. The smell hits her nose, deep and rich. Matt always has the best coffee, buys it from some place on the other side of The Kitchen where they import the beans in from Columbia. 

She takes a small sip, still warm and the perfect sweetness for her which is odd when he takes it black first thing in the morning. She can taste the hint of vanilla in the beans. He made it with oat milk, creamier than she would normally have it but Karen finds she likes it. 

“Couldn’t sleep.” She offers, fingers warm against the blue mug in her hands.

“The trial?” Foggy asks, determined not to look out over the city but back at the door to the loft, as if he knows that way lies safety.

Karen wants to tease him, knowing Matt would never let either of them fall. But heights are a perfectly rational fear, more rational than some of hers anyway.

“Fisk.” 

“You think this case is connected to Fisk?” She can hear the confusion in his voice and knows she has to come clean.

“I had a nightmare about Fisk.” Even the words sound pathetic, “It’s nothing. I just needed some air.”

She is embarrassed to tell them she realises. To be this vulnerable with them. Not because she thinks they would judge her because Karen knows they wouldn’t, but because she wants to be seen as someone who is strong and brave. Someone who can go toe to toe with Matt, who can reassure Foggy. 

Someone they don’t have to worry about. 

“I get them too.” Foggy replies quickly, nodding towards the city, “I get it.”

“I thought you hated heights?”

“This I don’t get.” He replies gesturing around them, “Fisk stalking my dreams, I absolutely do.”

“Me too.” Matt’s voice is soft, “After Ray I…”

She passes him back the mug, knows he is grateful for the distraction when he takes a sip of a coffee that is far too sweet for him.

Something warms her chest, a contentment, a belonging. 

Up on a rooftop in Hell’s Kitchen, she realises just how much they have all changed. The openness. The honesty. The vulnerable. They shared burdens as well as coffee and jokes now. She likes it. Knows Matt and Foggy do as well.

They reach for each other these days.

Or more accurate, Matt reaches for them and they reach back. 

Nelson and Murdock and Page. 

She imagines them tied together by an invisible string, fate guiding them to this moment, to each other. She wonders if that myth is just for lovers or whether it’s for soulmates of all kinds. Likes to think that the three of them are bound to each other in a way that defies logic or reason or explanation. 

“But today isn’t about Fisk.” She replies, tapping them both on the leg with either hand, “Today is about Helen Dawes.”

The sky bleeds orange now, the blue fading until it creates a tapestry before her eyes. The colours bleed together, a juxtaposition, day and night both.

It’s beautiful. The kind of breath-taking beauty Karen used to think didn’t exist outside of books or films.

Foggy whistles, “I’m starting to get it.”

“What?”

“The sunrise.” Karen tells Matt, “He’s looking at the sunrise.”

Matt’s smile is wide, tipping his head back like he can feel the sun better that way.

“It’s one hell of a view.” Foggy says in awe.

Matt’s shoulder bumps hers again, "Describe it to me?”

It’s weird she feels nervous to do so, wants to capture it perfectly for him. Wants Matt to have this the way she does, the way Foggy does.

But he trusts her to do it. He must do otherwise he wouldn’t ask.

And there is a vulnerability in that too, Karen knows, the way Matt asks. He admitted to her when they first met he missed it, would give anything to see the sky one more time. He is asking Karen for it now, asking her to capture it in her hands for him. She wants to give him the whole damn thing, every inch until Matt realises how loved he is. 

“It’s starting to turn orange, so it bleeds into the blue. The gray type of blue. Like someone has smudged wet paint.” She smiles, “It’s like a fight. The swirls of orange, taking over, gaining ground. But where they meet, it’s a colour I can’t even describe. Soft, delicate. Like veins through skin.”

Matt exhales, “Thank you.”

Karen tucks her head against his shoulder, slips an arm through his as she watches the sky change. His cheek finds her head, “We’re going to win today.”

Foggy hums, “Of course we are.” 

“Because it’s a pretty sunrise? Is that a good omen?” Matt jokes, steam from the coffee mug curling in the air near her face.

“Because we’re Nelson, Murdock and Page.” She replies, as if the answer is obvious, “Because this is what we do.” 

Foggy is smiling - beaming - and Karen wishes she could describe that for Matt as well.

“Exactly.” 

The wind picks up, not enough to disturb them but enough to pull them back to reality. They have a courthouse to get to, a case to win. She needs to go home and change first.

“Karen, your nightmare…” Matt asks softly, “You know I’d never let anything happen to you, right?”

Beside her, Foggy snorts, “Smooth, Murdock.”

Karen lifts her head from his shoulder, cuts Foggy a glare that holds no malice but tells him they will be having words about his comedic timing later. 

“Maybe I’m worried about you, Murdock.” She replies, tucking the blanket tighter around her body, “You look prettier without all the bruises.”

Foggy laughs, getting to his feet as his back clicks, “She does have a solid point.”

Matt’s frown is adorable.

“Come on, we have a case to win.” She gets to her feet next, holding out a hand for Matt to take even though he doesn’t need it.

