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Pas de Deux – Chapter III
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Pas de Deux – Matt Murdock x F!Reader
A Languor Spell – Art Donaldson x F!Reader
miss u queen <33
I miss you too <3 I miss my space on here so much
Hello friends. It's been a while. I hope everyone is doing okay. I thought I could use this post to explain where I've been and what I've been up to, and the future of my blog and writing. I’ll put everything under the cut for anyone who would like to read more.
I went through a rough patch with a depressive episode and life wise. I have three (3) jobs now instead of the one part time job I’ve always had. One of the new jobs is stressing me out so much that my lashes are falling out quite a bit (they don’t communicate well if any at all, they haven’t talked about the pay or asked me about my direct deposit info, and I have been basically working for them but there’s no clear and official way to record my hours because a lot of the work I’ve done for them so far is on computer – I’ve been tracking the hours myself however – and when I asked them about the pay over text messages they basically ignored me even though they got back to me so quickly on something they wanted me to check 😭). I’ve been telling myself that this is fine because they seem to be genuinely nice and they’re just a team of a wife and a husband and they have 4 kids to take care of. So yeah, I’m stressing.
BUT I've been thinking about Pas de Deux a lot, on top of another Matt mini series (can I PLEASE stop because I have never finished Lingered Affection) so I take it as a sign that I have somewhat recovered creatively. Unfortunately, I don't have much free time to follow the previous update structure, which was twice a month.
With that being said, I still want to pursue Pas de Deux to the end, because I love the storyline and I do believe that I have something to say with that. I love Matt, I love the show, and I want to have the act of writing in my life. I want to update at least once a month, and I know it sucks but I want to ensure the quality of the work I put out. But because of the unpredictability of my life, I just might be able to update here and there, maybe once every two months. I’m not sure yet. I hope you can understand, and I'm sorry for taking so many breaks.
Thank you to those who are still here with me and read my works and support me. You mean a lot to me 🫶
Hello everyone, I have an announcement to make regarding Pas de Deux:
There will be no update next week.
I will take a short break from my regular upload schedule. I’m feeling burned out and discouraged. I don’t want to wait until I hate everything I write to take a step back. I have a clear vision of how I want the story to go, but as I proceed along, I keep coming up with smaller details and hints I should’ve added in previous chapters (it annoyed me to no end when I had to go back to revise chapter 1 😭)
I know that this delay will only harm the visibility of the series. Less interaction, less notes, less reblog, less comments. But let’s be real, I’m not swimming in notifications. It sucks to see the notes count goes down with each update. I understand that there are so many talented writers out there, and most people just aren’t reading my stuff. And that’s okay. I still want to see the series through with my best efforts because I love the idea, and I know a few of you that have been enjoying what I have to offer as well.
I initially planned on resuming the series on May 8th, but now I’m not sure. Pas de Deux will be back, I promise.
I know Fisk is strong, but like … since when did he get the super soldier serum treatment?
Chapter IV: Entrechat
Masterlist
Pairing: Matt Murdock x F!Reader
Warnings: Fluff, description of injuries and blood, short and simple medical procedure, toxic environment.
Word Count: 5.9k
Author's Note: This is the longest chapter of the series to date! (by only 600 words but still). I ended up having to cut a chunk because time wasn't on my side and also I kept adding more stuff to the chapter and complicated the process. But here it is! I hope you will enjoy it 🫶
GIF Source – The GIF is extremely relevant!!
Your dance bag used to be indicative of your day. The heavier the bag, the longer the day, the more exhausted you'd be at the end of it. The bag would be strewn with multiple pairs of pointe shoes, two wrap skirts of different lengths, a practice tutu, warmup layers and tools, water and food. You would spend most of the day inside. Class in the morning, rehearsal for your part, and more often than not, understudy for Christine. You were only allowed to take your lunch break when the director was satisfied with your work, so it gave you an incentive to dance well and to perform perfectly every day. Every time. Some days, you didn't get a break until mid-afternoon. Despite your frustration and exhaustion, it was hard to find fault in Roger's teaching method as it clearly worked. A few passionate critics called you 'Roger Emerson's artistry crafted in a human form, and the true successor to Christine Lambert's illustrious career'. Jo and Amy shared a look of concern when you told them about the behind-the-scenes stuff, so you learned to sugarcoat the reality for them. You figured that they wouldn't get it. The harsh environment simply was something you had to live with in order to thrive. To be the best performer you could be.
In preparation for a new season, the stage calls could be as late as 10:30 PM. On performance days, you'd stay at the theatre, getting ready with your hair, makeup, and costume before helping others. You would often leave the theatre very late, walking fast with your head slightly down, a pocket knife clenched in your fist, hidden in the full bag.
Your bag is still a reflection of your day. It holds a single pair of soft shoes, a water bottle, and the keys to your apartment and mailbox. Its inconsequential weight on your shoulder speaks for what you think of yourself – aimless, unmoored to a real and substantial purpose. No ballet class, no performance. No adoring audience who cheers for you as you take your bow at the end of the night. There are over eight million people in New York. No one cares that you used to dance for a mid-tier ballet company, and now working as a secretary for a mid-tier law firm. You have nothing except for the self-imposed helplessness. And it holds you motionlessly at the entrance to Jo's new gym.
You're torn between two opposite points of the axis – the yearning to go back to the one thing you've done your whole life, and the fear that your moment was gone the night of your injury. You know that you can't stay away from ballet for too long as the fleeting nature of your youth and the tragically short career you chose, and still love, pull at the back of your mind. They tell you the more you spend away from the art, that’s more time you don’t have wasted. But when you finally decided tonight was the night you finally made a tepid return to ballet, you're still scared. What is the point? You can never be as good as you used to be. The thought has been exhaustingly persistent. But seclusion has provided you with a comforting contemplation that you can accept. There is no audience that you have to perform for tonight. There is a sense of self-assurance that even if your dancing is mediocre, no one else will be around to witness it, except for you. You don't even have to dance if you don't want to. You quickly insert the key into the lock and turn, the door opens to your newfound determination.
Upon entry, you can already see why Jo bought this place. It has an old-school vibe, and of course, the boxing ring to the left of the room. New lockers spread along the wall near the entrance, breaking up by a hallway and Jo's office from what you can see. A couple of towel carts gather below the window looking out into the gym. The back of the sign Fogwell’s Gym is prominent even in the low street lights, each letter red, big and bold in their respective glass pane. Sandbags spread sporadically throughout the room, but you’re not here for them. You keep straight and reach the new addition to the gym as Jo instructed on the right, opposite the boxing ring. You wave at Leon – the night cleaner – before entering the room.
The studio is small and separated from the open space, and more narrow than the room you used to dance in at Lady Liberty, but it works better than your apartment. A large floor-to-ceiling mirror covers the length of the wall, reflecting the empty room except for a standard moveable barre on the opposite side. The window blind is drawn on the view of the boxing ring and the rest of the gym, and you keep it that way. You bring the barre to the middle of the room, vertically to the mirror, and put on the shoes. You didn’t bother putting on a leotard and tights, settling for a pair of leggings and a fitted shirt. The simple and form-hugging outfit is enough to see your lines.
The music playing through your phone speaker is loud enough for you to follow in the stillness of the building. Plié, tendu, ronde de jambe à terre. You go through each exercise with ease. Balançoire, fondu, ronde de jambe en l'air. Your mind and muscle memories work in tandem, guiding your movements. Frappé, petit battements, relevé. Every day for five, sometimes six, days of the week for years. Adagio, grand battement, arabesque penché. Your body is warm, your alignment refined and you find yourself not too concerned about the predicament you're wrapped up in as you move onto centre work.
After a couple of simple combinations, you recall the Cupid variation from Don Quixote. It was nowhere near the hardest variation you'd done, but with the level you're on at the moment, the agility and quick footwork required would be a challenge. But you want to feel the satisfaction of successfully executing a complete piece. So you search for the music, and mark it out with your hands and feet.
Music fills the room, a little louder this time, but doesn’t mute the sound of pressure every time your feet touch the floor. You can’t land as softly as you used to, but you try your best to hold your weight. You feel a pinch in your leg on a piqué turn, but you push through to the flow of the music. As the variation almost nears the end, the door to the main area of the gym creaks loudly, and whoever enters inadvertently takes away your focus with them. Your feet knock together clumsily on an assemblé, making you lose balance when you come back to the floor. You stumble, letting the notes float past you and eventually end. The muffled conversation in the other room announces the unmistakable presence of another. Jo let you know about Leon, and you haven't expected the company of anyone else during the gym's off hours. You peek through the blind to find the familiar shape of a person your eyes perpetually search for throughout the workday. You open the door but stay at the threshold. And call out hesitantly.
“Matt?”
He turns to your direction and says your name. He's surprised to see you, but there is a moment of delay as if he already knew you were here.
“What are you doing here?”
“I'm here to work out.”
He’s wearing a black tank, grey sweatpants, an old pair of trainers and a gym bag by his side. Your eyes trail over the stretch along the arm holes, noticing how worn the shirt looks, and how his arms look so much bigger than you've imagined. Not that you want to admit you have thought about his arms, but you can acknowledge that the dress shirts and suit jackets he usually wears are quite deceiving.
You course correct at his plain answer.
“But the gym is closed.”
“I can say the same to you.”
“My friend gave me the access. She owns the place.”
He thinks for a moment.
“Ahh. That explains the new equipments.”
You cross your arms over your chest, aware of his attempt at redirecting your attention.
“You still haven't answered my question.”
He huffs out a soft laugh, amused at your directness.
“Right, well, I also get after-hours access because of Leon.”
The man mentioned has already gone home, it seems.
“Oh yeah? You bribed him, didn't you?”
You lean against the door. Matt puts both hands up, feigning innocence.
“I admitted to no such thing.”
Your conversation has taken on a playful edge, and you allow yourself to lean into it.
“It’s clear to me that that’s what happened.”
“Are you conducting a cross-examination on me?"
"It doesn't have to be, but since you insist …"
He shakes his head in amusement.
"Can't believe it's only been two weeks since you started working for us. If I didn't know any better, I would think you'd been with us from the day we opened the practice.”
“Thank you. I’m just a quick learner. You’d know that if you came to the interview.”
Matt wets his lips with a quick swipe of his tongue. You were only joking, but when he speaks, you can hear a touch of seriousness in his voice.
“I’m glad I missed it.”
“Why?”
The question was only a notch above a whisper, but he heard it.
“That led us to here. You're working with us. And I get to see you more often.”
His admission draws a soft intake of air from you. You feel the skin on your cheeks and ears grow warm as your heart quickens its pace.
“Flirting with me won’t distract me from the fact that you’re trespassing.”
He turns his head to curse softly under his breath in a slightly exaggerated manner. You chuckle at his attempt to make you laugh.
“You’re good.”
He says, shaking his head, the smile on his lips widens.
“Don’t worry, I’m just joking. I won’t tell Jo about this.”
Jo is already on the fence about Matt. Knowing about his trespassing will only aggravate her.
“What about you? What are you doing here?”
Matt asks. You straighten up from where you’re standing, suddenly feeling defensive despite the question being innocuous.
“I’m here to … dance. I want to slowly get back to ballet. My apartment is too small for what I want to do so … here I am.”
His face brightens.
“That’s great. I’m glad you’ve decided to give it another chance. You told me how much you missed it."
You're surprised to see he still remembered what you told him on the first night you met.
“You'll regret that when I play the same music over and over.”
“Go ahead. I don't mind. I need to expand my playlist.”
“Let me guess. All you listen to is emo, broody music that fuels your tenancy in court.”
His head tilts slightly to the side at your poking fun at him.
“Broody? Is that what you think of me?”
“A little bit. Sometimes. It’s just that … you have that air about you. Like you’re suppressing something, all the time.”
A flash of something you can't name crosses his face. But it's gone as he puts on an easy smile.
“Hm, I didn’t expect to be cross-examined on top of a psychoanalysis coming to the gym tonight.”
“Maybe I really have spent too much time with you three.”
You share a laugh. The banter is nice. You get to talk freely to one another, and your overthinking ceases to make an appearance in this moment. The air is not laden with dread, frustration or misunderstanding like two nights ago. You have thought about the situation since after that night, and you feel like you owe Matt honesty.
“I should apologize to you. For the other night.”
Matt’s brows furrow as you keep going.
“I misconstrued your words and intention.”
"You don't have to apologize. I could've handled it better. I should've addressed you properly–"
You interrupt with a call for his name.
“Thank you for doing that, but it was mostly my fault. I was overly sensitive, and frankly, in way over my head about a similar situation. I was just worried that you … might have changed your mind."
“Changed my mind about what?”
Honesty, you remind yourself.
“… About me. With all of that stuff that happened with my old company, I thought you might think that I’m more trouble than I’m worth.”
Understanding dawns on his features. He softens.
“What happened at your old company is not your fault. I meant it the first time, and I still mean it now: anything happened between us will stay between us."
You know that now.
"And I enjoy having you around the office. I really do.”
You can't tame the happy smile on your face. You let it mirror Matt's own.
“I enjoy being around you, as well.”
A quiet understanding makes the air between you lighter. The knot in your stomach unravels. You clear your throat, bringing both of you out of the comfortable quiet.
“I’ll … let you get back to it.”
“Me, too.”
“I’ll close the door so the music won’t be too loud for you.”
“I really don’t mind either way.”
“Accommodating, as always.”
With a final remark and one last look at Matt, you retreat into the room and close the door anyway. As the night goes on, you can hear the rhythmic punches on the sandbag next to your own classical playlist. The melodies blur into one another, making up their own unique existence in an unlikely place.
/
You start going to Fogwell’s every other day. You find yourself looking forward to the visit for more than one reason. Every time you push through the discomfort that your old injury brings, the experience invigorates you, and you feel like you’re gaining a fraction of the old you back. You retrieve fragments of your old balance, strength, and flexibility. You're not confident enough to practice in pointe shoes yet, content with dancing in soft canvas shoes. You've been looking into ballet classes for adult dancers. A structured class with lesson plans can bolster your own framework and accelerate your improvement. You used to have classes at least five days a week, but for now, once to twice a week would be sufficient. Ballet classes are plentiful in New York, you just need to take the plunge.
You see Matt on and off throughout the nights you go. Seeing him is the other reason, but you can never admit it out loud to anyone. The delicate balance between you is restored, and you don't want to overcomplicate it. But there is no harm in innocuous talking that often veers on the side of flirting when both parties are willing participants. You chat and rehash about what happened at work before going back to your own things. You don't like staring at Matt, the act is too desperate, but your gaze does linger from time to time. The sandbag shakes from Matt's exertion, and you find yourself wondering if that's how he got the scars on his knuckles. The size of his arms, which are corded with muscles, fluster you when you've stared for too long.
You have been avoiding Jo's invites to hang out. Not to keep Matt's trespassing a secret, but you don’t like the way she tries to overshadow your thoughts and opinions with her own. The last time you saw her, she only said what she said because she was looking out for you. But you also know how once she has formed an idea about someone in her head, it’d be hard for her to let it go. If you agree to meet up, you know that she'll ask you about Matt again, and even worse, if you tell her about the misunderstanding, she'll only double down and urge you to quit your job at the firm. No matter what, you can't win. For right now, no one needs to know. Your connection with Matt remains as yours and his alone.
/
Time goes by, and the most accurate measure of it is your growing closeness with Karen, Foggy, and especially, Matt. To be more specific, it has been a little over a month since you started working for the firm. It’s not enough time for you to comfortably get drinks with them yet, but enough to be included and tag along on coffee runs and lunch breaks.
Therefore, you notice that Matt is late this morning, even though technically speaking, he was late on the day of your interview as well. He's always early or on time, so for his office to still be empty by the time the clock hits 10:45 is not like him. You pretend that you’re not even glancing at the time every five minutes, but you do. When you're even just a little restless, your mind takes over and forms an unpleasant thought. Matt must've spent the night with a woman.
