synopsis: after turning up on your rooftop injured one night, you and a masked stranger form a routine of late-night conversations and shared silences. when he shows up one night bleeding and in need of your help, your unconventional relationship is pulled into the light for closer inspection. — requested by anon !
author’s note: woah, this idea took hold and wouldn't let me go!! first matt fic since 2019, and i clearly missed him. this was fun to write, i liked coming at it like the reader knew nothing about him !! unsure about the ending, but i really didn't want to rush things.... hope you guys enjoy <3
wordcount: 5,766 (fucking hell.)
Matt Murdock x Reader
The city sounds different from the roof of your building – more distant, muffled, less overwhelming. Sirens racing below blur into something low and almost melodic, the oppressive heat of the summer loosening its grip as the sun goes down, while your thoughts stop ricocheting quite so violently around your skull.
You find yourself up here most nights – either fresh from your late shift, your feet aching and your eyes hurting from the glare of the fluorescents, or sleep-deprived and antsy from insomnia, seeking darkness and calm beyond the confines of your tiny studio apartment.
Tonight, bone-tired from your shift and desperate for some cool air and some quiet, you trudge up to the roof and sit down with your back against the brick, eyes fluttering shut as you listen to the distant traffic– and promptly doze off.
When you wake up, grimacing at the crick in your neck as you push yourself upright, it’s still dark, and you have no sense of how long you were even out. You move to push yourself up, palm splayed against the rough concrete as you blink the bleariness from your eyes–
That’s when you hear the crunch of gravel.
It’s subtle, barely even a sound, but you hear it pierce through the stillness anyway, the wrongness of it prickling up your spine, and you turn towards it, ever-so-slowly.
There’s a man on your roof.
Dressed all in black, a mask covering the top half of his face, crouched near the far side like he’s part of the architecture – motionless in a way that doesn’t feel inert so much as intentional.
Your heart slams into your ribs, adrenaline sharp and immediate, fear screaming get out before your brain can catch up. You move to push yourself up, keys clenched in your fist, exhaling lightly at the movement.
He hears it. His head snaps toward you with unnerving precision, looking right at you though the black fabric covers his eyes.
For one horrible second, neither of you moves.
Then he lifts his hands – not high, not dramatic, just open. “I’m not here to hurt you.” He says slowly, his voice kept low, controlled, almost tired.
Your pulse hammers in your ears. “...This is a private building,” you say, proud that your voice only shakes a little. “You need to leave.”
“I will,” he replies, then after a short, tension-filled pause, “I just… I need a minute.”
You don’t move. You don’t risk turning your back, letting him out of your sight. He’s too close to the door, if you try to make a run for it, he could easily grab you before you even make it–
“I’m serious,” you add, tremor in your voice increasing as your brain helpfully provides you with rapid-fire scenarios of every possible way this could go wrong. “I’ll call the police.”
He winces – though it doesn’t seem to be at the threat, but more as if the idea of that costs him effort. “I believe you,” he says. “I just–” He shifts his weight, inhaling sharply.
That’s when you see the red smeared on the hand he has pressed against his thigh, the droplets of dark dotting the gravel around him. Your brows tug together, scanning the rest of him, taking in the way he’s curled around himself, favouring one leg, his posture tight and pained.
“...You’re hurt.” You observe, before you can stop yourself.
He exhales through his nose like it’s funny, cocking his head. “Yeah.”
His response throws you, honest and underlaced with a deadpan sense of humour. He lowers himself carefully onto the ground, breath hitching despite the control he’s trying to maintain.
Against every sensible instinct you have, you don’t take your chance to run for the door. “You really shouldn’t be up here.” You say, weaker now, glancing at the next roof over – he must have jumped over here, you realize, frowning.
“Yeah, well, your roof was the closest and quietest,” he counters gently, grimacing as he leans up against a wall, leg stretched out in front of him. “Sorry.”