He fits his fingers around hers without hesitation, always surprising her with how much he can detect even without his sight.  He lets Karen pull him up so they can make their trek back inside. He doesn’t spill a drop of coffee as he moves.

“Hey, did I ever tell you about the time Foggy got into a bar fight?” Matt calls out, “I have it on good authority he looks pretty dashing with bruises.”

“That was one time!”

“Good authority?” Karen quirks an eyebrow.

Matt leans into her side as Foggy holds the door open for them, “His mom.”

She laughs, loud and clear and any trace of her nightmare or Fisk becomes a distant memory.

IV

“Matt!”

Blood drips through her fingers while she holds him, thick and warm. His blood. Karen can feel it soaking through her shirt as she hauls Matt into her lap, not so much as a groan passing his lips.

Shit. Is he breathing?

“Matt, you have to wake up.” She is begging him now, the cross on the wall mocking her for her false faith, “Come on, Matt.”

She’s losing him.

He’s losing too much blood.

Deep red and thick and spreading.

No.

She can’t… not like this… not him.

“Matt!”

She screams it so loud God can probably hear her, but the Devil in her arms stays silent.

“Karen!”

Hands grasp her shoulders as she snaps violently awake. The world tilts. Her chest collapses against her ribcage. She sees red.

“Karen.” 

Then she struggles. Something that is not quite a scream rips from her throat. The hands holding her getting tighter as she thrashes against them in the darkness of her bedroom. The cold bites at her skin as she shoves and claws and snarls.

“Karen, it’s me!” The voice is louder than her heartbeat, forcing her to look in that direction, “It’s Matt. I’m here, you’re okay. I’m here.” 

And it sounds like Matt.

A Matt that isn’t bleeding in her arms.

Forcing herself to look she sees the silhouette of horns, the reflective red of the eyes of his mask. The hands holding her are firm, no gloves which is unusual, but they are rough like Matt’s.

Somehow he manages to switch the lamp on her bedside table on, the room flooding with a soft golden glow. Karen blinks rapidly, eyes adjusting to the brightness as her chest heaves.

Daredevil kneels at her bedside, mask imposing in the small space like he has come to reap her soul. But the strong jawline, the smattering of stubble, the full lips are all Matt. No hint of blood.

“You were screaming.” Is all he says before Karen launches herself into his arms.

It’s not graceful, her legs tangled in the sheets as she winds her arms around his neck, one hand holding the back of his helmet as the other clings to the reinforced fabric of his suit.

God, he’s warm and alive and here.

A sob escapes her, as small as a hiccup but then Matt’s arms are around her, hauling her closer to his chest, “I’m here. I’ve got you, sweetheart.” 

The world returns to her slowly. The roughness of his suit against her body, the warmth of his hands. Then the shadows thrown onto her wall by the light. The flutter of the curtains from the open window that has been thrown wide. Karen definitely didn’t sleep with it open that much. 

She isn’t in the church.

Matt isn’t dying.

Embarrassed, she pulls back. Retreating firmly onto her mattress so she can look at him but also calm herself down. Weeping into Matt’s arms is not something she does. The fact he is even here is beyond their norm.

“Shit.” She utters, pushing her hair away from her face as Matt slides the helmet off his head.

His skin is sweaty, hair a mess but he looks healthy. He looks alive. It’s almost enough to send Karen back into his arms. She bites the inside of her cheek instead, focusing on drawing air through her lungs and back out again, loosening the tightness in her chest.

She shivers.

Matt is on his feet in seconds, striding over to the window and closing it firmly, “Sorry, I didn’t think to close it when I heard…”

He heard. Of course he did.

“Just tell me you’re okay?” She asks, voice low with sleep.

His frown as he makes his way back to her is telling enough, she knows he is putting the pieces together. Karen draws the sheets over her lap like a shield against his unfocused gaze. She picks at her cuticles instead of looking at him, her body on high alert.

Matt kneels back on the floor by her mattress, “I’m fine, not a scratch.”

Not tonight, anyway. Not this time. 

“You were calling out my name.” He says after a moment, “You were screaming it. Your fear… Fuck Karen, I got here as fast as I could. I thought…”

He thought something was happening to her.

And her fear came from losing him.

“I was dreaming about the church.” She says softly, “You wouldn’t wake up.”

One of Matt’s hands stills hers in her lap, his fingers searching for hers, “I’m sorry.”

“It was just a nightmare.”

“You were screaming like it wasn’t.” 

Karen dares herself to peer at him then, the fear on his face, in his eyes. Because he didn’t know what was happening, because she was screaming and that meant danger to him.

And he came.

Dropped everything to race to her building to protect her.

She squeezes his hand, the only thing she can offer in the face of her nightmares, of the feel of his blood against her skin.

“I never want to hear you scream my name like that again.” He tells her, “I don’t think I’ll survive it. I was terrified.”

“I didn’t think you’d be able to hear it.”

“I always hear you Karen. In a city of thousands, I think I would be able to pick out your voice. Especially when you’re that scared.”