The sudden delivery of the notion feels like a sharp sting on your cheeks. Your heart clenches, and what feels awfully similar to jealousy flares in your chest, making your stomach churn. You try to push the bitter feelings out, but it's too late. The silent acknowledgement is enough for your mind to helplessly dive deeper into the hole the invasive idea has dug. You don't have the right to be jealous, you're only Matt's colleague. What he chooses to do outside of work is none of your concern. With anyone is none of your rights to even question. Still, as much as you try to pretend that it doesn’t affect you, it does. Did he treat her nicely like the way he did with you? Did he kiss her with the same vigour? Same softness? Did he listen to her problems? Did he make breakfast for her this morning and that’s why he’s late? Maybe he's kissing her goodbye right now, with the promise of more whispered on her lips as he pulls away. The mental image of Matt kissing someone else pulls and cuts into your increasingly sensitive disposition. You look away from the document you weren’t really reading, willing your mind to make the words make sense again.
You haven't made much progress when Matt comes through the door a few minutes later, looking quite pale and dishevelled. He says good morning to you and quickly crosses the space to go to his office. Your response fades on your lips as he closes the door behind him. The cold demeanour is enough to spark a disappointment ember. It grows hot in your chest and along your skin as the conclusion clicks in place: he did spend the previous night with a woman. You look at the computer, hoping a vision change will help you forget quickly.
Matt often observes quietly, heedful of every little thing. He chimes in when something doesn't make sense, or when a question needs an answer. But in today's meeting, he is unusually silent. You notice the way he pushes his glasses up on his nose every other minute, the way he touches a particular part of his torso more often than not, and when you angle yourself in a way that grants you a view under the unbuttoned suit jacket, you find red spots that look like blood on his white shirt. You can't help but blurt out.
“Are you bleeding?”
Ms. Carrero turns to you, as do Karen and Foggy. You don’t care the way their bewildered gazes as you pull on Matt's hands, the ones that are trying to button his jacket up.
“It’s nothing.”
You part the material to find the small splotches of blood seeping through the cotton. Foggy’s voice is alarmed when he asks.
“What happened?”
Matt stumbles over his words, trying to smooth out his explanation.
“Oh, uh … kitchen … accident. I ran into a knife that I forgot I put there.”
“Are you okay?”
Ms. Carrero asks with concern laced in her scrunched brows. Matt nods, giving her a tight smile.
“You should probably get that taken care of.”
“It's not that bad. I can wait until the meeting is over.”
You know what Matt is trying to do, and you refuse to let him slide this under the rug. You say without giving him another chance to make up an excuse.
“Karen and Foggy can take care of the meeting. I can help you clean up.”
Karen nods while Foggy agrees with you. Matt hesitates. You lower your voice, almost pleading with him.
“Please, before you bleed out in front of Ms. Carrero.”
Matt concedes after a brief moment. You excuse yourselves as you stand up and walk to the door, holding it open for Matt to step through. The meeting reconvenes while you lead Matt into his office. You pull out the chair so he can sit and ask him to unbutton his shirt.
“Aren’t you going to ask me out to dinner first?”
Despite the cheeky remark, he listens to you, shrugging off the suit jacket.
“That’s a great idea considering how your kitchen skills don’t seem to be that great. Let’s keep you away from those knives for a while, yeah?”
You pull the chair on the opposite side of the desk and set it up next to Matt's.
“Ouch. Here I was, thinking we were having a good thing going on.”
You roll your eyes at him even though he can’t see it. Your voice softens.
“I’ll be right back.”
You search for the first aid kit in the kitchen before moving to your desk. In your bag, you find the tin of all-heal ointment balm and a Tide pen. You return to Matt’s office to find him leaning back on the chair with the few buttons unfastened from the bottom of the shirt. You set the kit on the desk, settle into the chair and ask.
“Can you hold your shirt up for me?”
This time, he listens without a sly remark. Your knees knock together as you get closer, and he accommodates you by parting his thighs. You slot in between, trying to calm your nerves at your proximity. He folds the material and holds it to his chest, revealing the expanse of smooth skin, well-defined abs, and a bloody bandage at his side. You're distracted by the sight momentarily before informing him of what you're going to do, and he nods. The wet patch comes off slowly under your careful fingers. The cut is much deeper than you thought, and the way Matt’s playing it off like it’s nothing alarms you. When you voice your concern, he only shrugs.
“I’ve had worse.”
“How? I’m very worried about your worse if this is nothing.”
The knot in your stomach tightens. You observe the wound, and it looks deeper than a simple kitchen knife cut.
“It looks a lot worse than it feels, trust me.”
“It also doesn't look like a simple accident.”
“Just my luck.”
"Did you try to impress someone? A woman you met at the bar, perhaps?"
You hope the joke didn't come off as forced as it sounds in your head. Matt gives you an easy, playful smile.
"No, there was no one to impress. My kitchen wouldn't be a mess if that was the case."
You release a disbelieving hum, and Matt holds the free hand up.
"I swear. This was a one-off incident."
"Right."
You shake your head, the corner of your lips involuntarily curl into a grin. You dip your head to take a closer look. Even though the wound is small and manageable, it still has a gaping opening, so slapping fresh gauze and bandage on top won't hold the edges close. You look into the first aid kit and are surprised to find the basics of what you need to properly clean and seal the injury. You put on a pair of gloves and grab a packet of anti-bacterial wipes.
“I will have to give you a couple of stitches so the wound can stay close, okay?”
His brows raise above the red glasses.
“Do you know how to stitch up a wound?”
He hisses softly as you clean the area with the wipe.
“Of course I do. I’ve darned shoes before. Can’t be that hard to stitch you up.”
You chuckle when his expression betrays him. He looks worried and on edge.
“I’m just joking. I know enough to take care of a simple wound like this.”
You clean the needle with an antiseptic cloth and prepare the thread.
“If I hurt you, let me know, okay?”
The smirk on his lips is cocky, yet simultaneously endearing.
“I’m a big boy. I can handle a needle.”
“But not a knife, apparently.”
That draws a deep chuckle from Matt. The room gradually falls into silence as you pour all of your focus on steadying your hands and making sure you don't pierce his skin too deeply. He takes the pain exceptionally well with only a few sharp breaths and soft gasps here and there.
“Did you have to do this a lot? Back when you were still dancing?”
His voice is as gentle as your hands. You take a moment before responding.
“Not really. It didn’t happen as often as you might think.”
His thoughtful silence gives you the courage to go on.
“I’d get blisters, cracked toe nails, things like that. The company started out very small so we didn't get proper healthcare professionals until about three years ago.”
Your hands are steady as you make it to the other half of the wound.
“It was the first performance of the season. I needed to rehearse for this one role, and all of the studios were taken. So I practiced in a closet full of costumes and set pieces. When I … basically spun around the room, I cut myself on one of the metal poles that they used as the foundation for the set. Tore through my tights and I started bleeding. I went home, wrapped it in a piece of gauze, secured a bandage on top and hoped for the best.
“During the show the next day, the wound opened and it soaked through the white tights I had to wear. After the show, the director said that if I pulled something like that again and didn’t get my injury in line for the next day's performance, he would bench me for the rest of the season. I didn't have enough money to get it checked out at a hospital. So I went to my friend slash roommate.”
“Did that friend happen to be Jo?”
“Yes. She used to be a professional boxer. She taught me how to stitch up my wound. Since I had to dance more than one role, on top of the two performances every day for six days straight as well, the wound would rip a little. So I had to add one or two stitches here and there.”
He breathes sharply as the spot you poke through is particularly tender.
“That sounds awful.”
“Dancing with the cut wasn't the best feeling, but at least I learned how to stitch up a wound from it.”
You cut the thread off and dab away the blood seeping through the now-closed cut. You take the gloves off and open the tin. A faint scent of soothing tea tree extract emanates as you take some ointment on your finger. You carefully smear a thin layer along the edge of the cut. Matt keeps still, holding his breathing to an almost motionless state. You close the lid and tap it twice before placing it on the table.
“Apply this after your shower, and whenever you change the bandage. It’ll help a lot.”
“Thank you.”
You cover the wound with new gauze and bandage.
“Thank you for telling me. And for stitching me up, of course.”
“Thank you for listening. Now, we have to take care of your shirt.”
“Right. Can’t go to my next meeting like this.”
He moves to unfasten the rest of the buttons, but you put your hand on top of his.
"You don't have to take it off. I can do it with this pen here."
He keeps his hands to the side as you flatten the material over your palm. The spots aren't too big, nothing a little diligent work can't fix. You dab the tip of the pen on the spots repeatedly before spreading the liquid. You watch as the red diminishes into a light pink then the barely-there colour of rust.
You put the implements back before closing the kit. You're about to stand up to leave when Matt reaches out and holds your wrist, keeping you there.
“I appreciate you doing this for me. Truly.”
Your heart stutters at the small swipe of his thumb on your pulse. You think about what Jo said. The man sitting in front of you is proving that he is anything but the terrible, awful things Jo thinks he might be capable of.
“You’re welcome.”
The moment is transient, and you miss his warmth when he lets you go. You're about to leave the room when he calls out to you.
“Will I see you tonight?”
“Not tonight. But tomorrow night. Definitely.”
/
That night, you take the subway to Greenwich Village. The ballet studio is on the third floor of the building, and you're the first one to arrive for class. You go through your warm-up routine in the corner of the room, staying out of the way as other students trickle in. Your guts alternate between excitement and nervousness, and both do little to ease your mind. This is an intermediate class for pre-professionals and advanced students. The room is filled with mostly younger people, and everyone gathers in groups.
The class goes quiet when an older woman enters the room with a big notebook on her arm. Charlotte Hill. She was an intern at the American Ballet Theatre for two years before quitting to found her own dance center after her name. You did a quick Google search before coming in, wanting to know the teacher a little more before the class. Everyone quietly put the finishing touches on their dancewear and grab their spots on the barre. Music flares through the speaker, and everyone starts the plié exercise without guidance from the teacher. You quickly follow others by watching them, but you still feel lost. Barre exercises vary depending on the teacher, the studio or the school. But to dive right into it without a single word going through the steps is bizarre. At Lady Liberty, the headmistress always went through the steps, even if it was just the names of them.
Because your spot is in a corner, when you do a soutenu turn to the other side, you have limited vision of what others are doing. There is no mirror on the wall when you work on the other side. You try your best to memorize the unfamiliar combinations as barre stretches on, but you can't keep up as well as others. Charlotte makes her way towards you, watching you struggle as the music changes again and again. The other students in the class go through each exercise easier as if they have done this so many times before, and you realize that is the case. You're singled out, your dancing is quite stiff with the teacher standing only two feet away from you. Her face is grim, and you can feel the mild contempt in her gaze, following your every movement. When she finally walks away, you can see discreet and sympathetic glances from a few students who look at you. Your nose burns, but you refuse to cry. You move your feet and your arms, you incline, raise and tilt your head. You keep dancing.
After putting the barre away, the class has a moment to drink water. One of the students who spared you a glance earlier comes up to you.
“I recognize you. You used to dance with Lady Liberty Theatre, right?”
“Yes, how did you know?”
“I get a seasonal ticket every year. I watched you perform several times now. You danced beautifully.”
“Thank you.”
She probably didn’t mean it, but the past tense has an unwanted effect on you. You swallow the lump in your throat, smiling as she introduces herself. Judging by the teacher's look of disinterest for you at barre, it's not an uncommon thought that you're no longer capable of dancing like you used to.
The class ends on a disastrous note. You could follow the centre works Charlotte gave decently, but that wasn't enough for her. You were asked to repeat a combination because according to her, your techniques were off. By that point, your muscles were strained, you were tired, but you carried it out anyway. You did everything she asked of you, even when she got into your space, following you as you moved through the space, shouting each step into your face. When you stumbled, she scoffed loudly, expressing her displeasure at your mediocrity while everyone else watched.
You stuff everything into your bag and try to leave the class as soon as possible, but the teacher calls out to you by your full name. So she knows who you are.
"We have classes for little children. Maybe you can come in and watch some day. You might learn something from them."
You're enraged, and you don't care about the consequences. Your voice is level when you answer her with defiance.
"You're just a terrible teacher. Don't project that onto me."
The sneer on her lips sours into a scowl.
"Your career is over. It's time you look for something else to do instead of wasting my time."
"Who are you to speak to me like this? At least I had a career. I'll be more than happy to never return to this place again."
You walk away before she can come up with a rebuttal. You know that you shouldn't have stooped to her level, but you don't care. You refuse to shed a tear over the teacher's deplorable hostility. Despite the positive changes in the ballet world in recent years, with more inclusivity and acceptance of races, body types, and backgrounds, there are still remnants of the old system that refuse to die. Those bits and pieces are carried on through people like Charlotte Hill, believing that ballet is the type of art that is reserved and accessible for people of certain classes. You scorn and reject that belief.
A smaller, but more insistent part of you thinks that the teacher's attitude stemmed from the fact that your place in ballet is not yours anymore. You chose to step away, to give it up, and you don't deserve a second chance.
Your hair is still wet when your head hits the pillow. You're exhausted and wracked with guilt and self-hatred. The night floats by, and the sun peeks through the open curtain, the soft light touches your unmoving form gently. But you're already awake, unable to sleep with the teacher's spiteful words and contemptuous looks embedded under your eyelids every time you close your eyes.
Likes, reblogs, and comments are greatly appreciated! I'd love to read your thoughts on the story!
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not a question but i’m a professional ballet dancer and i’m loving ur pas de duex series!!! you have it pretty spot on with the accuracy so far but if u ever have any questions lmk and i’d be happy to help :) i’m loving it tho and i cant wait to read more 🫶🫶
Oh my god thank youuuuu??!!!!! That is such a relief to hear!! I wanted to write the Reader with a background in ballet with as much authenticity and accuracy as possible, especially ever since I came up with a storyline that I think works with Matt's yes pain yes gain always suffering vibe.
I absolutely adore ballet. Parts of what I write are from my own experience, but since I'm still quite new to the art myself (as an adult beginner), I've done my best to make it up by doing lots and lots of research. So I'm very happy to hear that everything is pretty much accurate! I also would love to take you up on your offer!! I'd love to write the professional ballet dancer experience as authentic as possible.
And thank you so much for your sweet message! Sometimes knowing that there are a few people out there who care about my story can really keep me going. I really appreciate you taking the time to send me a message!
Chapter IV: Entrechat
Masterlist
Pairing: Matt Murdock x F!Reader
Warnings: Fluff, description of injuries and blood, short and simple medical procedure, toxic environment.
Word Count: 5.9k
Author's Note: This is the longest chapter of the series to date! (by only 600 words but still). I ended up having to cut a chunk because time wasn't on my side and also I kept adding more stuff to the chapter and complicated the process. But here it is! I hope you will enjoy it 🫶
GIF Source – The GIF is extremely relevant!!
Your dance bag used to be indicative of your day. The heavier the bag, the longer the day, the more exhausted you'd be at the end of it. The bag would be strewn with multiple pairs of pointe shoes, two wrap skirts of different lengths, a practice tutu, warmup layers and tools, water and food. You would spend most of the day inside. Class in the morning, rehearsal for your part, and more often than not, understudy for Christine. You were only allowed to take your lunch break when the director was satisfied with your work, so it gave you an incentive to dance well and to perform perfectly every day. Every time. Some days, you didn't get a break until mid-afternoon. Despite your frustration and exhaustion, it was hard to find fault in Roger's teaching method as it clearly worked. A few passionate critics called you 'Roger Emerson's artistry crafted in a human form, and the true successor to Christine Lambert's illustrious career'. Jo and Amy shared a look of concern when you told them about the behind-the-scenes stuff, so you learned to sugarcoat the reality for them. You figured that they wouldn't get it. The harsh environment simply was something you had to live with in order to thrive. To be the best performer you could be.
In preparation for a new season, the stage calls could be as late as 10:30 PM. On performance days, you'd stay at the theatre, getting ready with your hair, makeup, and costume before helping others. You would often leave the theatre very late, walking fast with your head slightly down, a pocket knife clenched in your fist, hidden in the full bag.
Your bag is still a reflection of your day. It holds a single pair of soft shoes, a water bottle, and the keys to your apartment and mailbox. Its inconsequential weight on your shoulder speaks for what you think of yourself – aimless, unmoored to a real and substantial purpose. No ballet class, no performance. No adoring audience who cheers for you as you take your bow at the end of the night. There are over eight million people in New York. No one cares that you used to dance for a mid-tier ballet company, and now working as a secretary for a mid-tier law firm. You have nothing except for the self-imposed helplessness. And it holds you motionlessly at the entrance to Jo's new gym.