“No, I meant–” You hesitate, then step closer. Why are you getting closer, there is a strange man bleeding on your roof– “You should be at a hospital.”
“I can’t.” He replies easily, and you get the feeling this is a practiced answer to a question he’s been asked many times before. What the fuck are you still doing up here, you should run, get inside–
“I have water,” you say, shocked by yourself as the words leave your mouth. “And… A towel. If you want. For the… Blood.”
Another pause, this one heavier as you watch him assess you – though how he’s doing that with fabric over his eyes, you’re not sure – before he seems to relax ever-so-slightly, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallows, and he nods.
“Thank you,” he says, tone still slow and careful, like he’s trying not to spook you. “Water and a towel would be great.”
You dip your hand into your bag and pull out the bottle, inching closer before holding it out. He takes it carefully, gloved fingers brushing yours, lingering just long enough for you to register warmth, for your heartbeat to accelerate.
As he drinks, you reach into your bag and pull out your gym towel, suddenly grateful you washed it and didn’t make it to the gym today. He takes it with a nod and presses it to his thigh, jaw tightening at the motion.
“I am sorry,” he says quietly, wincing. “For scaring you. I didn’t think anyone was up here, I didn’t hear… Anyway, I didn’t mean to scare you.”
You watch him, brows tugged together as you catalogue what you can about him – the black outfit, the gloves, the mask, the injuries.
“Yeah, well, I didn’t mean to fall asleep up here, so.” You shrug, your words offering a small acknowledgement of his lack of ill intent, and the tension in the air slowly starts to dissipate.
You cast your eyes back to the horizon to watch the city, noticing the faint glow on the horizon of the sun preparing to come up. You have got to get some sleep.
“I’m gonna…” You gesture awkwardly at the door, your gaze sticking on his injury for a few moments longer before you swallow. “I’m gonna go.”
The masked stranger nods, lifting the towel off his leg, and you realize that he’s trying to offer it back to you.
“Oh, no, you can–” You shake your head and swallow thickly, even taking a step back at the sight of the blood-soaked fabric as your pulse jumps. “You can hold on to that.”
“What, you don’t like blood?” He asks, cocking his head slightly, and you immediately scold yourself for finding the action hot. What the hell is wrong with you, he’s a strange man bleeding out on your roof – but he does have nice lips, and a nice smile, and–
“...Goodnight.” You say suddenly, realizing you’ve just been standing there staring at him, and move to the door.
He opens his mouth, about to say something, and for some reason you panic and dart into the stairwell before he gets the chance, running a hand down your face as you hurry down the stairs all the way to your apartment.
What the fuck was that?
You think about that night a lot for the next few days, the fear, the adrenaline, the way he’d carried himself while injured like it was no big deal.
You’re not avoiding the roof, per se, you just… Okay, yeah, you’re avoiding the roof, but you’re really not ready to run back into the masked stranger with an irritatingly attractive smile who bled all over your one quiet space in the city.
However, after a particularly grueling shift, when you come home to find your neighbours blasting music through your thin walls, you decide to risk going back up to the roof – it’s not like he would come back, knowing you could be up there.
The door opens with its usual reluctant groan, and you peek outside, looking both ways… Empty. Thank God.
You let out a breath you didn't even realize you were holding and walk over to your spot by the ledge, sitting on the low wall and peering down, eyes tracking the passing cars below, the neon lights, the sounds of raucous laughter and people shouting echoing up to you.
You’re halfway lost in the sound of traffic, exhaustion from your day lulling you into a moment of calm, when you hear it – a soft scrape, the sound controlled, deliberate.
You turn, your heart stuttering, and there he is.
Same black suit, same black mask, but not soaked with blood this time, you’re relieved to see. He isn’t hunched over or crouched, but standing several feet away from you, posture open, movements deliberate and visible and very intentionally non-threatening.
“It’s me.” He says, like that needs clarifying, and your relief is immediate and deeply annoying.