Her gaze drifts to the helmet that is now perching on her nightstand. Bulletproof. The shape of the Devil. Designed for Matt’s features.

He didn’t have it that night. She wonders if it would have changed anything.

Her fingers reach out for it, stroking over the brow then the peak of the nose. Matt tilts his head towards the sound, lets her touch it. She hears his shaky exhale, something close to disbelief like he can’t understand the softness of her touch on his mask.

It feels weirdly intimate, touching the armour that has been molded to fit his face. Caressing the helmet that keeps him safe, that changes him in so many ways but never changes him to her. 

“I’m always scared of losing you.”

The words are out of her mouth before she can stop them, the confession slipping from her lips like wine from a bottle. It feels heavier in the dark, quiet room while most of Hell’s Kitchen sleeps. It feels poignant when he is dressed as Daredevil and he is holding her hand.

Matt lifts her fingers away from the helmet, pressing her palm to his cheek instead. His stubble pricks her skin and when he turns his face to press a kiss to her palm, she knows he doesn’t need heightened senses to hear her gasp.

“Are you asking me to stop?”

“No.”

She knows he wouldn’t. Knows she feels safer with him in that mask even if Foggy doesn’t agree.

“Then what are you saying?”

Karen doesn’t know. 

Well, she does and that’s entirely the problem.

It would be so easy to kiss him right now, leaning forward to bring their lips together. Would he kiss her back? 

If she dragged the devil down, would he admit he loves her?

“Just come back to me.” 

It’s as brave as she can be right now, all she can offer and Matt accepts it. He holds it for a moment, face wrought with a million things.

Then he kisses her palm again, “Always.”

And it’s enough.

For now.

While her heart is glass threatening to shatter and his suit is bulletproof. It’s enough for a world that exists in shades of gray. It’s enough for Karen, a new paragraph on a page.

“You should go.” She tells him, “Doesn’t the city need you?”

“It can survive for one night.”

And the weight of that statement hits her like a sledgehammer, like a landmine, like a hailstorm.

Because Matt is choosing her over his city and it means something.

She thinks about her fantasy where the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen comes home to her. Sometimes bloody, sometimes angry, sometimes lost but always back to her. She wonders how it would feel to have Matt slip into bed with her, naked skin still cold from outside, energy thrumming through him from the last fight. Karen wonders how their nights would go. Would she hold him, fuck him, love him? Would he let her?

Scary thoughts, far too bold for the temptation of the night when Matt is in her bedroom and Karen’s feelings for him feel like a weight around her neck.

“I’m just going to try and go back to sleep.” She replies, slipping her hand away from his face and making a show of settling back down on her side.

Matt tracks the movements, eyes finding her face when she settles against the pillow. From this angle, he looks like he is praying to her, his palms on the edge of her mattress as he kneels on the floor.

“I’ll stay until you do.” He offers.

The Devil of Hell’s Kitchen guarding her sleep. Like an angel guarding a church. Karen reaches out her hand again, threads her fingers through Matt’s. It’s all the invitation he needs, shifting to get comfortable as he settles his back against her nightstand.

He doesn’t let go of her hand.

And it’s heavy between them. Too heavy. Karen can feel it press against her skin like humidity. She can taste it on her tongue like a lemon.

From the corner of her eye she can see the framed news report she wrote years ago. Daredevil saves the city. She didn’t know it was Matt then. Never dreamed he would also save her.

Matt’s fingers find her hair, stroking it back from her face softly.

“You know I used to be scared of the dark as a kid. My mom, she brought me this nightlight that projected stars on the walls. I loved it. I left it in Fagan Corners, when I ran away. I didn’t even pack a bag, I just left. My dad probably threw it out, along with everything else.” 

She doesn’t know why she tells him, just that she wants him to know. It’s ironic, she thinks, for someone who has as much darkness in them as she does to ever have been afraid of the dark.

Maybe it can sense the fear. Maybe that’s how it infects people. The ones who are scared. The ones who are powerless. The ones who make shapes out of shadows and call them demons.

His fingers don’t falter, “You don’t have to be afraid of the dark anymore, Karen. Not when I’m out there.”

It comforts her. He comforts her. She’s seen Daredevil’s raw power, seen how well suited he is for the monsters in the dark. She dares anything to try and taunt her under his watch.

Not a gun, something bloodier and kinder.

More powerful. More forgiving.

“I’m not afraid of anything when you’re here.” She whispers, tongue slow with tiredness.

Matt smiles, “Is that your way of asking me to move in? Because this is all moving very fast.”

He earns the chuckle she gives him, “You’d hate my apartment. The noise drives me crazy.”

She thinks about the clunky pipes her landlord refuses to replace, the creaky stairs in the hall and the dance workouts Tina does upstairs that make her ceiling shake at all hours. 

Her eyes flutter, she tries to keep them open. She really does. But she is safe here with Matt, his hand in hers, the rhythmic way he is stroking her hair. Karen doesn’t feel safe a lot, her body is taking full advantage.