You're torn between two opposite points of the axis – the yearning to go back to the one thing you've done your whole life, and the fear that your moment was gone the night of your injury. You know that you can't stay away from ballet for too long as the fleeting nature of your youth and the tragically short career you chose, and still love, pull at the back of your mind. They tell you the more you spend away from the art, that’s more time you don’t have wasted. But when you finally decided tonight was the night you finally made a tepid return to ballet, you're still scared. What is the point? You can never be as good as you used to be. The thought has been exhaustingly persistent. But seclusion has provided you with a comforting contemplation that you can accept. There is no audience that you have to perform for tonight. There is a sense of self-assurance that even if your dancing is mediocre, no one else will be around to witness it, except for you. You don't even have to dance if you don't want to. You quickly insert the key into the lock and turn, the door opens to your newfound determination.
Upon entry, you can already see why Jo bought this place. It has an old-school vibe, and of course, the boxing ring to the left of the room. New lockers spread along the wall near the entrance, breaking up by a hallway and Jo's office from what you can see. A couple of towel carts gather below the window looking out into the gym. The back of the sign Fogwell’s Gym is prominent even in the low street lights, each letter red, big and bold in their respective glass pane. Sandbags spread sporadically throughout the room, but you’re not here for them. You keep straight and reach the new addition to the gym as Jo instructed on the right, opposite the boxing ring. You wave at Leon – the night cleaner – before entering the room.
The studio is small and separated from the open space, and more narrow than the room you used to dance in at Lady Liberty, but it works better than your apartment. A large floor-to-ceiling mirror covers the length of the wall, reflecting the empty room except for a standard moveable barre on the opposite side. The window blind is drawn on the view of the boxing ring and the rest of the gym, and you keep it that way. You bring the barre to the middle of the room, vertically to the mirror, and put on the shoes. You didn’t bother putting on a leotard and tights, settling for a pair of leggings and a fitted shirt. The simple and form-hugging outfit is enough to see your lines.
The music playing through your phone speaker is loud enough for you to follow in the stillness of the building. Plié, tendu, ronde de jambe à terre. You go through each exercise with ease. Balançoire, fondu, ronde de jambe en l'air. Your mind and muscle memories work in tandem, guiding your movements. Frappé, petit battements, relevé. Every day for five, sometimes six, days of the week for years. Adagio, grand battement, arabesque penché. Your body is warm, your alignment refined and you find yourself not too concerned about the predicament you're wrapped up in as you move onto centre work.
After a couple of simple combinations, you recall the Cupid variation from Don Quixote. It was nowhere near the hardest variation you'd done, but with the level you're on at the moment, the agility and quick footwork required would be a challenge. But you want to feel the satisfaction of successfully executing a complete piece. So you search for the music, and mark it out with your hands and feet.
Music fills the room, a little louder this time, but doesn’t mute the sound of pressure every time your feet touch the floor. You can’t land as softly as you used to, but you try your best to hold your weight. You feel a pinch in your leg on a piqué turn, but you push through to the flow of the music. As the variation almost nears the end, the door to the main area of the gym creaks loudly, and whoever enters inadvertently takes away your focus with them. Your feet knock together clumsily on an assemblé, making you lose balance when you come back to the floor. You stumble, letting the notes float past you and eventually end. The muffled conversation in the other room announces the unmistakable presence of another. Jo let you know about Leon, and you haven't expected the company of anyone else during the gym's off hours. You peek through the blind to find the familiar shape of a person your eyes perpetually search for throughout the workday. You open the door but stay at the threshold. And call out hesitantly.
“Matt?”
He turns to your direction and says your name. He's surprised to see you, but there is a moment of delay as if he already knew you were here.
“What are you doing here?”
“I'm here to work out.”
He’s wearing a black tank, grey sweatpants, an old pair of trainers and a gym bag by his side. Your eyes trail over the stretch along the arm holes, noticing how worn the shirt looks, and how his arms look so much bigger than you've imagined. Not that you want to admit you have thought about his arms, but you can acknowledge that the dress shirts and suit jackets he usually wears are quite deceiving.
You course correct at his plain answer.
“But the gym is closed.”
“I can say the same to you.”
“My friend gave me the access. She owns the place.”
He thinks for a moment.
“Ahh. That explains the new equipments.”
You cross your arms over your chest, aware of his attempt at redirecting your attention.
“You still haven't answered my question.”
He huffs out a soft laugh, amused at your directness.
“Right, well, I also get after-hours access because of Leon.”
The man mentioned has already gone home, it seems.
“Oh yeah? You bribed him, didn't you?”
You lean against the door. Matt puts both hands up, feigning innocence.
“I admitted to no such thing.”
Your conversation has taken on a playful edge, and you allow yourself to lean into it.
“It’s clear to me that that’s what happened.”
“Are you conducting a cross-examination on me?"
"It doesn't have to be, but since you insist …"
He shakes his head in amusement.
"Can't believe it's only been two weeks since you started working for us. If I didn't know any better, I would think you'd been with us from the day we opened the practice.”
“Thank you. I’m just a quick learner. You’d know that if you came to the interview.”
Matt wets his lips with a quick swipe of his tongue. You were only joking, but when he speaks, you can hear a touch of seriousness in his voice.
“I’m glad I missed it.”
“Why?”
The question was only a notch above a whisper, but he heard it.
“That led us to here. You're working with us. And I get to see you more often.”
His admission draws a soft intake of air from you. You feel the skin on your cheeks and ears grow warm as your heart quickens its pace.
“Flirting with me won’t distract me from the fact that you’re trespassing.”
He turns his head to curse softly under his breath in a slightly exaggerated manner. You chuckle at his attempt to make you laugh.
“You’re good.”
He says, shaking his head, the smile on his lips widens.
“Don’t worry, I’m just joking. I won’t tell Jo about this.”
Jo is already on the fence about Matt. Knowing about his trespassing will only aggravate her.
“What about you? What are you doing here?”
Matt asks. You straighten up from where you’re standing, suddenly feeling defensive despite the question being innocuous.
“I’m here to … dance. I want to slowly get back to ballet. My apartment is too small for what I want to do so … here I am.”
His face brightens.
“That’s great. I’m glad you’ve decided to give it another chance. You told me how much you missed it."
You're surprised to see he still remembered what you told him on the first night you met.
“You'll regret that when I play the same music over and over.”
“Go ahead. I don't mind. I need to expand my playlist.”
“Let me guess. All you listen to is emo, broody music that fuels your tenancy in court.”
His head tilts slightly to the side at your poking fun at him.
“Broody? Is that what you think of me?”
“A little bit. Sometimes. It’s just that … you have that air about you. Like you’re suppressing something, all the time.”
A flash of something you can't name crosses his face. But it's gone as he puts on an easy smile.
“Hm, I didn’t expect to be cross-examined on top of a psychoanalysis coming to the gym tonight.”
“Maybe I really have spent too much time with you three.”
You share a laugh. The banter is nice. You get to talk freely to one another, and your overthinking ceases to make an appearance in this moment. The air is not laden with dread, frustration or misunderstanding like two nights ago. You have thought about the situation since after that night, and you feel like you owe Matt honesty.
“I should apologize to you. For the other night.”
Matt’s brows furrow as you keep going.
“I misconstrued your words and intention.”
"You don't have to apologize. I could've handled it better. I should've addressed you properly–"
You interrupt with a call for his name.
“Thank you for doing that, but it was mostly my fault. I was overly sensitive, and frankly, in way over my head about a similar situation. I was just worried that you … might have changed your mind."
“Changed my mind about what?”
Honesty, you remind yourself.
“… About me. With all of that stuff that happened with my old company, I thought you might think that I’m more trouble than I’m worth.”
Understanding dawns on his features. He softens.
“What happened at your old company is not your fault. I meant it the first time, and I still mean it now: anything happened between us will stay between us."
You know that now.
"And I enjoy having you around the office. I really do.”
You can't tame the happy smile on your face. You let it mirror Matt's own.
“I enjoy being around you, as well.”
A quiet understanding makes the air between you lighter. The knot in your stomach unravels. You clear your throat, bringing both of you out of the comfortable quiet.
“I’ll … let you get back to it.”
“Me, too.”
“I’ll close the door so the music won’t be too loud for you.”
“I really don’t mind either way.”
“Accommodating, as always.”
With a final remark and one last look at Matt, you retreat into the room and close the door anyway. As the night goes on, you can hear the rhythmic punches on the sandbag next to your own classical playlist. The melodies blur into one another, making up their own unique existence in an unlikely place.
/
You start going to Fogwell’s every other day. You find yourself looking forward to the visit for more than one reason. Every time you push through the discomfort that your old injury brings, the experience invigorates you, and you feel like you’re gaining a fraction of the old you back. You retrieve fragments of your old balance, strength, and flexibility. You're not confident enough to practice in pointe shoes yet, content with dancing in soft canvas shoes. You've been looking into ballet classes for adult dancers. A structured class with lesson plans can bolster your own framework and accelerate your improvement. You used to have classes at least five days a week, but for now, once to twice a week would be sufficient. Ballet classes are plentiful in New York, you just need to take the plunge.
You see Matt on and off throughout the nights you go. Seeing him is the other reason, but you can never admit it out loud to anyone. The delicate balance between you is restored, and you don't want to overcomplicate it. But there is no harm in innocuous talking that often veers on the side of flirting when both parties are willing participants. You chat and rehash about what happened at work before going back to your own things. You don't like staring at Matt, the act is too desperate, but your gaze does linger from time to time. The sandbag shakes from Matt's exertion, and you find yourself wondering if that's how he got the scars on his knuckles. The size of his arms, which are corded with muscles, fluster you when you've stared for too long.
You have been avoiding Jo's invites to hang out. Not to keep Matt's trespassing a secret, but you don’t like the way she tries to overshadow your thoughts and opinions with her own. The last time you saw her, she only said what she said because she was looking out for you. But you also know how once she has formed an idea about someone in her head, it’d be hard for her to let it go. If you agree to meet up, you know that she'll ask you about Matt again, and even worse, if you tell her about the misunderstanding, she'll only double down and urge you to quit your job at the firm. No matter what, you can't win. For right now, no one needs to know. Your connection with Matt remains as yours and his alone.
/
Time goes by, and the most accurate measure of it is your growing closeness with Karen, Foggy, and especially, Matt. To be more specific, it has been a little over a month since you started working for the firm. It’s not enough time for you to comfortably get drinks with them yet, but enough to be included and tag along on coffee runs and lunch breaks.
Therefore, you notice that Matt is late this morning, even though technically speaking, he was late on the day of your interview as well. He's always early or on time, so for his office to still be empty by the time the clock hits 10:45 is not like him. You pretend that you’re not even glancing at the time every five minutes, but you do. When you're even just a little restless, your mind takes over and forms an unpleasant thought. Matt must've spent the night with a woman.
The sudden delivery of the notion feels like a sharp sting on your cheeks. Your heart clenches, and what feels awfully similar to jealousy flares in your chest, making your stomach churn. You try to push the bitter feelings out, but it's too late. The silent acknowledgement is enough for your mind to helplessly dive deeper into the hole the invasive idea has dug. You don't have the right to be jealous, you're only Matt's colleague. What he chooses to do outside of work is none of your concern. With anyone is none of your rights to even question. Still, as much as you try to pretend that it doesn’t affect you, it does. Did he treat her nicely like the way he did with you? Did he kiss her with the same vigour? Same softness? Did he listen to her problems? Did he make breakfast for her this morning and that’s why he’s late? Maybe he's kissing her goodbye right now, with the promise of more whispered on her lips as he pulls away. The mental image of Matt kissing someone else pulls and cuts into your increasingly sensitive disposition. You look away from the document you weren’t really reading, willing your mind to make the words make sense again.
You haven't made much progress when Matt comes through the door a few minutes later, looking quite pale and dishevelled. He says good morning to you and quickly crosses the space to go to his office. Your response fades on your lips as he closes the door behind him. The cold demeanour is enough to spark a disappointment ember. It grows hot in your chest and along your skin as the conclusion clicks in place: he did spend the previous night with a woman. You look at the computer, hoping a vision change will help you forget quickly.
Matt often observes quietly, heedful of every little thing. He chimes in when something doesn't make sense, or when a question needs an answer. But in today's meeting, he is unusually silent. You notice the way he pushes his glasses up on his nose every other minute, the way he touches a particular part of his torso more often than not, and when you angle yourself in a way that grants you a view under the unbuttoned suit jacket, you find red spots that look like blood on his white shirt. You can't help but blurt out.
“Are you bleeding?”
Ms. Carrero turns to you, as do Karen and Foggy. You don’t care the way their bewildered gazes as you pull on Matt's hands, the ones that are trying to button his jacket up.
“It’s nothing.”
You part the material to find the small splotches of blood seeping through the cotton. Foggy’s voice is alarmed when he asks.
“What happened?”
Matt stumbles over his words, trying to smooth out his explanation.
“Oh, uh … kitchen … accident. I ran into a knife that I forgot I put there.”
“Are you okay?”
Ms. Carrero asks with concern laced in her scrunched brows. Matt nods, giving her a tight smile.
“You should probably get that taken care of.”
“It's not that bad. I can wait until the meeting is over.”
You know what Matt is trying to do, and you refuse to let him slide this under the rug. You say without giving him another chance to make up an excuse.
“Karen and Foggy can take care of the meeting. I can help you clean up.”
Karen nods while Foggy agrees with you. Matt hesitates. You lower your voice, almost pleading with him.
“Please, before you bleed out in front of Ms. Carrero.”
Matt concedes after a brief moment. You excuse yourselves as you stand up and walk to the door, holding it open for Matt to step through. The meeting reconvenes while you lead Matt into his office. You pull out the chair so he can sit and ask him to unbutton his shirt.
“Aren’t you going to ask me out to dinner first?”
Despite the cheeky remark, he listens to you, shrugging off the suit jacket.
“That’s a great idea considering how your kitchen skills don’t seem to be that great. Let’s keep you away from those knives for a while, yeah?”
You pull the chair on the opposite side of the desk and set it up next to Matt's.
“Ouch. Here I was, thinking we were having a good thing going on.”
You roll your eyes at him even though he can’t see it. Your voice softens.
“I’ll be right back.”
You search for the first aid kit in the kitchen before moving to your desk. In your bag, you find the tin of all-heal ointment balm and a Tide pen. You return to Matt’s office to find him leaning back on the chair with the few buttons unfastened from the bottom of the shirt. You set the kit on the desk, settle into the chair and ask.
“Can you hold your shirt up for me?”
This time, he listens without a sly remark. Your knees knock together as you get closer, and he accommodates you by parting his thighs. You slot in between, trying to calm your nerves at your proximity. He folds the material and holds it to his chest, revealing the expanse of smooth skin, well-defined abs, and a bloody bandage at his side. You're distracted by the sight momentarily before informing him of what you're going to do, and he nods. The wet patch comes off slowly under your careful fingers. The cut is much deeper than you thought, and the way Matt’s playing it off like it’s nothing alarms you. When you voice your concern, he only shrugs.
“I’ve had worse.”
“How? I’m very worried about your worse if this is nothing.”
The knot in your stomach tightens. You observe the wound, and it looks deeper than a simple kitchen knife cut.
“It looks a lot worse than it feels, trust me.”
“It also doesn't look like a simple accident.”
“Just my luck.”
"Did you try to impress someone? A woman you met at the bar, perhaps?"
You hope the joke didn't come off as forced as it sounds in your head. Matt gives you an easy, playful smile.
"No, there was no one to impress. My kitchen wouldn't be a mess if that was the case."
You release a disbelieving hum, and Matt holds the free hand up.
"I swear. This was a one-off incident."
"Right."
You shake your head, the corner of your lips involuntarily curl into a grin. You dip your head to take a closer look. Even though the wound is small and manageable, it still has a gaping opening, so slapping fresh gauze and bandage on top won't hold the edges close. You look into the first aid kit and are surprised to find the basics of what you need to properly clean and seal the injury. You put on a pair of gloves and grab a packet of anti-bacterial wipes.
“I will have to give you a couple of stitches so the wound can stay close, okay?”
His brows raise above the red glasses.
“Do you know how to stitch up a wound?”
He hisses softly as you clean the area with the wipe.
“Of course I do. I’ve darned shoes before. Can’t be that hard to stitch you up.”