“Yeah, because I totally could have mistaken you for someone else.” You say, gesturing at his outfit.
He cocks his head, fighting the smile that threatens to break across his lips. “I wasn’t sure if I’d find you up here.” He admits, head tilting towards the spot you’d been sitting in the first time, and you scoff.
“Yeah, well. It’s my roof.” You reply dumbly, somewhat ashamed that you’d been so hesitant to return, and also that you were right to be hesitant, that he did come back.
A moment passes, where you can feel him assessing you – you would say you can feel his eyes on you, but that’s not right, not with that mask still covering the top half of his face. It’s more like… Like he’s listening to you, which sort of freaks you out, but mostly intrigues you.
“May I?” He gestures toward the empty space along the wall next to you, still maintaining a respectful distance, and some part of you finds it funny – what a gentleman.
You study him, tracking the distance he’s keeping, the way he’s waiting for your answer before he even moves.
“Yeah,” you say finally. “You can sit.”
He does, carefully, clearly leaving space between you, although now he’s within an arm’s reach of you. You watch him sit, the action fluid and easy, and you make a humming sound.
“You look better.” You say, narrowing your eyes at him, glancing at the spot on his thigh where the injury had been.
He shrugs. “I took care of it.”
Whatever that means. You make another humming sound, pressing your lips together. “Does that happen a lot? Wounds you have to ‘take care’ of?”
“Occupational hazard.” He quips, and you startle yourself by almost laughing. “What about you, you come up here a lot?”
You blink, looking away from him, fixing your eyes on a skyscraper on the horizon. “Just… Whenever I can’t sleep.”
“That’s… Often?” He guesses, though his voice sounds very sure.
You huff a quiet laugh, raising an eyebrow. “What gave me away?”
“Falling asleep on a rooftop isn’t what someone with a normal sleep schedule does,” he smiles, and you have to admit, he’s got you there. “That, and the fact that you move like you’re always tired. Maybe not just from the lack of sleep…?”
His tone is strange, almost probing, like he’s trying to broach a subject he’s not sure how to. You wait for him to elaborate, watching the way he’s sitting, his arm resting near you on the way, and suddenly it clicks.
“Oh, God,” you say suddenly, realizing why he’s being so nervous around you, why he’s keeping his voice low, keeping you in his sights. “I’m not going to jump, if that’s what you think.”
“No, I didn’t–” He starts to shake his head, and then stops, smiling thinly. “I mean. Maybe I did. I don’t know.”
“God, no, I just like the view, that’s all. Look, there’s another ledge further down, see, so even if I fell, it wouldn’t–” You shrug, gesturing down at the ledge, before frowning at your own wording. “Or. Well. Can you see?”
It’s a very blunt, inarticulate way to ask the thing that’s been bugging you this whole time, but you’re tired and this is a very strange interaction you’re having, so what the hell.
“In a way.” He answers in the least helpful way possible, and your frown deepens. “But yes, I know there’s a ledge down there.”
“...Okay.” If he’s not going to go into it, you’re not going to push. “Anyway. I’m not– I just like the peace and quiet up here.”
He holds his hands up in surrender, and you nod, letting silence settle in – not uncomfortable, but not entirely comfortable yet, just… Present. Open.
“I wanted to apologize,” he says quietly, and you pick up the low, pleasant timbre of his voice, another unfortunately attractive quality of his. “For the other night.”
It’s sweet, and you find yourself smiling softly to yourself at the consideration there. “You already did.”
“I know.” He smiles faintly. “Still, I’m sorry that I scared you.”
“Oh, no, the masked stranger dropping onto my roof in the middle of the night and bleeding everywhere didn’t scare me at all.” You respond, sarcasm dripping off your words, and he ducks his head sheepishly, so after a beat, you add, “But that’s kind, thank you.”
The stiffness in his shoulders eases just a fraction, and you turn your gaze back out to the horizon, wary of the sudden warmth blooming at your chest. A comfortable silence settles, but you keep glancing over at him nervously, until you finally decide to just come out and say it.