Matt can tell as well, slows in his administrations to keep them light, soothing.

“Sleep, Karen.”

She hums, “Stay for a little bit longer.”

“I’m not leaving.”

Even though he can probably hear the ancient pipes and the noise three floors down. Even though her floor is hard and unforgiving. Even though he is dressed as the Devil and has a job to do.

And maybe, just maybe, that means they will be okay.

That when she kisses him, he will kiss her back.

But as sleep takes her and Matt’s fingers lull her into security, the last thing Karen registers is the sound of Matt’s voice. It’s too far away and she is too tired but she knows she hears it. Knows she can’t have imagined the words he utters.

“God, I love you.”

But sleep claims her before she can process them. 

And in the morning, Matt is gone. The helmet is an empty space on her nightstand that has been replaced with a glass of water she didn’t take to bed. The covers are tucked up to her chin and Matt’s words have dissolved in her mind.

What makes her pause though is the square box on her dresser she knows wasn’t there last night.

Karen stumbles out of bed towards it in confusion. It’s light in her hands as she opens it, pulling out the familiar cylinder shape of flimsy plastic. 

She runs her fingers over the ridges cut into the surface, little stars of various sizes covered by a thin cloudy film.

Her heart squeezes as she plugs it into the nearest outlet, a little bubble of laughter in her chest when the light shines through it and paints her ceiling and the wall full of little stars.

Matt replaced her nightlight.

The one from when she was a kid.

And as Karen stares up at the stars that map a similar pattern to the one she used to have, all she can think about is how Matt has given her something precious. A piece of home, of her mom, while chasing away her nightmares like it’s just another foe he can go three rounds with in the ring.

She loves him.

Oh.

Oh.

Oh.

V

Sharing a bed with Matt Murdock becomes one of her favourite things.

Except on nights like this.

Nights when her dreams turn to ash and the smell of blood lingers in her nose. Nights when she wakes up gasping for air that doesn’t come and haunted by visions that aren’t there.

Nights when she feels more like a sinner than Matt ever could. More tormented that he could possibly understand.

Because if Karen has learnt one thing about Matt Murdock now they are giving this a second chance, it’s that he is a cuddler. Not a sweet arm around her waist, spooning her tightly type of cuddler. A possessive touch-starved menace type of cuddler that seems to know the minute Karen tries to move an inch away and quickly closes the space. 

He holds her like he is worried she is going to disappear, like he can’t quite believe she is real. Sometimes when she is already half asleep she thinks she hears him muttering softly, a prayer to his God she can’t understand. When he is done, he curls himself tighter around her, punctuating his prayer with a kiss to her shoulder or her spine like she is the holy thing he is praying to. 

It makes her shiver, too tired to ask about it.

She has woken up more times than she can count to Matt’s body over hers like a blanket, arms caging her in, legs tangled with her. His ear is pressed over her heart or his mouth is pressed against her neck and he is dead to the world. 

Karen loves it, the way his body fits against hers.

It’s the closest thing to peace she knows. The way his skin presses against her like an oath. The way he gravitates towards her in his sleep. It makes her feel like the sun, golden and seen in a way that fizzles through her chest.

Except when the nightmares come.

Because being tangled up with Matt means he feels them as well.

So when Karen wakes, sitting upright in bed despite the way she has to all but shove Matt’s heavy limbs off her to do it, it wakes him as well. He reacts quicker than her, one hand on her back as he follows her upwards, finding the new shape of her in the dark.

Peace never lasts. She knows that now.

But Matt is always there to guide her back to it.

“Hey.” His voice is rough, bone-tired from lack of sleep and too many late nights as the devil.

They’ve been back together for months now, spending more time in each other’s beds than alone in their own. So, Karen knows she can lean into Matt, knows he has her.

She slumps a little, her shoulder clipping his chest in the dark. Matt’s sheets are cool against her leg, his lips warm as he kisses her shoulder.

“I’m fine.” She promises, knows he is already worrying.

His hand rubs up and down her spine, “Your heart is pounding.”

And this is new. This new facet of their relationship where he openly reads her. Never calls her out on the lies she gives him, only quietly corrects them for when she is ready to share.

She hasn’t told him she loves him yet.

The urge gets stronger every day.

“Just give me a minute?” She asks softly.

Matt’s patience is saintly because he never pushes, “Water?”

She shakes her head.

Outside the windows are a sheet of rain as it falls, angry and echoing against the glass. She focuses on that, the plink of water, the rattle of the window. She breathes. She sinks further into Matt.

And he holds her quietly, lets her go through the motions to find her way back to him.

“Do you ever wake up anxious?” She asks, eyes on a droplet of water that is running down the window in a wobbly trail.

His lips find her shoulder again, “Sometimes. A lot when I was a kid.”

“It’s like this whoosh of frantic energy.” Karen doesn’t have the words to explain it but Matt waits for her to find them, “Like my blood is shaking. Every cell in my body is quivering.” 

“What triggered it this time?”