You chuckle when his expression betrays him. He looks worried and on edge.
“I’m just joking. I know enough to take care of a simple wound like this.”
You clean the needle with an antiseptic cloth and prepare the thread.
“If I hurt you, let me know, okay?”
The smirk on his lips is cocky, yet simultaneously endearing.
“I’m a big boy. I can handle a needle.”
“But not a knife, apparently.”
That draws a deep chuckle from Matt. The room gradually falls into silence as you pour all of your focus on steadying your hands and making sure you don't pierce his skin too deeply. He takes the pain exceptionally well with only a few sharp breaths and soft gasps here and there.
“Did you have to do this a lot? Back when you were still dancing?”
His voice is as gentle as your hands. You take a moment before responding.
“Not really. It didn’t happen as often as you might think.”
His thoughtful silence gives you the courage to go on.
“I’d get blisters, cracked toe nails, things like that. The company started out very small so we didn't get proper healthcare professionals until about three years ago.”
Your hands are steady as you make it to the other half of the wound.
“It was the first performance of the season. I needed to rehearse for this one role, and all of the studios were taken. So I practiced in a closet full of costumes and set pieces. When I … basically spun around the room, I cut myself on one of the metal poles that they used as the foundation for the set. Tore through my tights and I started bleeding. I went home, wrapped it in a piece of gauze, secured a bandage on top and hoped for the best.
“During the show the next day, the wound opened and it soaked through the white tights I had to wear. After the show, the director said that if I pulled something like that again and didn’t get my injury in line for the next day's performance, he would bench me for the rest of the season. I didn't have enough money to get it checked out at a hospital. So I went to my friend slash roommate.”
“Did that friend happen to be Jo?”
“Yes. She used to be a professional boxer. She taught me how to stitch up my wound. Since I had to dance more than one role, on top of the two performances every day for six days straight as well, the wound would rip a little. So I had to add one or two stitches here and there.”
He breathes sharply as the spot you poke through is particularly tender.
“That sounds awful.”
“Dancing with the cut wasn't the best feeling, but at least I learned how to stitch up a wound from it.”
You cut the thread off and dab away the blood seeping through the now-closed cut. You take the gloves off and open the tin. A faint scent of soothing tea tree extract emanates as you take some ointment on your finger. You carefully smear a thin layer along the edge of the cut. Matt keeps still, holding his breathing to an almost motionless state. You close the lid and tap it twice before placing it on the table.
“Apply this after your shower, and whenever you change the bandage. It’ll help a lot.”
“Thank you.”
You cover the wound with new gauze and bandage.
“Thank you for telling me. And for stitching me up, of course.”
“Thank you for listening. Now, we have to take care of your shirt.”
“Right. Can’t go to my next meeting like this.”
He moves to unfasten the rest of the buttons, but you put your hand on top of his.
"You don't have to take it off. I can do it with this pen here."
He keeps his hands to the side as you flatten the material over your palm. The spots aren't too big, nothing a little diligent work can't fix. You dab the tip of the pen on the spots repeatedly before spreading the liquid. You watch as the red diminishes into a light pink then the barely-there colour of rust.
You put the implements back before closing the kit. You're about to stand up to leave when Matt reaches out and holds your wrist, keeping you there.
“I appreciate you doing this for me. Truly.”
Your heart stutters at the small swipe of his thumb on your pulse. You think about what Jo said. The man sitting in front of you is proving that he is anything but the terrible, awful things Jo thinks he might be capable of.
“You’re welcome.”
The moment is transient, and you miss his warmth when he lets you go. You're about to leave the room when he calls out to you.
“Will I see you tonight?”
“Not tonight. But tomorrow night. Definitely.”
/
That night, you take the subway to Greenwich Village. The ballet studio is on the third floor of the building, and you're the first one to arrive for class. You go through your warm-up routine in the corner of the room, staying out of the way as other students trickle in. Your guts alternate between excitement and nervousness, and both do little to ease your mind. This is an intermediate class for pre-professionals and advanced students. The room is filled with mostly younger people, and everyone gathers in groups.
The class goes quiet when an older woman enters the room with a big notebook on her arm. Charlotte Hill. She was an intern at the American Ballet Theatre for two years before quitting to found her own dance center after her name. You did a quick Google search before coming in, wanting to know the teacher a little more before the class. Everyone quietly put the finishing touches on their dancewear and grab their spots on the barre. Music flares through the speaker, and everyone starts the plié exercise without guidance from the teacher. You quickly follow others by watching them, but you still feel lost. Barre exercises vary depending on the teacher, the studio or the school. But to dive right into it without a single word going through the steps is bizarre. At Lady Liberty, the headmistress always went through the steps, even if it was just the names of them.
Because your spot is in a corner, when you do a soutenu turn to the other side, you have limited vision of what others are doing. There is no mirror on the wall when you work on the other side. You try your best to memorize the unfamiliar combinations as barre stretches on, but you can't keep up as well as others. Charlotte makes her way towards you, watching you struggle as the music changes again and again. The other students in the class go through each exercise easier as if they have done this so many times before, and you realize that is the case. You're singled out, your dancing is quite stiff with the teacher standing only two feet away from you. Her face is grim, and you can feel the mild contempt in her gaze, following your every movement. When she finally walks away, you can see discreet and sympathetic glances from a few students who look at you. Your nose burns, but you refuse to cry. You move your feet and your arms, you incline, raise and tilt your head. You keep dancing.
After putting the barre away, the class has a moment to drink water. One of the students who spared you a glance earlier comes up to you.
“I recognize you. You used to dance with Lady Liberty Theatre, right?”
“Yes, how did you know?”
“I get a seasonal ticket every year. I watched you perform several times now. You danced beautifully.”
“Thank you.”
She probably didn’t mean it, but the past tense has an unwanted effect on you. You swallow the lump in your throat, smiling as she introduces herself. Judging by the teacher's look of disinterest for you at barre, it's not an uncommon thought that you're no longer capable of dancing like you used to.
The class ends on a disastrous note. You could follow the centre works Charlotte gave decently, but that wasn't enough for her. You were asked to repeat a combination because according to her, your techniques were off. By that point, your muscles were strained, you were tired, but you carried it out anyway. You did everything she asked of you, even when she got into your space, following you as you moved through the space, shouting each step into your face. When you stumbled, she scoffed loudly, expressing her displeasure at your mediocrity while everyone else watched.
You stuff everything into your bag and try to leave the class as soon as possible, but the teacher calls out to you by your full name. So she knows who you are.
"We have classes for little children. Maybe you can come in and watch some day. You might learn something from them."
You're enraged, and you don't care about the consequences. Your voice is level when you answer her with defiance.
"You're just a terrible teacher. Don't project that onto me."
The sneer on her lips sours into a scowl.
"Your career is over. It's time you look for something else to do instead of wasting my time."
"Who are you to speak to me like this? At least I had a career. I'll be more than happy to never return to this place again."
You walk away before she can come up with a rebuttal. You know that you shouldn't have stooped to her level, but you don't care. You refuse to shed a tear over the teacher's deplorable hostility. Despite the positive changes in the ballet world in recent years, with more inclusivity and acceptance of races, body types, and backgrounds, there are still remnants of the old system that refuse to die. Those bits and pieces are carried on through people like Charlotte Hill, believing that ballet is the type of art that is reserved and accessible for people of certain classes. You scorn and reject that belief.
A smaller, but more insistent part of you thinks that the teacher's attitude stemmed from the fact that your place in ballet is not yours anymore. You chose to step away, to give it up, and you don't deserve a second chance.
Your hair is still wet when your head hits the pillow. You're exhausted and wracked with guilt and self-hatred. The night floats by, and the sun peeks through the open curtain, the soft light touches your unmoving form gently. But you're already awake, unable to sleep with the teacher's spiteful words and contemptuous looks embedded under your eyelids every time you close your eyes.
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Chapter IV: Entrechat
Masterlist
Pairing: Matt Murdock x F!Reader
Warnings: Fluff, description of injuries and blood, short and simple medical procedure, toxic environment.
Word Count: 5.9k
Author's Note: This is the longest chapter of the series to date! (by only 600 words but still). I ended up having to cut a chunk because time wasn't on my side and also I kept adding more stuff to the chapter and complicated the process. But here it is! I hope you will enjoy it 🫶
GIF Source – The GIF is extremely relevant!!
Your dance bag used to be indicative of your day. The heavier the bag, the longer the day, the more exhausted you'd be at the end of it. The bag would be strewn with multiple pairs of pointe shoes, two wrap skirts of different lengths, a practice tutu, warmup layers and tools, water and food. You would spend most of the day inside. Class in the morning, rehearsal for your part, and more often than not, understudy for Christine. You were only allowed to take your lunch break when the director was satisfied with your work, so it gave you an incentive to dance well and to perform perfectly every day. Every time. Some days, you didn't get a break until mid-afternoon. Despite your frustration and exhaustion, it was hard to find fault in Roger's teaching method as it clearly worked. A few passionate critics called you 'Roger Emerson's artistry crafted in a human form, and the true successor to Christine Lambert's illustrious career'. Jo and Amy shared a look of concern when you told them about the behind-the-scenes stuff, so you learned to sugarcoat the reality for them. You figured that they wouldn't get it. The harsh environment simply was something you had to live with in order to thrive. To be the best performer you could be.
In preparation for a new season, the stage calls could be as late as 10:30 PM. On performance days, you'd stay at the theatre, getting ready with your hair, makeup, and costume before helping others. You would often leave the theatre very late, walking fast with your head slightly down, a pocket knife clenched in your fist, hidden in the full bag.
Your bag is still a reflection of your day. It holds a single pair of soft shoes, a water bottle, and the keys to your apartment and mailbox. Its inconsequential weight on your shoulder speaks for what you think of yourself – aimless, unmoored to a real and substantial purpose. No ballet class, no performance. No adoring audience who cheers for you as you take your bow at the end of the night. There are over eight million people in New York. No one cares that you used to dance for a mid-tier ballet company, and now working as a secretary for a mid-tier law firm. You have nothing except for the self-imposed helplessness. And it holds you motionlessly at the entrance to Jo's new gym.
You're torn between two opposite points of the axis – the yearning to go back to the one thing you've done your whole life, and the fear that your moment was gone the night of your injury. You know that you can't stay away from ballet for too long as the fleeting nature of your youth and the tragically short career you chose, and still love, pull at the back of your mind. They tell you the more you spend away from the art, that’s more time you don’t have wasted. But when you finally decided tonight was the night you finally made a tepid return to ballet, you're still scared. What is the point? You can never be as good as you used to be. The thought has been exhaustingly persistent. But seclusion has provided you with a comforting contemplation that you can accept. There is no audience that you have to perform for tonight. There is a sense of self-assurance that even if your dancing is mediocre, no one else will be around to witness it, except for you. You don't even have to dance if you don't want to. You quickly insert the key into the lock and turn, the door opens to your newfound determination.
Upon entry, you can already see why Jo bought this place. It has an old-school vibe, and of course, the boxing ring to the left of the room. New lockers spread along the wall near the entrance, breaking up by a hallway and Jo's office from what you can see. A couple of towel carts gather below the window looking out into the gym. The back of the sign Fogwell’s Gym is prominent even in the low street lights, each letter red, big and bold in their respective glass pane. Sandbags spread sporadically throughout the room, but you’re not here for them. You keep straight and reach the new addition to the gym as Jo instructed on the right, opposite the boxing ring. You wave at Leon – the night cleaner – before entering the room.
The studio is small and separated from the open space, and more narrow than the room you used to dance in at Lady Liberty, but it works better than your apartment. A large floor-to-ceiling mirror covers the length of the wall, reflecting the empty room except for a standard moveable barre on the opposite side. The window blind is drawn on the view of the boxing ring and the rest of the gym, and you keep it that way. You bring the barre to the middle of the room, vertically to the mirror, and put on the shoes. You didn’t bother putting on a leotard and tights, settling for a pair of leggings and a fitted shirt. The simple and form-hugging outfit is enough to see your lines.
The music playing through your phone speaker is loud enough for you to follow in the stillness of the building. Plié, tendu, ronde de jambe à terre. You go through each exercise with ease. Balançoire, fondu, ronde de jambe en l'air. Your mind and muscle memories work in tandem, guiding your movements. Frappé, petit battements, relevé. Every day for five, sometimes six, days of the week for years. Adagio, grand battement, arabesque penché. Your body is warm, your alignment refined and you find yourself not too concerned about the predicament you're wrapped up in as you move onto centre work.
After a couple of simple combinations, you recall the Cupid variation from Don Quixote. It was nowhere near the hardest variation you'd done, but with the level you're on at the moment, the agility and quick footwork required would be a challenge. But you want to feel the satisfaction of successfully executing a complete piece. So you search for the music, and mark it out with your hands and feet.
Music fills the room, a little louder this time, but doesn’t mute the sound of pressure every time your feet touch the floor. You can’t land as softly as you used to, but you try your best to hold your weight. You feel a pinch in your leg on a piqué turn, but you push through to the flow of the music. As the variation almost nears the end, the door to the main area of the gym creaks loudly, and whoever enters inadvertently takes away your focus with them. Your feet knock together clumsily on an assemblé, making you lose balance when you come back to the floor. You stumble, letting the notes float past you and eventually end. The muffled conversation in the other room announces the unmistakable presence of another. Jo let you know about Leon, and you haven't expected the company of anyone else during the gym's off hours. You peek through the blind to find the familiar shape of a person your eyes perpetually search for throughout the workday. You open the door but stay at the threshold. And call out hesitantly.
“Matt?”
He turns to your direction and says your name. He's surprised to see you, but there is a moment of delay as if he already knew you were here.
“What are you doing here?”
“I'm here to work out.”
He’s wearing a black tank, grey sweatpants, an old pair of trainers and a gym bag by his side. Your eyes trail over the stretch along the arm holes, noticing how worn the shirt looks, and how his arms look so much bigger than you've imagined. Not that you want to admit you have thought about his arms, but you can acknowledge that the dress shirts and suit jackets he usually wears are quite deceiving.
You course correct at his plain answer.
“But the gym is closed.”
“I can say the same to you.”
“My friend gave me the access. She owns the place.”
He thinks for a moment.
“Ahh. That explains the new equipments.”
You cross your arms over your chest, aware of his attempt at redirecting your attention.
“You still haven't answered my question.”
He huffs out a soft laugh, amused at your directness.
“Right, well, I also get after-hours access because of Leon.”
The man mentioned has already gone home, it seems.
“Oh yeah? You bribed him, didn't you?”
You lean against the door. Matt puts both hands up, feigning innocence.
“I admitted to no such thing.”
Your conversation has taken on a playful edge, and you allow yourself to lean into it.
“It’s clear to me that that’s what happened.”
“Are you conducting a cross-examination on me?"
"It doesn't have to be, but since you insist …"
He shakes his head in amusement.
"Can't believe it's only been two weeks since you started working for us. If I didn't know any better, I would think you'd been with us from the day we opened the practice.”
“Thank you. I’m just a quick learner. You’d know that if you came to the interview.”
Matt wets his lips with a quick swipe of his tongue. You were only joking, but when he speaks, you can hear a touch of seriousness in his voice.
“I’m glad I missed it.”
“Why?”
The question was only a notch above a whisper, but he heard it.
“That led us to here. You're working with us. And I get to see you more often.”
His admission draws a soft intake of air from you. You feel the skin on your cheeks and ears grow warm as your heart quickens its pace.
“Flirting with me won’t distract me from the fact that you’re trespassing.”
He turns his head to curse softly under his breath in a slightly exaggerated manner. You chuckle at his attempt to make you laugh.
“You’re good.”
He says, shaking his head, the smile on his lips widens.
“Don’t worry, I’m just joking. I won’t tell Jo about this.”
Jo is already on the fence about Matt. Knowing about his trespassing will only aggravate her.
“What about you? What are you doing here?”
Matt asks. You straighten up from where you’re standing, suddenly feeling defensive despite the question being innocuous.
“I’m here to … dance. I want to slowly get back to ballet. My apartment is too small for what I want to do so … here I am.”
His face brightens.
“That’s great. I’m glad you’ve decided to give it another chance. You told me how much you missed it."
You're surprised to see he still remembered what you told him on the first night you met.