“You don’t have to stay here and babysit me,” you say, watching him out of the corner of your eye when he makes no move to get up or leave. “I’m not, like… At risk.”
“I know,” he replies, nodding, and then, after a beat, “I’d like to stay for a bit. If that’s okay.”
You consider the city again, deliberately avoiding looking at his smile as you try to ignore the way your pulse races at his words, your brain scrambling to catch up with the strange sense of calm of being here with someone who feels both dangerous and oddly safe.
“I don’t mind.” You say, swallowing, and catch his exhale and smile in your peripheral.
The two of you start talking after that – safe topics, like the summer heat, the skyline from your building, the sound of drunks being kicked out of the bar at the end of your block.
“Are you always this talkative?” You tease after a while.
“Only on rooftops with total strangers.” He says solemnly.
You don’t exchange names, and it feels intentional, something fragile you’re both protecting. Names would make this heavier, would demand context, daylight, consequences.
It’s nearly dawn when he stands to leave, but before he makes it far, he hesitates.
“I might come back.” He says, his posture almost nervous, and you stifle your smile.
“I might be here.” You shrug.
He flashes a proper smile at that, nodding to you as he goes to stand by the far end of the roof. “Goodnight.” He says, and then promptly leaps off the side, landing on another rooftop and disappearing into the dark.
“Goodnight.” You say to yourself, shaking your head at the absurdity of it all, but you realize you’re smiling too.
And when you come back the next night, you’re not surprised to find him there, almost grateful to find his shadowy silhouette already perched on the ledge when you open the door. And when it happens again a couple days later. And a week after that.
The comfort you find in these conversations doesn’t happen all at once.
There’s no one night where you suddenly glance over at him and think this is easy now. It accumulates quietly, settling into itself before either of you realize it’s happening. At first, you continue to sit a careful distance apart, your body angled toward the skyline instead of him. You choose what you reveal about yourself with intention, weighing how much you’re willing to give away.
Then, without either of you naming it, the guardedness slips away.
You start bringing two coffees home with you from your work because it’s late and he always looks tired. You don’t comment on it, just pass him the takeout cup when you sit down one night, and he takes it with a grateful nod and a smile.
Most nights, you talk about little things. The strange nighttime hours you both keep, jobs that couldn’t be more different if they tried but still leave you both in tandem nocturnal schedules. How certain sirens mean different things, which is something he has opinions about – measured, thoughtful, spoken like he’s spent a lot of time listening and learning.
You gather information about your stranger – he’s funny, in a dry, understated way, delivered like he’s testing whether or not you’ll catch it, smiling when you do. He believes in something, his faith appearing in small bursts when he talks about guilt and burden and right and wrong.
His hearing is ridiculously good, in a supernatural/superpowered kind of way. It makes up for his lack of sight, which you touch upon carefully, and he acknowledges but never elaborates upon.
“Is this weird?” You ask suddenly one night, and he cocks his head.
“Yes.” Then, a beat. “Is what weird?”
“You already said yes, idiot. This. This… I don’t know. I don’t even know– You don’t know anything about me. Don’t you find it strange that we see each other this often?” It’s been nagging at you for a while, this thing you don’t tell your friends about, that you look forward to but can never name.
“I know things about you.” He defends, and you quirk an eyebrow.
“Oh yeah? Like what?”
“I know you work at a diner,” he says softly, shrugging, and you frown immediately, wondering if he followed you– “Your clothes smell like fryer grease and coffee, but your breath doesn’t, and you wear comfortable shoes and a nametag. That, and the fact that you work late hours, but you never smell like alcohol.”
“...You know my name?” It feels like a breach of trust, and you’re surprised to find yourself genuinely worried at the idea.
“No, I– I can’t read it, I just can hear it sometimes when you move.” God, that’s so freaky, but you’re not as weirded out as you really ought to be. As if he senses your thoughts, he adds suddenly, “Not in a creepy way.”