This time. Because this has happened before. Not often but enough that Matt knows the steps of this dance, her nightmares, her anxiety. He knows when to touch her and when to give her space. He knows what helps and what doesn’t.

He has started training with her. Nothing serious, but a few drills and routines to help focus her mind. He got her meditating once, a disaster when Karen’s mind is a rollercoaster and calm is a foreign concept. The training she likes though, the bone-tiredness of it. The exhaustion. The way her body has nothing left to give when she sleeps so she doesn’t wake in the night.

She wonders if that is why Matt does it.

If when he was a kid it helped him compartmentalise his loss.

Her hand finds his thigh beneath the sheet, “I don’t know.” 

Sometimes her nightmares are so vivid she thinks about them for days afterwards, walking around in a daze. Other nights, they are concepts, ideas. Things that float away before she can catch them like an empty word doc she opened with good intentions and then couldn’t get the words to come. 

“You’re still on edge.” He comments, listening to the reaction in her body that she can’t put into words.

She is.

It feels like dying. The tightness in her chest that keeps squeezing like it won’t stop until her heart explodes. Bursting open like a delicate fruit smashed against the ground. The numbness in her fingers and her toes like she is drifting, dissociating right out of her body.

Fight or flight.

Normally she would choose flight.

She would rush from the bed as fast as possible, open up her laptop or grab a shower or do something to separate herself from whatever haunts her.

But these days, she fights. 

Because she knows her nightmares better now, has talked them through with Matt so much he could probably tell them apart from the sounds she makes. 

She knows how to destroy any trace of them from her mind.

“Then take the edge off.” Her voice is strong, hands not shaking as she shifts, crawls into his lap in a way that is familiar. Because they have had sex more times than Karen can count and she gets to do this now. Crawl into his lap.

Matt’s hands find her waist, helping her settle over him. There are no barriers between them, their clothes abandoned long ago before they even made it into bed.

His lips find her throat, working their way up. 

“Gladly.”

He kisses her like he can eradicate any thought of her nightmares with his tongue alone, letting Karen rock her hips into him until her anxiety is replaced with something else. Something warmer and fizzier and needier.

She leans her weight down, forcing Matt back onto the mattress with a groan that separates their lips.

His hands are still guiding the movement of her hips. His body in the dark is a tapestry she is learning, every ridge and scar and bump. Karen chases away her nightmare with the swell of his pectorals, the dip of his abs, the sharpness of his hipbone.

On these nights, when she needs him desperately, he doesn’t go slow. Knows Karen doesn’t want it. He is possessive and playful and overwhelming instead, as if he is still in the suit and the Devil is clinging to his skin. He goes to war with her nightmares with his lips and tongue and teeth. Writes protective scripture with his fingers and his hands and his body. He does that particular thing with his tongue she loves, the thing that makes her toes curl and makes her beg. The thing that makes her forget everything except his name, his body, his heart.

Because nothing scares away a nightmare like the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen worshipping her body.

And Matt does.

With his hands, his lips, with the whispered words he tucks against the curve of her breast, the tightness of her stomach, the sensitiveness of her inner thigh. Not love, because he is waiting for her to say it but everything close enough that he can get away with.

I adore you.

I want this forever.

I’ve got you.

Let me show you.

Sweetheart.

Karen finds her peace again in the shape of his name from her lips. She finds a way across the battlefield in the safety of his arms. Shreds off her tarnished coat of arms when he fills her. 

And gets closer to peace with a little help from the Devil.

Because Matt is a lover and fighter both. Something she has learnt about him over the years. He loves like he fights. With everything he has. Several moves ahead and a desire that lights up his veins like the Fourth of July. He is brutal and precise. He is raw and passionate. He loves it dirty and messy and slow. He loves it reckless and fast and honest.

Karen understands now, the concept of love in a way she didn’t before. The shape of it, the weight of it. Why men go to war for it in the myths and why it’s considered lethal. 

Loving Matt Murdock won’t kill her, but God help anything that hurts her while he’s around.

There are times when she wonders if it’s normal, this thing with Matt that soothes her better than any prescription medicine ever could. Wonders if it’s wrong to love him like this when she is a mess masquerading as a human.

She asked Jessica once, in the early days of their relationship. Matt had put them in touch for a case and the dark haired woman’s wit had spoken to Karen’s soul.

So, she had plucked up the courage after taking the files from Jess at Josie’s and asked the question she didn’t want to ask Matt.

“After everything, all that shit, does the softness scare you?”

And Jessica placed one hand on her stomach, on the curve of her belly and the little life growing there and had smiled.

“Every damn day.” She had replied, “But you have two options. You drown in the shit or you swim. I tried drowning, guess I didn’t want to go out that way.”

So, Karen has chosen to swim.

Because loving Matt isn’t a choice, but losing him would be.

Having nightmares aren’t a choice, but letting them consume her would be.

And afterwards, when they are both panting and sweating, Matt still doesn’t let her go. He doesn’t slip out of her, just stays connected with her in that way that reminds her she is never alone. She finds peace in that as well. Guns thrown to the ground, dread eviscerated by a lover who is more of a fighter than she will ever be.