“You'll regret that when I play the same music over and over.”
“Go ahead. I don't mind. I need to expand my playlist.”
“Let me guess. All you listen to is emo, broody music that fuels your tenancy in court.”
His head tilts slightly to the side at your poking fun at him.
“Broody? Is that what you think of me?”
“A little bit. Sometimes. It’s just that … you have that air about you. Like you’re suppressing something, all the time.”
A flash of something you can't name crosses his face. But it's gone as he puts on an easy smile.
“Hm, I didn’t expect to be cross-examined on top of a psychoanalysis coming to the gym tonight.”
“Maybe I really have spent too much time with you three.”
You share a laugh. The banter is nice. You get to talk freely to one another, and your overthinking ceases to make an appearance in this moment. The air is not laden with dread, frustration or misunderstanding like two nights ago. You have thought about the situation since after that night, and you feel like you owe Matt honesty.
“I should apologize to you. For the other night.”
Matt’s brows furrow as you keep going.
“I misconstrued your words and intention.”
"You don't have to apologize. I could've handled it better. I should've addressed you properly–"
You interrupt with a call for his name.
“Thank you for doing that, but it was mostly my fault. I was overly sensitive, and frankly, in way over my head about a similar situation. I was just worried that you … might have changed your mind."
“Changed my mind about what?”
Honesty, you remind yourself.
“… About me. With all of that stuff that happened with my old company, I thought you might think that I’m more trouble than I’m worth.”
Understanding dawns on his features. He softens.
“What happened at your old company is not your fault. I meant it the first time, and I still mean it now: anything happened between us will stay between us."
You know that now.
"And I enjoy having you around the office. I really do.”
You can't tame the happy smile on your face. You let it mirror Matt's own.
“I enjoy being around you, as well.”
A quiet understanding makes the air between you lighter. The knot in your stomach unravels. You clear your throat, bringing both of you out of the comfortable quiet.
“I’ll … let you get back to it.”
“Me, too.”
“I’ll close the door so the music won’t be too loud for you.”
“I really don’t mind either way.”
“Accommodating, as always.”
With a final remark and one last look at Matt, you retreat into the room and close the door anyway. As the night goes on, you can hear the rhythmic punches on the sandbag next to your own classical playlist. The melodies blur into one another, making up their own unique existence in an unlikely place.
/
You start going to Fogwell’s every other day. You find yourself looking forward to the visit for more than one reason. Every time you push through the discomfort that your old injury brings, the experience invigorates you, and you feel like you’re gaining a fraction of the old you back. You retrieve fragments of your old balance, strength, and flexibility. You're not confident enough to practice in pointe shoes yet, content with dancing in soft canvas shoes. You've been looking into ballet classes for adult dancers. A structured class with lesson plans can bolster your own framework and accelerate your improvement. You used to have classes at least five days a week, but for now, once to twice a week would be sufficient. Ballet classes are plentiful in New York, you just need to take the plunge.
You see Matt on and off throughout the nights you go. Seeing him is the other reason, but you can never admit it out loud to anyone. The delicate balance between you is restored, and you don't want to overcomplicate it. But there is no harm in innocuous talking that often veers on the side of flirting when both parties are willing participants. You chat and rehash about what happened at work before going back to your own things. You don't like staring at Matt, the act is too desperate, but your gaze does linger from time to time. The sandbag shakes from Matt's exertion, and you find yourself wondering if that's how he got the scars on his knuckles. The size of his arms, which are corded with muscles, fluster you when you've stared for too long.
You have been avoiding Jo's invites to hang out. Not to keep Matt's trespassing a secret, but you don’t like the way she tries to overshadow your thoughts and opinions with her own. The last time you saw her, she only said what she said because she was looking out for you. But you also know how once she has formed an idea about someone in her head, it’d be hard for her to let it go. If you agree to meet up, you know that she'll ask you about Matt again, and even worse, if you tell her about the misunderstanding, she'll only double down and urge you to quit your job at the firm. No matter what, you can't win. For right now, no one needs to know. Your connection with Matt remains as yours and his alone.
/
Time goes by, and the most accurate measure of it is your growing closeness with Karen, Foggy, and especially, Matt. To be more specific, it has been a little over a month since you started working for the firm. It’s not enough time for you to comfortably get drinks with them yet, but enough to be included and tag along on coffee runs and lunch breaks.
Therefore, you notice that Matt is late this morning, even though technically speaking, he was late on the day of your interview as well. He's always early or on time, so for his office to still be empty by the time the clock hits 10:45 is not like him. You pretend that you’re not even glancing at the time every five minutes, but you do. When you're even just a little restless, your mind takes over and forms an unpleasant thought. Matt must've spent the night with a woman.
The sudden delivery of the notion feels like a sharp sting on your cheeks. Your heart clenches, and what feels awfully similar to jealousy flares in your chest, making your stomach churn. You try to push the bitter feelings out, but it's too late. The silent acknowledgement is enough for your mind to helplessly dive deeper into the hole the invasive idea has dug. You don't have the right to be jealous, you're only Matt's colleague. What he chooses to do outside of work is none of your concern. With anyone is none of your rights to even question. Still, as much as you try to pretend that it doesn’t affect you, it does. Did he treat her nicely like the way he did with you? Did he kiss her with the same vigour? Same softness? Did he listen to her problems? Did he make breakfast for her this morning and that’s why he’s late? Maybe he's kissing her goodbye right now, with the promise of more whispered on her lips as he pulls away. The mental image of Matt kissing someone else pulls and cuts into your increasingly sensitive disposition. You look away from the document you weren’t really reading, willing your mind to make the words make sense again.
You haven't made much progress when Matt comes through the door a few minutes later, looking quite pale and dishevelled. He says good morning to you and quickly crosses the space to go to his office. Your response fades on your lips as he closes the door behind him. The cold demeanour is enough to spark a disappointment ember. It grows hot in your chest and along your skin as the conclusion clicks in place: he did spend the previous night with a woman. You look at the computer, hoping a vision change will help you forget quickly.
Matt often observes quietly, heedful of every little thing. He chimes in when something doesn't make sense, or when a question needs an answer. But in today's meeting, he is unusually silent. You notice the way he pushes his glasses up on his nose every other minute, the way he touches a particular part of his torso more often than not, and when you angle yourself in a way that grants you a view under the unbuttoned suit jacket, you find red spots that look like blood on his white shirt. You can't help but blurt out.
“Are you bleeding?”
Ms. Carrero turns to you, as do Karen and Foggy. You don’t care the way their bewildered gazes as you pull on Matt's hands, the ones that are trying to button his jacket up.
“It’s nothing.”
You part the material to find the small splotches of blood seeping through the cotton. Foggy’s voice is alarmed when he asks.
“What happened?”
Matt stumbles over his words, trying to smooth out his explanation.
“Oh, uh … kitchen … accident. I ran into a knife that I forgot I put there.”
“Are you okay?”
Ms. Carrero asks with concern laced in her scrunched brows. Matt nods, giving her a tight smile.
“You should probably get that taken care of.”
“It's not that bad. I can wait until the meeting is over.”
You know what Matt is trying to do, and you refuse to let him slide this under the rug. You say without giving him another chance to make up an excuse.
“Karen and Foggy can take care of the meeting. I can help you clean up.”
Karen nods while Foggy agrees with you. Matt hesitates. You lower your voice, almost pleading with him.
“Please, before you bleed out in front of Ms. Carrero.”
Matt concedes after a brief moment. You excuse yourselves as you stand up and walk to the door, holding it open for Matt to step through. The meeting reconvenes while you lead Matt into his office. You pull out the chair so he can sit and ask him to unbutton his shirt.
“Aren’t you going to ask me out to dinner first?”
Despite the cheeky remark, he listens to you, shrugging off the suit jacket.
“That’s a great idea considering how your kitchen skills don’t seem to be that great. Let’s keep you away from those knives for a while, yeah?”
You pull the chair on the opposite side of the desk and set it up next to Matt's.
“Ouch. Here I was, thinking we were having a good thing going on.”
You roll your eyes at him even though he can’t see it. Your voice softens.
“I’ll be right back.”
You search for the first aid kit in the kitchen before moving to your desk. In your bag, you find the tin of all-heal ointment balm and a Tide pen. You return to Matt’s office to find him leaning back on the chair with the few buttons unfastened from the bottom of the shirt. You set the kit on the desk, settle into the chair and ask.
“Can you hold your shirt up for me?”
This time, he listens without a sly remark. Your knees knock together as you get closer, and he accommodates you by parting his thighs. You slot in between, trying to calm your nerves at your proximity. He folds the material and holds it to his chest, revealing the expanse of smooth skin, well-defined abs, and a bloody bandage at his side. You're distracted by the sight momentarily before informing him of what you're going to do, and he nods. The wet patch comes off slowly under your careful fingers. The cut is much deeper than you thought, and the way Matt’s playing it off like it’s nothing alarms you. When you voice your concern, he only shrugs.
“I’ve had worse.”
“How? I’m very worried about your worse if this is nothing.”
The knot in your stomach tightens. You observe the wound, and it looks deeper than a simple kitchen knife cut.
“It looks a lot worse than it feels, trust me.”
“It also doesn't look like a simple accident.”
“Just my luck.”
"Did you try to impress someone? A woman you met at the bar, perhaps?"
You hope the joke didn't come off as forced as it sounds in your head. Matt gives you an easy, playful smile.
"No, there was no one to impress. My kitchen wouldn't be a mess if that was the case."
You release a disbelieving hum, and Matt holds the free hand up.
"I swear. This was a one-off incident."
"Right."
You shake your head, the corner of your lips involuntarily curl into a grin. You dip your head to take a closer look. Even though the wound is small and manageable, it still has a gaping opening, so slapping fresh gauze and bandage on top won't hold the edges close. You look into the first aid kit and are surprised to find the basics of what you need to properly clean and seal the injury. You put on a pair of gloves and grab a packet of anti-bacterial wipes.
“I will have to give you a couple of stitches so the wound can stay close, okay?”
His brows raise above the red glasses.
“Do you know how to stitch up a wound?”
He hisses softly as you clean the area with the wipe.
“Of course I do. I’ve darned shoes before. Can’t be that hard to stitch you up.”
You chuckle when his expression betrays him. He looks worried and on edge.
“I’m just joking. I know enough to take care of a simple wound like this.”
You clean the needle with an antiseptic cloth and prepare the thread.
“If I hurt you, let me know, okay?”
The smirk on his lips is cocky, yet simultaneously endearing.
“I’m a big boy. I can handle a needle.”
“But not a knife, apparently.”
That draws a deep chuckle from Matt. The room gradually falls into silence as you pour all of your focus on steadying your hands and making sure you don't pierce his skin too deeply. He takes the pain exceptionally well with only a few sharp breaths and soft gasps here and there.
“Did you have to do this a lot? Back when you were still dancing?”
His voice is as gentle as your hands. You take a moment before responding.
“Not really. It didn’t happen as often as you might think.”
His thoughtful silence gives you the courage to go on.
“I’d get blisters, cracked toe nails, things like that. The company started out very small so we didn't get proper healthcare professionals until about three years ago.”
Your hands are steady as you make it to the other half of the wound.
“It was the first performance of the season. I needed to rehearse for this one role, and all of the studios were taken. So I practiced in a closet full of costumes and set pieces. When I … basically spun around the room, I cut myself on one of the metal poles that they used as the foundation for the set. Tore through my tights and I started bleeding. I went home, wrapped it in a piece of gauze, secured a bandage on top and hoped for the best.
“During the show the next day, the wound opened and it soaked through the white tights I had to wear. After the show, the director said that if I pulled something like that again and didn’t get my injury in line for the next day's performance, he would bench me for the rest of the season. I didn't have enough money to get it checked out at a hospital. So I went to my friend slash roommate.”
“Did that friend happen to be Jo?”
“Yes. She used to be a professional boxer. She taught me how to stitch up my wound. Since I had to dance more than one role, on top of the two performances every day for six days straight as well, the wound would rip a little. So I had to add one or two stitches here and there.”
He breathes sharply as the spot you poke through is particularly tender.
“That sounds awful.”
“Dancing with the cut wasn't the best feeling, but at least I learned how to stitch up a wound from it.”
You cut the thread off and dab away the blood seeping through the now-closed cut. You take the gloves off and open the tin. A faint scent of soothing tea tree extract emanates as you take some ointment on your finger. You carefully smear a thin layer along the edge of the cut. Matt keeps still, holding his breathing to an almost motionless state. You close the lid and tap it twice before placing it on the table.
“Apply this after your shower, and whenever you change the bandage. It’ll help a lot.”
“Thank you.”
You cover the wound with new gauze and bandage.
“Thank you for telling me. And for stitching me up, of course.”
“Thank you for listening. Now, we have to take care of your shirt.”
“Right. Can’t go to my next meeting like this.”
He moves to unfasten the rest of the buttons, but you put your hand on top of his.
"You don't have to take it off. I can do it with this pen here."
He keeps his hands to the side as you flatten the material over your palm. The spots aren't too big, nothing a little diligent work can't fix. You dab the tip of the pen on the spots repeatedly before spreading the liquid. You watch as the red diminishes into a light pink then the barely-there colour of rust.
You put the implements back before closing the kit. You're about to stand up to leave when Matt reaches out and holds your wrist, keeping you there.
“I appreciate you doing this for me. Truly.”
Your heart stutters at the small swipe of his thumb on your pulse. You think about what Jo said. The man sitting in front of you is proving that he is anything but the terrible, awful things Jo thinks he might be capable of.
“You’re welcome.”
The moment is transient, and you miss his warmth when he lets you go. You're about to leave the room when he calls out to you.
“Will I see you tonight?”
“Not tonight. But tomorrow night. Definitely.”
/
That night, you take the subway to Greenwich Village. The ballet studio is on the third floor of the building, and you're the first one to arrive for class. You go through your warm-up routine in the corner of the room, staying out of the way as other students trickle in. Your guts alternate between excitement and nervousness, and both do little to ease your mind. This is an intermediate class for pre-professionals and advanced students. The room is filled with mostly younger people, and everyone gathers in groups.
The class goes quiet when an older woman enters the room with a big notebook on her arm. Charlotte Hill. She was an intern at the American Ballet Theatre for two years before quitting to found her own dance center after her name. You did a quick Google search before coming in, wanting to know the teacher a little more before the class. Everyone quietly put the finishing touches on their dancewear and grab their spots on the barre. Music flares through the speaker, and everyone starts the plié exercise without guidance from the teacher. You quickly follow others by watching them, but you still feel lost. Barre exercises vary depending on the teacher, the studio or the school. But to dive right into it without a single word going through the steps is bizarre. At Lady Liberty, the headmistress always went through the steps, even if it was just the names of them.
Because your spot is in a corner, when you do a soutenu turn to the other side, you have limited vision of what others are doing. There is no mirror on the wall when you work on the other side. You try your best to memorize the unfamiliar combinations as barre stretches on, but you can't keep up as well as others. Charlotte makes her way towards you, watching you struggle as the music changes again and again. The other students in the class go through each exercise easier as if they have done this so many times before, and you realize that is the case. You're singled out, your dancing is quite stiff with the teacher standing only two feet away from you. Her face is grim, and you can feel the mild contempt in her gaze, following your every movement. When she finally walks away, you can see discreet and sympathetic glances from a few students who look at you. Your nose burns, but you refuse to cry. You move your feet and your arms, you incline, raise and tilt your head. You keep dancing.
After putting the barre away, the class has a moment to drink water. One of the students who spared you a glance earlier comes up to you.
“I recognize you. You used to dance with Lady Liberty Theatre, right?”
“Yes, how did you know?”
“I get a seasonal ticket every year. I watched you perform several times now. You danced beautifully.”
“Thank you.”
She probably didn’t mean it, but the past tense has an unwanted effect on you. You swallow the lump in your throat, smiling as she introduces herself. Judging by the teacher's look of disinterest for you at barre, it's not an uncommon thought that you're no longer capable of dancing like you used to.
The class ends on a disastrous note. You could follow the centre works Charlotte gave decently, but that wasn't enough for her. You were asked to repeat a combination because according to her, your techniques were off. By that point, your muscles were strained, you were tired, but you carried it out anyway. You did everything she asked of you, even when she got into your space, following you as you moved through the space, shouting each step into your face. When you stumbled, she scoffed loudly, expressing her displeasure at your mediocrity while everyone else watched.