You glance at him, amused despite yourself. “...Not in a creepy way.” You parrot, and he smiles at you awkwardly.
“Promise.”
In a way, you suppose it evens things out – you also know what he does, in a way, though you never say the word vigilante out loud, never point out that the nights he comes to you more battered and bruised are right before the mornings you read about gangs being taken down or criminals strung up and dumped on the steps of the police station.
Some nights, your conversations drift into what some might call real territory.
“You ever wonder if you’re doing the right thing?” He asks once, voice low, head tilted as he listens to the street below. He’s quieter tonight, burdened by something.
“All the time,” you reply with no hesitation. “I just like to think it’s the wondering about it that makes it right, like, if I’m making myself sick with guilt over it, I must be at least trying to do some good.”
It feels like an overshare, but he only hums in agreement, and that’s that. He’s quieter after that, closer, somehow, like he’s filing the information away where it matters.
The roof becomes your shared thing. You sit shoulder to shoulder now, knees brushing, heat shared as the cold starts to seep in, and when the wind kicks up, he shifts without comment, body angling to block it.
Sometimes you don’t talk at all.
You listen to the city breathe, to the rhythm of traffic, to his solid presence – attentive, unintrusive. It’s a strange comfort, sitting in silence with someone so shrouded in mystery.
Time passes in a way that feels both fast and endless – months go by, your nightly roof visits consistent despite being sporadic. You start noticing patterns – the nights he doesn’t show are often followed by him being more injured, more tired, more satisfied.
One night, he asks out of the blue, “Do you believe in redemption?”
You think about it for a while, frowning at the sky. “I… I think so. I think it’s something you can practice,” you say finally. “Not something you’re just suddenly granted.”
He exhales softly. “I like that.”
Comfort settles in like it belongs there. You stop wondering who he is when he’s not here – what you have on the roof is enough. More than enough.
By the time you realize how deeply you trust him, it’s already settled into your bones. By the time you realize how much you look forward to these nights, it’s already a habit.
And by the time you realize how dangerous it is to be this comfortable with someone so shrouded in danger and secrecy, someone you barely know, you’re already sitting close enough that his shoulder is warm against yours, the low timbre of his voice rumbling through you and soothing something in your chest.
Tonight already feels different – you’re the first one up here, two black coffees slowly going cold on the ledge, quietly realizing that he’s not going to show.
Then you hear him, but you know something is wrong before you even see him.
It isn’t the quiet, deliberate scrape of him landing gently on the roof – it’s a thud, rattling the metal of the HVAC vents around you. The sound cuts through the quiet like a gunshot, sharp enough that you’re on your feet before you’ve thought it through.
His dark silhouette appears on the far side of the roof, where he usually comes from, but this time, there’s something off, something wrong.
He staggers, one hand braced hard against the brick wall as he approaches you, breath coming in rough, uneven pulls. His shoulders are tight, rigid with the effort of staying upright, and then he steps under the light.
“Oh my god.” You whisper.
There’s so much blood. His side is soaked, black clothes sticking to him and glistening in the dim light, but it’s still flowing, hitting the gravel and coating the stones. He turns when he hears you and your horror increases at the sight of crimson coating the side of his face, dripping down his jaw, his neck–
You feel sick.
“What– Are you– What do I do?” The words tumble out, disjointed and staccato, drowned out by the sudden pounding of your pulse in your ears.
He grimaces, teeth bared to reveal blood coating the whites, and shakes his head.
“Nothing, I shouldn’t have–” He’s cut off by his own low groan of pain as he turns to face you, a hand held out as if to keep you away.
He sucks in a sharp breath, tries to gather himself, and shakes his head. “I’m fine,” he says automatically, and then immediately proves himself a liar by folding in half and keeling over.