Or maybe that isn’t quite true.

Because Karen has fought. She is fighting. 

So she turns to Matt, props her chin up against his chest and offers him her last barrier to peace.

“I love you.”

Matt’s face softens, smile wide, and doesn’t skip a beat, “I love you too.” 

Bruised knuckles paint her skin in shades of gold. Red lips claim her body as holy ground. And Matt, her protector against the dark and her lover in it, holds her like she is the only thing in his world that he would give every inch of his soul to. Karen feels light and loved and protected. Worshipped in a way that makes her untouchable even to the demons of her own mind.

The Dark vs The Devil.

The Devil always wins.

VI

Matt’s nightmares are ferocious. All-encompassing. Biblical in their epic portion. It’s a fight for him, an internal thing that Karen can’t see but does understand.

They are bullets through skin, scissors through paper, a fire through a house. 

Which is why she knows exactly what is happening when she wakes up to find Matt rigid next to her, face screwed up as if he is in pain and a sheen of sweat covering his pale skin. 

Matt is gasping, little breathy sounds between clenched teeth. His jaw stands out, so sharp that Karen thinks he might break something.

She is trying for the lamp when she feels the mattress shift, hears the slam of his body against the floor as he falls, off balance in his invisible fight.

The room swims into better focus than the light of the window they rarely remember to close. Half the sheets have gone with him, leaving her in nothing but his t-shirt, stolen before bed because she was too tired to grab her own clothes.

Karen is crawling across the mattress to him in seconds, heart pounding as she drops down beside him on her knees. The hard wood floor digs into her skin as she grabs Matt’s hand.

“It’s okay. It’s okay. Matt, it was a nightmare.” 

His other hand is frantically clicking near his left ear, jaw stretching and contorting at odd angles to try and find the root of the problem.

And this is the worst part about Matt’s nightmares.

They throw everything off.

His senses go haywire, trying to separate reality from illusion. It takes over every part of him in a way that fucking scares her. Sometimes his hearing goes fluffy, like he is trapped underwater. Sometimes his touch feels numb and he can’t work out if he is still dreaming.

And he never escapes the dark of it.

Nightmares for Matt are something that trap him. Steel box sinking into the ocean. Bars of a cage. 

His nightmares aren’t just invisible enemies, they take on his greatest fear. They disturb his equilibrium. Effect his hearing and his touch and his ability to ground himself.

Even now, Karen watches him furiously pat his chest, testing his touch, his capacity to feel. His eyes are far away, his whole body shaking despite the fact he is glistening with his own sweat.

She grabs his hand, brings it up to her face, “Come on Matt, breathe. It comes back if you focus.”

But the wait must be beyond terrifying. The fear that it won’t must be like drowning in slow motion.

His fingers curl against her skin, desperate and firm. Karen tucks her body tighter against his, one hand rubbing his chest until she knows he can sense the movement, track it.

Her heart hammers right along with his.

“It’s not gone.” She promises, “I love you. It’s okay.”

Matt told her once the only thing he can do is wait it out, once the nightmare fades, once he can collect himself then his senses trickle back in. A trickle, not a flood. It’s a slow process. One then the other. 

Karen doesn’t move an inch.

His touch comes back to him first. She knows because his hand slips down to her neck, thrumming his fingers against her pulse point like he is mimicking it. He skims them over the fabric of his t-shirt, worn cotton that he maps down her body to her lap. His hand strokes over her thigh, once, twice, a third time. A feather light touch that he syncs up with his inhales.

Next, his hearing. 

This one is easier, knows he is testing it by the way he tilts his head to one side. Experimenting with his reach, stretching the muscle.

“I’m here.” She says softly, knows he hears it when his fingers squeeze her legs.

Taste is less of an issue right now, she needs to grab him some water for that but is confident Matt will stop her if she tries to leave his side.

She moves onto the next one, “Five things you can smell.”

He answers without a pause which makes her smile with relief.

“Sweat.” He wrinkles his nose at his own chest, “The leftover Indian in the fridge. The rain in the air outside. You. Us.”

Under normal circumstances she would blush at the last one, the idea he can smell the sex in the air from last night. Matt told her once he loved it, the smell of them together in their bedroom. Karen isn’t sure she wants to find out what that smell is actually like. 

She brushes his sweaty hair back from his forehead, “Technically cheating but I’ll accept it.”

He doesn’t smile, not yet. His face is grim lines, gaunt in a way that makes him look ill. Karen leans in to place a kiss to his temple, hears Matt’s breath catch at the sensation of it.

“I’m sorry, Karen.”

He always apologises.

Ever since she told him it scared her to see him like this, to know she couldn’t help him. Matt doesn’t have nightmares often, thankfully, but when he does she knows they cost him. 

Her hand goes to his back, fingers running up and down his spine, “You have nothing to apologise for. I’m going to get you some water, okay?”

He grips her thigh tightly for a second but he sighs, “Okay.”