You stuff everything into your bag and try to leave the class as soon as possible, but the teacher calls out to you by your full name. So she knows who you are.
"We have classes for little children. Maybe you can come in and watch some day. You might learn something from them."
You're enraged, and you don't care about the consequences. Your voice is level when you answer her with defiance.
"You're just a terrible teacher. Don't project that onto me."
The sneer on her lips sours into a scowl.
"Your career is over. It's time you look for something else to do instead of wasting my time."
"Who are you to speak to me like this? At least I had a career. I'll be more than happy to never return to this place again."
You walk away before she can come up with a rebuttal. You know that you shouldn't have stooped to her level, but you don't care. You refuse to shed a tear over the teacher's deplorable hostility. Despite the positive changes in the ballet world in recent years, with more inclusivity and acceptance of races, body types, and backgrounds, there are still remnants of the old system that refuse to die. Those bits and pieces are carried on through people like Charlotte Hill, believing that ballet is the type of art that is reserved and accessible for people of certain classes. You scorn and reject that belief.
A smaller, but more insistent part of you thinks that the teacher's attitude stemmed from the fact that your place in ballet is not yours anymore. You chose to step away, to give it up, and you don't deserve a second chance.
Your hair is still wet when your head hits the pillow. You're exhausted and wracked with guilt and self-hatred. The night floats by, and the sun peeks through the open curtain, the soft light touches your unmoving form gently. But you're already awake, unable to sleep with the teacher's spiteful words and contemptuous looks embedded under your eyelids every time you close your eyes.
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To the few soldiers that are reading Pas de Deux, if I post chapter 4 on Sunday, will you guys be mad?
Matt + Pointdexter =
Chapter I: En Avant
Masterlist
Pairing: Matt Murdock x F!Reader
Warnings: Fluff.
Word Count: 5.2k
Author's Note: The first chapter is finally here!! I'm very excited to bring this new series to you. It's what I've been thinking about for a few months now. It came to me while I was still working on A Languor Spell, and now I can give it my full attention. Thank you for your patience! I hope you will enjoy the first chapter!
P/S: This is my first time writing in present tense, so if there's any mistake please let me know so I can fix it!
Disclaimer: I'm not a professional ballet dancer. I'm an adult beginner, and I've been taking classes consistently for over a year now. I just want to say that the series isn't written with the experience of a professional ballerina, but with my love for the art and the extensive research that I've done and will continue to do. I don't choose to write the Reader as a ballerina because of the aesthetic, but because I think there are so many things to explore in the original story that I've come up with, with the Reader being in the industry.
GIF Source: @/petertingle-yipyip
There has always been an emptiness residing within the frame of your body. In the absence of your old life, it has grown expeditiously. It carves into your body and makes a home in the forefront of your mind. On worse days, you feel as if anyone can see at first glance, how incomplete of a person you are. On better days, like today, you can hide it well, even from your closest friend. But right now, sitting in a dimly lit bar across from the friend you have known since you moved to this city at 18, you feel the person you're supposed to be has taken your anatomy apart. You're disembodied, scattered, and fractional.
Jo notices your silence and reaches over the table, laying her hand atop yours.
“Have you thought about my offer?”
Jo’s proposal. How can you not think about it? It has never left your mind ever since she mentioned it. Her newly acquired gym could be a place for you to get back to dancing in complete privacy. And you won’t have to pay a dime.
“I spruced up the place a little bit and will be adding more equipment. I can get whatever you need so it can be a proper space for you to practice.”
“I appreciate your concern, but I don’t know if I’m ready.”
Jo casts a sympathetic look at you, her voice careful.
“How’s your foot?”
You flex and point the right foot under the table, recalling the phantom pain that was your consistent companion for the most part of last year.
“It’s not that bad.”
“Are you still seeing Amy?”
“Of course. She’d bite my head off if I missed our appointment.”
You share a knowing chuckle, knowing Amy's personality. You know her through Jo, and they dated briefly in college. The two stayed friends afterward. After leaving Lady Liberty Ballet Theatre, your physical health was left to your own management. Your gaps of knowledge were filled in by Amy, a physical therapist who stepped in and offered her help voluntarily when Jo mentioned your situation. You still meet biweekly at her practice in Harlem, and the three of you hang out from time to time.
“Come to my gym.”
She hastily continues once she sees the decline perches on your pressed lips.
“It’s free.”
“I don’t want to be a bother. You’ll have to get a barre, and the flooring might not be suitable–“
“I don’t care about the cost. I just want to do this for you. Let someone do a nice thing for you every once in a while.”
You meet her eyes, resisting her act of kindness with silence. You know how to pick your battles, and this is the one you have lost from the start, judging by Jo's stern gaze. You sigh.
“I’ll think about it.”
A victory smile graces her lips.
“That’s all I’m asking.”
Jo leans into the table, her hand reaching for yours.
“I want to see you dance on the stage again. You’re a beautiful ballerina, and I know this is not the end for you.”
You know she means well, but her words feel like claws, sinking their sharp ends into your heart. You haven't danced since the injury, and a part of you knows that you might never dance as well as you once did. The best version of you had lived that life to its fullest potential, the life of endless classes and rehearsals, soldout shows, ending many nights and seasons to the deafening cheers from the audience. Your current self is only a shadow, living a partial existence and mourning the past as time passes and your grasp on it weakens.
You want the endless optimism Jo seems to possess. She’s always so assertive in everything she does. From her university days pursuing a bachelor's degree in sports science to her boxing competition days to buying a gym, she has a sense of self-assurance that carries her throughout the years you've known her ever since you became roommates when you first moved to New York. And you admire that about her endlessly. Her goals might vary, but her passion for them never wavers. Her faith in you seems to share the same sentiment.
You swallow the lump in your throat and nod, hoping your face doesn't betray your true thoughts. Jo squeezes your hand and lets go. She checks her wristwatch, and with a silent glance, you understand that she has to leave. Jo meets you as you stand up from your side of the booth, drawing you into a crushing hug.
“Will you be okay here?”
She pulls back. You smile and pat her shoulder.
“I’ll be fine. Just want to finish my drink.”
She takes a step backward as she waves.
“Good luck tomorrow!”
You raise your hand in response and watch her tall and brawny frame vanish through the door. You drop your arm, but you don't sit down. Taking a discreet glance at the bar, your heart rate spikes ever so slightly at the sight of the stranger you noticed earlier when you bought the drinks.
As you waited for your drinks, he came in and settled for a spot at the bar. The lady whose name you learned earlier, Josie, greeted him, asking where his friends were, so you assumed he was a regular. He was good-looking, you admitted before finding yourself staring at him. You averted your gaze, but couldn't help taking in other details. The folded cane rested on the bar top as Josie slid a glass of amber liquid in front of him. The scarred knuckles as he brought it to his lush lips. The suit was pristine for the most part except for the minimal wrinkles from the day's wear and the loosened tie. The red-tinted glasses perched on his pronounced nose, under the tousled sweep of dark hair. The soft smile brightened his handsome face as the other bartender told him something, which you had to tear your eyes away from when Josie placed the drinks in front of you. You thanked her and headed back to your table, feeling a touch of disappointment in your throat.
There is no denying that you want to approach him. But your nerves intervene with all the questions. What if he rejected you? What if he thought you were a creep for approaching him? What if he just wanted to be left alone? He has been sitting by the bar by himself ever since he came in, you notice. You'd ask if you could join him, and possibly buy him a drink if he was up for it. If he said no, that'd be fine. You would respect his wish and leave him alone. You have a feeling you'd regret it if you didn't at least try.
You gulp down your drink for a little liquid courage and make your way over to the bar. Your heart rate accelerates the closer you get to him, but you are determined to get over the little hurdle. You stop within a conversational distance and use your best composed voice.
“Hi, may I join you?”
He turns in his seat and gives you a friendly smile.
“Of course not. Please do.”
The high chair is a comfortable and respectful distance away from his, but still close enough for a private conversation. The stranger has angled his body toward you, and his openness eases the knot in your stomach. At this distance, you can see that he is even more handsome up close. Heat seeps into your cheeks at the full comprehension of his handsomeness up close. The neon signs around help shape the shadows and highlights that are already there in his features. The strong jawline and defined nose blend in harmony with the soft hair and luscious lips. You find yourself unable to tear your eyes away from his moving lips, and only a brief moment later you realize he has asked for your name.
You tell him and laugh nervously, blaming the lively ambience around you. He humours you with a chuckle of his own and reciprocates.
"Matt. Nice to meet you."
“Nice to meet you.”
He reaches out with a hand, and you grab it. Your heart beats a little faster at the feel of his hand, warm and a little rough. You pull away first, conscious of the coldness of your hand. You eye his almost empty glass.
“Would you like another drink?”
“If that makes you stay with me for the rest of the evening, I’d love one.”
Charming. You allow an amused and breathy chuckle to escape, and order another fill of your drinks. When Josie turns away to make them, Matt asks.
“What are we celebrating tonight?”
You think about it for a moment.
“This is not really a celebration since I haven’t gotten the job yet.”
“When is the interview?”
“It's … tomorrow.”
His brows raise above the glasses.
“Are you nervous?”
“A little bit. It’s been a while since my last normal job.”
“What were you doing before?”
Josie puts down the drinks in front of you.
“I’m a– I was a ballerina.”
“Was?”
You run a finger over the cool and smooth edge of the glass, taking a moment to tell a stranger about one of your worst shame.
“I haven’t danced professionally in over a year."
“May I ask why?"
The edge of his lips settles into a neutral line. No pity, just a willingness to listen. It is exactly what you need.
“Yes, but it's just … complicated.”
“How so?”
The old life that you once lived feels so out of your grasp now. Besides the occasional flareups, most mornings, you get up with minimal or no degree of soreness or pain, and you fear that signals the end of your life as a ballerina.
Retirement in your late twenties wasn't something you thought of when you were 18, fresh out of high school with an offer letter from Lady Liberty Ballet Theatre. Moving from a small, sylvan town to a big, lively city like New York was a dream come true. You got to live out the life your younger self used to dream about. How wonderful it was. Dancing on the big stage before the bright stage lights in front of the audience. The early classes, late stage calls, costume fittings, and demanding rehearsals leading up to the shows were all worth it. Because when you got to dance, it was just you and the music. Your body knew the techniques, learned the steps and how to master them. You bent music with your carefully crafted movements and turned the piece into your own interpretation. You worked hard on your craft and artistic abilities, and you thought that it paid off with your promotion from corps de ballet to the first soloist assembly after six years.
But for Matt's sake, you don't go into any of that.
“Well … being a principal dancer in my old company is a great honour since we're– they're much smaller than the American Ballet Theatre, New York City Ballet, etc … There were, and still are, only two dancers in that role. They were Christine and Guilherme. Christine'd been with the company since the early days. Many people came to the shows to see her dance. She and Guilherme brought in so many loyal audiences and sponsors over the years. So you can imagine what a big deal it was when Christine decided to retire."
He nods, his understanding and inclination to follow the story are apparent.
"Roger, the artistic director, wanted to appoint a first soloist, which is just a step below principal, to take over in her place. I was a soloist, and I was Christine's understudy for a few years until her retirement. I performed when she couldn't, when she needed to reserve her strength for important shows, on top of the roles I had to prepare and perform in those productions. So I thought it was my opportunity to get that promotion, you know? I always brought my best to work, and I pushed myself even harder that season to prove that I have what it takes to be a principal dancer. I was in and out of classes, rehearsals, and performances every day for over three months. On the days we had two shows a day, oftentimes I'd have to perform in both so Christine could have a break."
Matt listens intently, following your words with an attentiveness that you find endearing.
“In the final week of Sleeping Beauty, I had this pain along my heel. But I ignored it and pushed through out of fear that they would dismiss me. At that point, they already had a favourite. One of the directors even told me that I should quit while I was ahead and that I should be happy staying as a soloist."
You swallow the lump in your throat and go on.
"I couldn't take my bow that night, because as soon as my part was done and I went behind the stage, I passed out. It turned out I got an Achilles rupture.
“I had the surgery and was in a boot for a while. I was so desperate to show them my dedication and how good I was by going back to the studio just the day after they allowed me to go without the boot. And I made the injury worse. I was admitted for a partial rupture a week later.”
You thought you could do it. Bearing and hiding the pain so you would stand out as the best selection for the new principal dancer. Yet, all of that hard work didn’t matter in the end. It never mattered the moment Claudia Mavis signed a contract with Lady Liberty.
“In the hospital, Roger told me that he decided to promote Claudia, even though by that point she had been with the company for only one season. Then, I found out that Claudia left her previous company because they wouldn’t promote her. But here's the funniest part. After class one day, Claudia told me that they offered her a new contract two weeks before my accident. So I never had the chance in the first place."
You chuckle bitterly, remembering the tightness of your chest when you found out.
"They announced Christine's replacement at the last show of the season. Roger expected me to continue my duties as a soloist and an understudy for Claudia. But I just … couldn't do it. So I quit.”
“I’m sure when you come back to it, you will still be amazing.”
You don't even try to hide the disbelieving and playful scoff that escapes.
“You're just flattering me.”
There's not a trace of that cocky confidence of a man who thinks he just scores big with a woman because of a throwaway, vague statement he thinks will please her.
“I mean it. I enjoy music and dance performances in a way most can’t. When I really pay attention, I can hear … movements. The rhythm of someone’s feet striking the ground in time with the music when done right is beautiful. The way you talk about ballet shows me how much you truly care for the art. Like you live and breathe it.”
You tug on your bottom lip with your teeth in quiet contemplation before answering him.
“I did. It was a big part of my life.”
“It still can be.”
You let out a noncommittal hum.
"We'll see."
You took sips of your respective drinks, allowing the moment to reset itself. But Matt isn't quite done with the questions. You give him the go-ahead.
"Why ballet?"
“I just love the duality of it. We're supposed to look graceful and effortless while our blisters have blisters, our toes are bleeding, our legs are cramping. We have to dance through all of that and much worse. I like the pain sometimes. It means that I’m doing it right.”
“I didn’t peg you for a masochist.”
The quip takes you by surprise, but you quickly recover.
"Huh. I usually don't reveal that information to anyone until I'm ready to sleep with them."
Matt's tongue licks at his bottom lip, amused by your response.
"Maybe we are just that compatible."
Maybe it is the alcohol that makes you a little lightheaded, but the conversation has taken on a flirty turn, and you lean into each other's space, sharing a bashful, quiet laugh.
The person who took the seat next to yours when you were in the middle of your story bumps into you from behind, pushing you further into Matt's space. They apologize, and you tell them it's fine. The bar top has grown a little more crowded with new visitors. You think about what you could do to make some space when Matt reaches out and pulls your chair closer, so close that your knees touch. The contact is minimal, yet insistent, and you can't help the heat that races to your skin and the wild rhythms of your heart. Even your internal self admits that was the hottest thing Matt has done so far.
You clear your thoughts, focusing on the man sitting so much closer to you now.
“I'm so sorry. I feel like I've been talking about myself for the past hour.”
“No, don't stop. I like it. You have a beautiful voice.”
If he kept this going, you would need to check yourself for a fever. You clear your throat.
“So, what do you do?”
“I’m a lawyer. My partners and I have our own practice here in Hell's Kitchen.”
“Wow, that's amazing. What do you specialize in?”
“A little bit of everything. We started out representing people who can’t afford the legal service. Pro bono work basically. We still do that, but we have been getting more clients who can pay for our services.”
“Hm. It makes perfect sense. I can see that about you. The good guy.”
“Care to elaborate?”
“You know the right questions to ask. You got me talking about myself for … way too long. And your face …”
You trail off. Almost two drinks have worked their magic on your unabashed honesty.
“My face?”
His plush lips lift in a curious smile.
“Yeah, your face. You made me feel … safe and welcome so I could tell my story. Your face stayed neutral when I went on and on about it. No pity or judgment. You looked like you really cared about me, or my case.”
“I do care about you. And for the record, I appreciate every detail you gave me.”
You know that he might say this just to please you, but his earnestness says otherwise.
“Thank you. I needed that. Not many people care about me, especially after my fallout with the company.”
“It wasn’t your fault. It never was.”
Matt puts a hand on yours on the bar top. You stared at his scarred knuckles, your heart beating along the seam of your body with a slight increase in rhythm. Your hand itched to weave itself into his, to lay flat against the warmth of his palm. As if your body has thrown caution to the wind and wants to do just exactly what it wants to, your pointer finger moves involuntarily. He pulls his hand back, an apology on his lips.
“I’m sorry–“
“No, don’t.”
You reach out with the other hand and keep Matt there. You run your thumb over his knuckles as if to soothe him, to tell him that this is okay. You want this. The additional contact exhilarates you, as you haven't felt another’s touch that isn't from Jo or Amy in a long time. Dating has always been the last thing on your mind, especially in the past year. But right here, right now, being with Matt is easy. There is no pressure. No hindrance. Even though you've met only for two hours, Matt has listened to you. He takes a soft and shaky breath, and your eyes follow the way his chest slightly expands.
Your pointer finger traces the raised edges of his scars, and he lets you. The air seems to thin as your pulse drums a frantic beat under your skin.
“Do you beat people up in your client’s honour?”
“Only those who deserve it.”
You chuckle, and you lean into him as if you can't help yourself. The world has gone quiet around you, and the only thing left on your mind is to have his lips on yours. Your voice is only a breath above a whisper, and you're afraid Matt might miss it entirely amongst the loud voices of others.
“Can I kiss you?’’
He releases a sharp exhale as if he has been waiting for you to utter those words all evening.
“Please.”
You lean in, carefully, slowly. His lips slightly part in an open invitation, and you meet in the middle. The touch is gentle, soft tissues overlap in slow, indulgent caresses. Simple, yet it invokes a craving in you. The need for him to be even closer, the yearning to find out the taste of him. Matt touches your jaw, and draws you in closer, deepening the kiss, and you let yourself go. Eager, perching on the territory of desperation as the pressure on your lips grows more insistently. You're entangled in an exhilarating chase, circling around each other like you simply can't resist the pull that's been there since the moment you sat down. Matt silently asks for entry at the seam of your lips, and you respond in kind. His tongue strokes yours and suddenly, there is a new kind of invisible vapour that you're breathing in. It's overwhelming, yet not enough at the same time. You can taste the bitterness of the whisky that makes you wince on normal occasions, but on Matt's tongue, it's addictive and inexplicably irresistible. His air runs wild in your lungs, warming your body from the inside, awakening your nerves.
You break away at the sound of a teasing whistle clearly directed at you, reminding you of where you are. Matt’s face is flushed red, and you want to see how far down the colour goes under the suit and tie he's wearing. His hand is still on your jaw, gently caressing the line like he doesn't want to let go. And you don't want to let him go either.
“Can we go back to your place?”
The question rolls off your tongue, and he nods immediately, a little breathlessly. You stand up from your chairs at the same time. Matt reaches for his coat that is on the back of the chair. You shrug your own on and avert your gaze when Matt subtly adjusts his slacks. You put the bills down for your drinks, shutting Matt down when he objects to the idea. His hand find yours when you offer it to him, and you walk into the brisk air together.
The walk back didn't take too long. Matt held your hand the whole time, and the small gesture made your insides flutter. He lets you go when you reach his apartment. The unit number 6A has almost faded into the dark door. He unlocks the door and tells you where the light switch is. You turn it on, and place your coat in his awaiting palm. You follow him further into the apartment and take in the space.
“Who did you kill to get this place?”
Matt chuckles, discarding his tie with one hand.
“No killing involved. The neon sign out there is enough to chase people away.”
Your gaze falls on the giant, blinking advertisement outside the window.
“Nothing a few blackout curtains won't fix.”
He drapes the black tie on the back of the couch as you turn to the other side of the apartment.
“Do those stairs lead to the rooftop?”
“Yes, they do.”
You keep your back to him.
"Do you go up there often?"
"From time to time."
"This is … wow."
You're not sure why you're stalling. You pretend to look around as you try to brush off a nagging feeling that has settled in the pit of your stomach. Just the nerves, you think. You're out of practice, that's all.
So you clear your throat and say.
“Is your bedroom behind that bigger sliding door?”
He nods. You feel a little out of place, so you gravitate towards him, a familiar presence in a strange space. Matt lets you come to him, giving you all the control. You lean in and attach your lips to his, allowing it to follow the natural progression as it did back at Josie's. Your legs tangle and stumble towards the bedroom, your lips never too far away from one another. You think you might hit the closed door, but before that can happen, Matt pulls you flush against his body with one hand and uses the other to slide the door open in one smooth, practiced move. You pull away when you need to catch your breath.
“May I …”
You touch the side of his glasses. After a quiet moment, he gives you permission to take them, and you do. Slowly, and with the utmost care you can manage, you set them on the bedside table. His eyes are closed when you straighten. You caress his cheek, feeling the way his features form together. Your touch is soothing, and you hope he can feel the patience you offer to him. There is no rush, no pressure. After a long moment, Matt opens his eyes, and you take them in. You can see how he tries to meet your eyes in his own way. The shade of hazel is shrouded by the low light and the occasional shutter of his eyelids.
“Your eyes are beautiful.”
You raise slightly on your tiptoes and kiss his eyelids, feeling his lashes fluttering softly. He waits for you to return to him, and seeks out your lips in a delicate manner.
You fall onto the bed together. Matt braces himself on his forearms so he doesn't crush you. You pull his head down to yours, kissing and nibbling on the stretch of stubble along his jaw. His soft groans of approval encourage the other hand to travel downward, pulling on the white dress shirt. Once it's free from the slacks, you weave your hand inside and run your palm along the expanse of his torso. The dips and raises of his well-defined abs are warm under your palm, and the sensation stokes the molten liquid that's nestling deep inside you. You feel the feverish need edging over that part of you that you want to ignore.
The gradual pullback doesn't feel like a rejection at first, but merely an invitation to follow. So you do, your hands work to unbutton his shirt. But Matt slows you down to a stop, holding your hands to his lips and placing kisses on your palms. You blink, still snarled in the haze.
“What’s wrong?”
“Are you sure you want to do this?”
Confronted. The only word that can describe accurately how you're feeling.
“What makes you say that?”
“Your heart …”
His hand trails from your collarbone to your chest where your heart resides within in a way that feels strangely intimate and not at all invasive. You hadn’t realized how fast your heart was beating. It's pounding. You are more nervous about this than you thought.
“… is beating quite fast. Are you nervous?”
You're safe. It's an innate feeling, and while you can't explain it, you know lying to Matt serves no purpose here. He seems to have a way to read you without using his sight.
“Yes, a little bit. I haven’t done this before. Sleeping with a stranger, I mean.”
“I see. We don’t have to do this.”
You raise yourself on your elbows.
“No, I wanted to go back here, with you. I want this.”
“But it doesn’t mean you owe me anything. If you change your mind for whatever reason, I'm okay with that as well."
Matt presses a kiss to your forehead.
"We can always try this again at another time.”
Guilt claws at you, urging you to do anything to please him.
“I’m sorry. I gave you the wrong signal.”
“Don’t. You have nothing to apologize for.”
He tries to find your hand, and you offer it to him. He gives you a reassuring squeeze.
“I had a good time with a beautiful woman, then I got to kiss her, all in one night, and that's enough.”
You guffaw, throwing your head back at the blatant flirt.
“You don’t even know how I look like.”
“No, I don’t. But I have my own way to tell. You sound beautiful.”
An idea materializes in your mind, and you give in to it. You bring his hand to your face, trailing along the side of your face. He gets the hint and begins his own exploration of your features. The way he takes his time, following the slopes of your face, his touch gentle, ghosting over your skin. He stops at your lips and soothes his thumb over the kiss-swollen flesh. You sigh softly. He gives you one last kiss, his tenderness makes your heart soar.
“Would you like something comfortable to sleep in?”
“I'm fine with anything you have.”
Matt finds his closet and pulls out a grey sweatshirt. He tells you where the bathroom is, and you take the folded shirt with you. You clean yourself up with water before stripping down to your underwear. You put the soft material over your body. It smells like him, and soft, just like him. You come out of the washroom and see his bare back for a split second before he pulls the shirt down. He has changed into a pair of grey sweatpants and a black shirt that hugs his chest and biceps beautifully.
You stand by his bed, not sure where you can come in despite the two of you ruffling the sheets not even ten minutes ago. Matt chooses for you, settling on the space facing the window, leaving you the side which is closer to the sliding door. His sheets are silky soft, and you feel yourself sinking right into them. You turn to face Matt, touching his shoulder. He faces you fully, his eyes settling on a point on the lower part of your face.
“Thank you.”
You whisper.
“Thank me by staying for breakfast.”
“Why breakfast?”
“I can't send you off to your interview on an empty stomach, can I? It's the least I can do.”
A rueful smile graces your lips.
“I can’t wait.”
You fell asleep with ease. At one point during the night, you could feel Matt detach himself from you, and out of a vague desperation that you couldn't process, you held tighter onto him involuntarily. At that, he stopped moving, and you felt a soothing pattern trailing over your head, luring you back to sleep again. His warmth carried you through the few hours that you slept.
It's a little past 4 AM when you wake, and find Matt still sleeping peacefully. Torn, but you come to accept that leaving is for the best. You get out of bed gently, thankful that the wooden floor didn't make a noise. You take his sweatshirt off and fold it, putting it on top of the pillow that you slept on. After putting on the clothes from the night before, you leave with much regret in your heart.
Likes, reblogs, and comments are greatly appreciated! I'd love to read your thoughts on the story!
For updates, please follow @cellophaine-archives
Reblogging this chapter because I made some changes to Reader's background. The changes are not significant, but they add to the severity and harshness of the environment Reader was in (in my opinion). They're in the conversation when Reader starts explaining her background to Matt and why she quit.
I'll paste the changes under the cut just in case you don't want to scroll.
But for Matt's sake, you don't go into any of that.
“Well … being a principal dancer in my old company is a great honour since we're– they're much smaller than the American Ballet Theatre, New York City Ballet, etc … There were, and still are, only two dancers in that role. They were Christine and Guilherme. Christine'd been with the company since the early days. Many people came to the shows to see her dance. She and Guilherme brought in so many loyal audiences and sponsors over the years. So you can imagine what a big deal it was when Christine decided to retire."
He nods, his understanding and inclination to follow the story are apparent.
"Roger, the artistic director, wanted to appoint a first soloist, which is just a step below principal, to take over in her place. I was a soloist, and I was Christine's understudy for a few years until her retirement. I performed when she couldn't, when she needed to reserve her strength for important shows, on top of the roles I had to prepare and perform in those productions. So I thought it was my opportunity to get that promotion, you know? I always brought my best to work, and I pushed myself even harder that season to prove that I have what it takes to be a principal dancer. I was in and out of classes, rehearsals, and performances every day for over three months. On the days we had two shows a day, oftentimes I'd have to perform in both so Christine could have a break."
Matt listens intently, following your words with an attentiveness that you find endearing.
“In the final week of Sleeping Beauty, I had this pain along my heel. But I ignored it and pushed through out of fear that they would dismiss me. At that point, they already had a favourite. One of the directors even told me that I should quit while I was ahead and that I should be happy staying as a soloist."
You swallow the lump in your throat and go on.
"I couldn't take my bow that night, because as soon as my part was done and I went behind the stage, I passed out. It turned out I got an Achilles rupture.
“I had the surgery and was in a boot for a while. I was so desperate to show them my dedication and how good I was by going back to the studio just the day after they allowed me to go without the boot. And I made the injury worse. I was admitted for a partial rupture a week later.”
You thought you could do it. Bearing and hiding the pain so you would stand out as the best selection for the new principal dancer. Yet, all of that hard work didn’t matter in the end. It never mattered the moment Claudia Mavis signed a contract with Lady Liberty.
“In the hospital, Roger told me that he decided to promote Claudia, even though by that point she had been with the company for only one season. Then, I found out that Claudia left her previous company because they wouldn’t promote her. But here's the funniest part. After class one day, Claudia told me that they offered her a new contract two weeks before my accident. So I never had the chance in the first place."
You chuckle bitterly, remembering the tightness of your chest when you found out.
"They announced Christine's replacement at the last show of the season. Roger expected me to continue my duties as a soloist and an understudy for Claudia. But I just … couldn't do it. So I quit.”
You take a long sip of your drink after the story.
Chapter II: Dégagé
Masterlist
Pairing: Matt Murdock x F!Reader
Warnings: One morsel of angst.
Word Count: 3.1k
Author's Note: Forgive my clumsy attempt at writing a job interview. I haven't been to one in two years. Also, you totally saw this coming. Right?
GIF Source
You unbutton the coat, letting the air inside melt away the layer of chill that clings to your clothes. The building looks decently maintained, but you can spot the paint peelings on the wall, revealing another layer of colour underneath. The stairs creak when you take them, announcing your arrival. You’re not ready yet. The following steps are more carefully placed.
Standing in front of the office door with the practice’s name on the glass pane, you feel inapposite. You’re playing dressed up in a place clearly reserved for working professionals. It's an unfamiliar setting with a different uniform. Skin-tight leotard for a simple white blouse, knitted shrug for a sweater vest, dance tights for trousers, and low-heel pumps for pointe shoes. The trade-off is expected, yet you still don't feel right. Years given to a ballet company had really spoiled you.
But you hate standing anyone up more than anything, so you knock on the door. The conversation inside halts, followed by the scraping sound of a chair, then hastened footsteps. A man opens the door, his expression is one of curiosity.
“Hi. Are you …?”
When you offer your name, a look of relief and recognition passes on his face. He checks his watch.
“Ah, yes. You’re a little early.”
“Is that okay? I thought being a little early is probably best.”
“Yes, of course. It’s good. It’s fantastic, actually. Two people canceled on us last minutes.”
He steps aside, holding the door for you.
“Come on in.”
You enter, and the door clicks shut behind you. The big window on the other side of the room lets the natural light in, exposing the overfilled cabinets along either side of the wall, casing a simple desk and a chair in between. There's hardly any free surface that isn't occupied by stacks of manila folders or paperwork resting on top. The man quickly redirects your attention.
“We’re going to be in here.”
You follow him and find a woman already standing to greet you. Her face brightens, and the body language that accompanies exudes friendliness. You feel the knot in your stomach slowly unwinding itself as she offers her hand to you with a smile.
“Hi. Welcome! I’m Karen Page. We spoke before, on the phone.”
“Nice to finally meet you.”
The man extends a hand for you to shake.
“I forgot to introduce myself. I’m Franklin Nelson, but everyone calls me Foggy.”
You reciprocate the gesture as he continues.
“We didn’t talk on the phone, but I thought your cover letter was great.”
“Thank you. I was worried about my application because it’s been a while since I last worked a job like this.”
You regret mentioning the fact the moment you stop talking. But Foggy seems pleased.
“Honesty. I can appreciate that.”
You give the two of them an overt observation.
“So that explains the Nelson and Page on the sign. Where's the Murdock?”
Karen offers an explanation.
“He’s running late. But we can get started without him.”
You drape your coat over the back of the chair before taking your seat. Just like before a performance, you steel yourself and feel the nervousness slowly seep out of your bloodstream on a soft exhale.
/
The initial awkwardness quickly dissipates after the first couple of questions. You understand the role they offer and the skills they require, and you go into detail about your relevant experience in administration. When you first came to the city, being in corps de ballet barely afforded comfort or the expensive rent in a shoebox apartment with Jo. You took on odd jobs and eventually landed a library assistant position at the New York Society Library. You loved the job, and you learned a lot from it. Karen and Foggy seem pleased as you recall what you did for the library for years before committing to Lady Liberty full-time as a soloist.
Foggy makes a note on the notepad before addressing you.
“As you already know, this job is similar to your previous job. You'd be the first point of contact for clients, and also provide us with internal support. But there are also things that we will need to teach you.”
You nodded.
“I understand. I was required to learn many things on the fly at the library, so I could support other departments or guests coming in. My old manager said I was a quick study.”
Foggy's eyes widen at the mention.
"Ms. Hogarth? She had nothing but nice things to say about you on the phone."
You smile and nod. Ms. Hogarth was very sorry to see you leave, and you still keep in touch from time to time via emails and the occasional visits. She'd seen some of your performances over the years.
Karen levels you with a careful look.