Her knees ache when she gets to her feet, pads quickly to the kitchen barefoot to fill him up a glass with water. She runs the tap for a few moments, making sure it’s icy cold before she does. The apartment is blue with the late hour, the fridge noisily humming behind her as she pads her way back.

The only detour she makes is to the bathroom, putting the plug in the bathtub and turning on both taps so it starts to fill. The steam rises quickly, water chugging out loudly into the basin in the quiet.

Then she is back to Matt, kneels in front of him to pass him the glass.

He drains it quickly, chest heaving as he swallows, “Thanks.”

She takes it once he is done, setting it on the nightstand with one hand on his bent knee to steady herself. Aside from bringing his legs up, he hasn’t moved. 

Her heart breaks a little at the sight of him, the fear that still lingers, the tiny stutter of his chest. 

But Karen knows how to handle this.

“Come with me.” She offers him her hand, waits for his fingers to find hers before she is urging him to his feet.

Matt is still shaky, the nightmare knocking him off balance in more ways than one. Thankfully he has no stitches to worry about, nothing he might have ripped when he fell. The bruises across his ribs might be smarting tomorrow though. 

Right now, she just needs to soothe him.

In the bathroom, the tub is almost full. The steam heady against her skin as she turns off the taps, checking the temperature of the water to make sure it’s right. She loves her baths boiling, getting out pink and steaming. Matt prefers them a little cooler, his heightened senses dancing between relaxing and painful otherwise.

Karen has perfected the art of water temperature according to Matt Murdock.

The bathroom is bigger than most in New York apartments, a free standing bath and a separate shower in the corner. Karen loves this bath, used to finding ways of luring Matt into it just so she could bask in it. The sink and toilet are along the opposite wall, the mirror over the sink catching their reflection as Karen moves closer to him.

She laces her fingers at the back of his head, letting Matt drop his forehead against hers.

“Okay?” She asks, a little check in.

“Okay.” He replies, understanding.

And that’s enough.

He isn’t quite right yet, still holding himself a little stiffly, the nightmare is clinging to him like sweat. It will fade, it always does, and Karen will wait.

Releasing her hold on him, her fingers dip into the waistband of his boxers - the only thing he is wearing - and slides them down his legs.

She catches sight of his ass in the mirror, ogling it with unabashed shame as Matt steps out of his boxers, making his way to the heat of the water to climb into the tub.

Once he is settled, she perches on the rim. The porcelain cold against her thighs as she dips the dark blue cloth at the end into the water. Matt breathes a little easier, his shoulders losing some of their tension as he sits in the water, hands moving against the surface to register the sensation.

He is beautiful. 

The corded muscles beneath his skin, strong and masculine. The little scars and cuts that tell a story of survival to her. His hands, long fingers that can throw a punch as easily as they can hold her.

Karen runs the cloth against his chest gently, from one collarbone to the other. The excess water drips down his skin, little beads that roll down until they disappear.

Matt lets out a little hum.

He ducks his head under, wetting his hair and face and cleaning the sweat that clings there and when he resurfaces, she sees him. Her Matt. The one free of nightmares.

Droplets of water soak the hem of her t-shirt as he pushes his hair back from his face, leaning forward in the bath to angle his eyes in her direction.

“Will you come in here with me?” His voice is soft, one hand finding her thigh. The heat of the water, the dampness of his skin, is intoxicating.

“Move forward.” 

Karen throws the t-shirt over her head, can see the confusion on his face at her words while he shuffles forward, creating a decent sized gap between his back and the tub. She normally fits in the space between his legs, or tucked against the other side so her feet rest against his stomach but neither of those options will work for her tonight. The overwhelming need to be the one who has him driving her command.

He doesn’t ask. Just trusts her.

She places one leg in the water behind him, the other following suit as she sinks down. Matt inches forward again to give her enough space to manoeuvre her legs on either side of his hips before her hands are pulling him backwards with her.

The slope of the back of the tub meets her skin as she settles, reclined until she is comfortable. Matt lets her pull him back until his back is pressed against her chest, his body between her legs. Karen wraps her calves around him for good measure, feet between his thighs like she is trying to cocoon him. Matt laughs, head falling back against her shoulder.

“This is my new favourite position to share a bath together.” He comments, fingers wrapping around the back of her left knee which is tucked below his ribs.

Karen’s hands are on his chest, grabbing the blue cloth so she can wipe it over his skin again, “You hated baths before me.”

“I didn’t appreciate the intimacy of them.” He defends, “I stand corrected, Miss Page.” 

She rewards him with a kiss to the side of his head as she tightens her legs around him in satisfaction.

Matt sighs, growing heavier against her as the water laps at their skin.

He doesn’t always talk about his nightmares, Karen knows asking before he is ready can lead to him shutting down in self-preservation so she doesn’t ask. She feels Matt’s fingers dance against her leg, her own hands wandering across his chest.

When he does speak, it’s not what she expects.

“I lost you.” 

Three words devour the peace of the bathroom, the tranquility overshadowed by the weight of them.

“I’m right here.” She squeezes all her limbs against him for good measure.

“But you weren’t.” Matt replies, “Bullseye was gunning for you and I couldn’t get there. Everything was chaos with my senses and you were screaming and I couldn’t get to you.”

Karen holds him, her chin against his wet hair, “It wasn’t real.”

“It’s a real possibility.”

It’s a worn argument, one neither of them knows how to win. Matt is who he is, Karen isn’t going anywhere.

“No hero breakups.” She reminds him, a deal they made when they agreed to a second chance.

Matt’s hand squeezes her legs, “I love you too much to do that. That’s the problem.”

“That’s a saving grace.” She replies easily, “Guys like that, they have always existed in places like Hell’s Kitchen. I was a target long before Daredevil made enemies.”

“I know.”

“And I made my choice, Matt. For better or worse.”

“I know.”

“And I love you.” She adds the underlying point in her argument.

She can hear his smile this time, “I know.”

Karen sets the cloth on the side of the tub, settles for running her hands over his skin instead, “Good. Then we find a way to put his ass in jail instead.”

“I’m starting to think you would have made a decent cop.” He teases softly, hand skimming down her calf to grip her ankle below the water.

“I think that would be a conflict of interest.” She points out, “Considering Daredevil is responsible for half the arrests in this city.”

“Plus a lot of late nights.” He is definitely teasing her now, the amount of late nights they both pull at the firm a joke between them.

“I hate late nights.” She agrees with a smile.

“When would we fit in these bath dates?”

“You can’t have a date in a bathtub.”

“Give me some wine, some candles and that good dark chocolate you hide behind the sea salt and think I don’t notice and I’m willing to concede it will probably be the best date of my life.” 

She laughs, “We need to work on your standards, Murdock.”

“You’re my standard.” He replies, “Nothing comes close.”

And damn how she wants to kiss him but the angle is all wrong and Matt’s body is too big for her to wriggle around for it.

She settles for a kiss against the curve of his shoulder, damp skin under her lips.

“How about you fight crime and I solve it?” She says against his skin.

Matt’s hands pull her leg out of the water, wrapping it more tightly around his waist so they are flush together, “That.” He agrees softly, “Always that.” 

They stay in the bath until the water cools and Matt loses his tension. Until Karen’s chest hurts from his weight and her fingers prune. Even then, they pull themselves out sluggishly, as if neither one wants to burst the bubble they have created in the heat of the bathroom.

By the time Karen leaves Matt to finish up, knowing he needs some space to right himself, it’s just gone two. She is too wired to sleep but knows Matt will need it. Sleep is how he heals, how he restores, how he centers himself.

She changes the sheets while he is in the bathroom, fishing out another one of his t-shirts from the drawer to slip on. She has clothes here, a whole drawer that Matt cleaned out for her and hangers in the wardrobe with her name on in braille but she still prefers his. The smell of his laundry detergent, his aftershave if he has worn them recently.

Grabbing her laptop she settles herself back under the covers, the ancient thing humming as she boots it up. If she isn’t going to sleep then she might as well get some work done so she can stay by Matt’s side.

She can’t even think about leaving him right now.

As if she summoned him, Matt pads in from the bathroom in a fresh pair of boxers that fit snugly on his body. He looks exhausted, the bath relaxing him enough to make the tiredness settle back in.

Karen smiles warmly, moving the laptop to the edge of the bed so he can climb in. 

Matt does, crawling under the sheet and into the vee of her legs, wedging his shoulders under her thighs so he can rest his head against her leg and slot his arms around her, snaking them under the pillow propped up at her back.

“You make it impossible to work sometimes.” She laughs, tugging the sheets over him as Matt grunts against her skin.

“It’s not a seduction.” He promises, “I just need to be touching you.”

Because touch is precious to Matt. Touch is a love language and a communication art style and a bible verse on how Matt Murdock interprets the world.

Karen’s nails rake through his still damp hair and he groans in bliss.

When she peers down, his eyes are closed, breathing even against her skin and she knows he isn’t asleep but something close to meditating by the serene look on his face.

Reaching for her laptop, she props it against the broad expanse on his back. Keys between his shoulder blades as her makeshift desk so she can see the files on her screen. The laptop shifts up and down as he breathes but Matt makes no protest about it, keeping still except the measured inhale and exhale of his breaths.

And it’s ridiculously intimate so Karen keeps carding her fingers through his hair as she scrolls through the documents on her laptop with her other hand, keeping Matt safe between her thighs from any other nightmares that might try to come for him tonight.

“Love you.” He mumbles into her skin, on the verge of sleep.

Karen’s smile grows wide, “I love you too, Matt.”

She continues working until the dawn rises, the sun filtering orange light through the window of the bedroom and across Matt’s back. When he stirs, and she eventually closes her laptop down there is an imprint of her laptop against his shoulder blades and a softness in him that melts her heart.

Karen texts Foggy to tell him they will be late and lets Matt pull her down the mattress so they can lay together properly, the sun rising over a new day and taking any nightmares with it.