“I understand that you were with Lady Liberty Ballet Theatre for a long time until about a year ago. Why did you want to switch to a job like this?”
You've expected this question. You know it's inevitable. You have drafted several responses to explain the reasoning, yet are impersonal enough not to reveal anything damning that you don't want strangers to know.
“I took a break from dancing because of an injury. After the recovery, I just wanted a change since I'd danced for most of my life. I want to be in an environment where the demand for my physicality is not extreme like in ballet, as you may know.”
They nod thoughtfully and exchange a look. It goes on for a long moment before you tentatively interrupt.
“Is everything okay?”
“Of course. Do you mind if we talk in the other room for a minute?”
Foggy asks.
“Oh. Not at all.”
“We’ll be right back.”
Both of them leave the room and close the door. You're unsure what to think of that, so you sweep your eyes over the room. Brightened with natural light just like the room over, but tidier. You take a closer look at the Braille display set up in the empty seat that would be presumably taken by the Murdock of the firm. You recognize the device because there were several models of the same and different at the library. You had to learn how to troubleshoot most of them for the blind guests that came in.
The door creaks open, and the pair come back with conspicuous smiles on their faces. They take their seats again, and Foggy wastes no time.
“We would like to offer you the job, if you’re interested.”
You can't come up with a response right then. Relief washes over you, and joy draws a bashful grin on your lips. A part of you is still skeptical.
“Are you sure?”
“I know that it’s quite a big surprise. And a huge commitment. You don't have to say yes right now. We will send you the offer letter today, you can read it, and if you're okay with everything, sign it and send it back to us and we'll send you the contract to make it official.”
“Wow, I … Thank you."
A thought comes into your mind.
"What about your other associate? Do you need to wait for him to decide?”
Karen assures you.
“He’s not here, so we’re calling in an executive order. Besides, you're our favourite candidate.”
You can’t help but laugh softly, offering your hand to shake theirs.
“Thank you so much for the offer.”
“Like Foggy said, no pressure. If you do decide to work for us, and if you have any concerns or disagreements about anything in the contract, just email us, and we can discuss.”
“Arguing with lawyers about a contract they draw up? I might as well quit while I'm ahead."
Foggy laughs wholeheartedly even though you don't think the joke was that funny, and clasps your hand tightly in his.
“You’ll fit it just fine here.”
/
It was only half an hour after you left the interview when the offer letter was sent to your inbox. You’re sitting by the fire escape, allowing the heat from the radiator to warm your feet as you read the file. Working overtime is expected and paid accordingly, with an hourly rate of $19, and a basic health care plan. You sign and send the document once you finish, and Karen emails you the contract in a cheery tone welcoming you to the team. All is done within the span of an afternoon. You have a few days between now and the start date, so you spend them rumbling through your closet to find office-appropriate clothes and reading the contract and practice’s policy. And inevitably, your mind drifts to the stranger from the bar at irregular intervals.
The way his hair felt through your fingers. The solid muscles under your palm. The way his weight pressed into your body. The vulnerable display of the need for you in his handsome features. The way his unseeing eyes seemed to darken when you pulled away. The shape of his lips on yours. The way he kissed you so deeply, so exhaustively exquisite that you could feel yourself unravelling to the bones. He did that to you without taking your clothes off, without putting his skilled lips on your bare skin. He was gentle, understanding, and attuned to how you were feeling, which makes you appreciate him even more the more you think about him.
He would stay firmly in the past, in a way that you think is symbolic. You spilled your heart out to a man you didn't know as if you were ridding yourself of the burden of the past so that you could step into the future. That future is so close you can taste it, a promise of something better. It's fitting. The secrets you haven't told anyone close to you, floating away and tethering to a stranger, and like you, they disappeared the next morning.
/
You arrive early for your first day. Foggy said the key to the office would be made and given to you today. So you wait in the hallway until Karen arrives. She lets you in and walks you through the basic setup. You finish signing in on the computer when Foggy comes in.
“Here’s your key, like promised.”
He places it in your hand.
“Did Karen show you the basics?”
“Yes, she did.”
"Most of it."
Karen adds.
“Any question so far?”
You give Foggy a reassuring smile.
“Not yet. But I will definitely need help figuring out all of this."
You gesture to the stacks of paper that have seemed to grow bigger since you were here last.
The door opens again, and your heart leaps at the sight. The hair, the glasses, the cane. And the face you can never forget. You can see the furrow of his brows behind the slouched glasses, painting confusion alongside his slightly parted lips. Foggy tsks, thumbing at the man who's still technically a stranger to you in most senses of the word.
“Always late to the party, this one. I’d like to introduce you to the Murdock of the firm, Matthew Michael Murdock."
It takes Matt all but a brief second to respond while you're still processing the reality of your situation.
"Easy on the introduction there, Foggy."
Foggy repeats your name, and for a moment you're worried that Matt would recognize you. You smile anyway and say.
“It’s nice to finally meet you, Mr. Murdock.”
“Likewise. I've heard so many great things about you.”
He makes a few steps forward with his hand extended, and you get up off of the chair to meet him in the middle. The shake is clumsy upon the initial contact, but the nerves you felt that night come rushing back regardless. His hand lingers longer than a formal handshake.
"There's no need for formality. Call me Matt."
You realize then that Matt doesn't recognize you. Lying to a blind man makes you feel uneasy, but it’s hardly deception if the other party can’t perceive you in a way a person with functioning sight can. There's still the matter of your voice, but you quickly dismiss the notion. It's hardly distinctive amongst the city of millions.
“Alright. By the way, if you need any help with the Braille display, I can help.”
His head slightly tilts to one side in question while Karen and Foggy look at you for an explanation.
“The library had those machines, and every so often they went haywire. I learned how to fix them.”
“Thank you.”
Matt inclines his head. Foggy pats him on the back.
“See? I told you she’s great.”
Your cheeks grow warm. Matt doesn’t show any sign that he recognizes you, which is a good thing. But it also puts you in an impasse, considering everything that happened that night. You’re not sure how to approach the subject now that he's your boss.
For now, you quickly excuse yourself to get back to work, trying hard to tame the pounding in your chest.
/
The day is slow, which you're grateful for as it took you a while to figure out the general system Nelson, Murdock and Page keeps, but still busy enough to keep your mind off of the man who's sitting a few feet away from you, separated by a thin wall. In between the few phone calls and setting up appointments and meetings, you get to work sorting the files one cabinet at a time. You straighten them out in their folders and put them back in their according chronicle. When you alert them of a client's visit, Matt says thank you with a deep, gravelly voice, and you reciprocate formally. After lunch, Karen and Foggy go down to the police station to talk to a potential client, leaving you and Matt at the office.
You're drinking out of a paper cup, thinking about ways you could make the filing system more efficient when Matt joins you in the kitchen. You stiffen and clear your throat.
“Would you like me to get you something, Mr. Murdock?”
For a moment, he doesn’t say anything. The small kitchen only has so much space, and Matt's stature alone has taken up half of the doorway. Your heart rate spikes slightly at his appraisal silence.
“It’s you. From that night.”
It can only mean one thing. Your hands turn cold and clammy. Your mind fast forwards to the made-up scenario in which you lie to him, only to arrive at the same conclusion you did that night. Even though you're a good liar to those close to you, that doesn't seem to matter to Matt. He knows how you feel. And more importantly, he knows who you are.
A deep sigh escapes your lips.
“Yes, I am. How did you recognize me?”
“Your voice.”
He doesn't hesitate, which confuses you.
“It’s … hardly distinctive.”
“It is, to me. And I recognize the perfume you use.”
He makes a gesture in the air, which you guess is for the aroma of the perfume.
“Oh. Right."
You didn't know your perfume was that strong to begin with, and it sparks a new concern.
"Is it too strong? I can stop wearing it.”
“No, don’t. I lik– … It's not strong. It also doesn't bother me.”
You make a mental note of that.
“I didn’t know you were the Murdock of the firm.”
“I didn’t know you were the great candidate Foggy was talking so much about.”
You chuckle. Tension seems to wane through the lightened mood and your relaxed body language.
“Our pay is not very competitive.”
“I know. They told me as much during the interview, but I don't mind. I've had worse."
You let out a self-deprecating laugh to mask your nervousness.
"I just– I want to get away and work a normal job for a while.”
Matt nods. He exudes neither judgement nor pity, just like that night at the bar, but you can see the gears in his head turn through his knitted brows. You add nervously.
“Are you going to tell them? That we … almost hooked up?”
Your heart pounds harder. Please, not when you finally have this job. Matt seems to sense your uneasiness and shakes his head.
“No, of course not. It stays between us.”
“Thank you.”
An innate thought compels you to continue.
“We can just forget about that night. Technically, we didn’t cross any boundaries. It was just a kiss. It doesn’t have to be anything more. It’s not like we actually hooked up. We didn’t know each other then. We just kissed. Casually. And it doesn't mean anything.”
You internally curse yourself at Matt's lack of an immediate and obvious response. He takes longer than you expected to answer.
“No, of course not.”
A sliver of disappointment touches his tone, but his features stay professional. In the moment, you're unsure how to make sense of that.
“I know I’m asking a lot, but, can you keep what I told you a secret?”
When Matt was only a stranger to you, everything you told him was inconsequential. Impermanence, like your short-lived career. No matter who he was, you'd still leave the side of his bed just like how you'd vanish from his life. You never planned to stay the night. The small circle of people you're close with aren't privy to the most dirty details. Yet, he knows many intimate details about you in more ways than one. Maybe you told him about your situation because you finally wanted someone else other than you to know and maybe understand how hard it was to fall out of love with what you’d trained to do your whole life, yet simultaneously still seeking out its approval and acceptance. Jo doesn't understand. She said you could find another company, another theatre to dance for. But you're afraid that no matter where you go, your shadows will follow. You will always be that one forgettable soloist who couldn't secure a promotion because you weren't good enough.
You regret it – telling him everything. Matt must think differently of you now. You're not the self-assured stranger who approached him at the bar, bought him a drink and asked to go home with him. You're the flawed, unwanted person, who couldn’t bring herself to have a one-night stand. A hot flash curls under your skin at the thought. It feels a lot like shame.
Matt's voice sounds so far away, but the weight of its sincerity manages to pull you away from your own thoughts.
“What happened that night will stay between us for as long as you wish.”
His promise soothes your frazzled nerves.
“Are we … okay, then?”
He nods.
“We’re okay.”
“Thank you.”
The phone on the reception desk rings blessedly, and you excuse yourself to answer it. Matt steps aside for you to go through, and when you near him, the materials of your clothes brush against each other. The scent of cedarwood and leather grasps at you as you walk past him, smouldering and lurking in the back of your mind.
Likes, reblogs, and comments are greatly appreciated! I'd love to read your thoughts on the story!
For updates, please follow @cellophaine-archives
cello i’m being so deadass when i say that i haven’t felt this giggly about in fic in so!! long!! that’s my boyfriend!!! and i get more chapters!! and he’s just so!! ugh!!!!
but anyway, the second reader was like “oh i bet he won’t recognize me” i stopped 🤨 because girl, hello?? i know you know he’s not that silly. matt recognizing reader’s voice made me laugh because i always pose that argument when it comes to daredevil!! like how did karen not recognize his voice at first??? lets use our thinking caps
in conclusion, i am loving this series so far and i love the atmosphere you’ve created (i literally wanna live in it all the time) and you’ve given me this family of characters to immerse myself in again after a long time and i so appreciate it ♥️♥️
Your thoughts are always such a refreshing glass of water on the hottest day!! Thank you for always sharing them with me 🫶
I feel like even if Matt didn’t have enhanced hearing, he would have recognized Reader’s voice anyway because he’s attentive. Reader was banking on the fact that she was nothing special/forgettable because *some* people have drilled that into her, so she’d slide under Matt’s radar simply because he couldn’t see her face like people with working vision do.
Thank you so much for sharing your lovely thoughts with me like always!! I appreciate you so so much 💕
‼️MAJOR QUESTION FOR DDBA EP 7‼️
⚠️Spoilers under the cut⚠️
How could Matt tell that Muse was painting Heather?
To my understanding, a person’s facial features feel wildly different from a painting of their facial features. They’re not one and the same or even remotely relate to each other in any way.
Muse painted Heather with paint. No matter how talented Muse is, and we’re factoring in the fact that Matt felt the paint texture, realistically, there was no way Matt could’ve figured it out that it was Heather.
The only way I think that somewhat explains this, is that Muse used different techniques/brush strokes to paint different parts of Heather’s face. And Matt could tell by the ratio of Heather’s face that he felt, and compared it to Muse’s paintings. But it didn’t look like Muse used any special techniques to separate each part of Heather’s face. So it’s still beyond reasonable doubts that Matt figured it out.
I’m so stumped about this. Maybe I missed something. If you have a theory or an explanation, please comment! I would love to understand how this came to be.
This sucked. They show Matt looking over blueprints with his fingers in S1, where you can just about stretch that he can tell it’s a map of some kind, but it’s more of an Easter egg for comics fans. However, these paintings were not even textural enough to have shapes that would even tell you what they were. They straight up erased his blindness for convenience. They could have at least had a sculpture of her face, and it could make a shred of sense. No one thought of that?!
I am headcanoning that he smelled Heather from when her client visited her office. Maybe she has a really strong essential oil or something! Matt couldn’t tell she was the subject of the works, but he smelled her essential oil on them, because Muse would leave his appointment, come to the studio, and draw her, leaving traces in all those pictures that Angela told him were faces. That’s what happened!
THIS!!!! The reason why it bothered me so much is they treated Matt’s disability and abilities. His enhanced sense of touch isn’t a shortcut they could take to get themselves out of an easy-to-break-out-of bind. They could’ve had him listening in when the Task Force ID’ed Heather. Muse’s copy of Heather’s book could’ve had some sort of identifiable textures or texts. Even Heather’s smell from her book that Muse clearly has.
They could have had a much cleaner tie-in with Matt’s other senses, like you said, his sense of smell, but they chose this lazy way and expected the viewers to suspend their disbelief. Bad CGI I can somewhat overlook, but I find this specific writing, directing, and editing to be quite ableist. They essentially ignored Matt’s struggles as a blind man because of his enhanced abilities.
‼️MAJOR QUESTION FOR DDBA EP 7‼️
⚠️Spoilers under the cut⚠️
How could Matt tell that Muse was painting Heather?
To my understanding, a person’s facial features feel wildly different from a painting of their facial features. They’re not one and the same or even remotely relate to each other in any way.
Muse painted Heather with paint. No matter how talented Muse is, and we’re factoring in the fact that Matt felt the paint texture, realistically, there was no way Matt could’ve figured it out that it was Heather.
The only way I think that somewhat explains this, is that Muse used different techniques/brush strokes to paint different parts of Heather’s face. And Matt could tell by the ratio of Heather’s face that he felt, and compared it to Muse’s paintings. But it didn’t look like Muse used any special techniques to separate each part of Heather’s face. So it’s still beyond reasonable doubts that Matt figured it out.
I’m so stumped about this. Maybe I missed something. If you have a theory or an explanation, please comment! I would love to understand how this came to be.
HE HAS THE SCRIPT BY HIS SIDE
Matt when plot convenience conveniencing:
‼️MAJOR QUESTION FOR DDBA EP 7‼️
⚠️Spoilers under the cut⚠️
How could Matt tell that Muse was painting Heather?
To my understanding, a person’s facial features feel wildly different from a painting of their facial features. They’re not one and the same or even remotely relate to each other in any way.
Muse painted Heather with paint. No matter how talented Muse is, and we’re factoring in the fact that Matt felt the paint texture, realistically, there was no way Matt could’ve figured it out that it was Heather.
The only way I think that somewhat explains this, is that Muse used different techniques/brush strokes to paint different parts of Heather’s face. And Matt could tell by the ratio of Heather’s face that he felt, and compared it to Muse’s paintings. But it didn’t look like Muse used any special techniques to separate each part of Heather’s face. So it’s still beyond reasonable doubts that Matt figured it out.
I’m so stumped about this. Maybe I missed something. If you have a theory or an explanation, please comment! I would love to understand how this came to be.
Guys I’m only on the 3rd chapter of Pas de Deux but my brain is screaming at me about a super angsty fic series that follows DD Born Again headcanons down to the capital T and it will not stop 😫😭