You catch him before he hits the gravel, nearly hitting the ground as well as you buckle under the weight of him. He’s heavier than you expect – or maybe you’re just panicking too hard to brace properly, but he helps you by swinging his arm around your shoulders, clumsy and uncoordinated, weight sagging into you like gravity’s finally won.
“You are not fine,” you say, voice pitching high despite your best efforts. “You’re– Oh, God, you’re bleeding everywhere.”
“I know,” he grits out. “I just– I needed to get somewhere safe.”
The word safe lands hard, your heart slamming into your ribs as you try and figure out what to do. “Inside,” you decide. “Now.”
“No,” he snaps, reflexive, shaking his head. “I can’t–”
“You’re not bleeding out on my roof,” you cut in, fear sharpening your tone. “If you don’t come inside, I’m calling an ambulance. Right now.”
That stops him, and you feel the moment he weighs his options – pride, secrecy, pain, trust – and then exhales through clenched teeth.
“Okay,” he mutters. “Okay. Inside.”
It feels like a Sisyphean effort to get him down the stairwell and subsequent hallway, through the building and into your apartment with none of your neighbours seeing, but you manage.
Your shitty studio apartment has never felt so small.
You half-drag him to the bed and gently lower him down, trying not to wince as he hisses at the motion. His blood covers your hands, your shirt, already starting to seep into the fabric of your duvet.
Your heart is racing so fast it makes you lightheaded, and you stand there like an idiot for a few seconds, glancing around as if searching for a clue as to what to do next.
“What the fuck happened?” You ask, already digging through the mess of stuff under your bed for the first aid kit your parents had made you buy when you’d first moved in, voice shaking as you curl your fingers around the plastic handle.
“Knife,” he says, far too casually. “Slid under the ribs.”
You freeze. “Under the–?”
“Didn’t puncture anything vital,” he adds quickly, like he can hear the panic spike in your pulse. “I’d know.”
That should not be reassuring, but somehow, it is. You kneel in front of him, hands hovering uselessly for a second as you take him in – the blood soaking his side, his breathing shallow and careful, jaw locked tight.
“You need a hospital.” You try again, weaker this time.
“I can’t,” he replies, just as steady as ever. “Please.”
You swallow hard, then nod once. Decision made. You’re probably the least qualified person to do this, but he needs you, so you shove down the bile that rises in your chest and the panic that threatens to smother you, focusing on his torso.
You can’t control the oh my god that escapes you as you lift his shirt off, cold dread filling you at the sight of the mangled skin below. The wound is deep – a long, ugly slice that’s still bleeding steadily, and fear floods through you.
You hold gauze over it and press firmly, your hands shaking. He hisses, shoulders tightening, and then his head dips forward suddenly, forehead resting against your shoulder. The contact is unplanned, instinctive.
You freeze for half a second – then wrap an arm around him to keep him upright.
“I know,” you murmur. “I know it hurts. Just– Fuck. Breathe. Please.”
“I–” He hisses, shakes his head. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have–”
“Stop apologizing,” you say. “You’re allowed to need help.”
He laughs weakly, breathless, and it loosens something in your chest. “I’m not very good at that.”
“I’ve noticed.”
You finish bandaging him as best you can, securing it tight, praying it’s enough as he tips back to lie on the bed and slings an arm over his mouth to muffle his groans. Your eye then catches on the blood at his temple, seeping beneath the edge of the mask, and you reach for it then hesitate, fingers hovering along the seam of the fabric.
“I can’t–” He protests immediately, not angry, just firm. Almost scared.
“Okay,” you acquiesce, nodding. “I’ll… I’ll work around it.”
You clean carefully, lifting the edge of the fabric just enough to dab at the cut, never more than necessary. You try to fold the fabric back further, just enough to reach the edge of the wound, but it isn’t enough. Your breathing grows heavier, frustration creeping in–
His hand closes gently around your wrist, stopping you, and before you can protest, before you can explain that you need to do this, he inhales slowly, deliberately, and pulls the mask off himself, his hands shaking as he tugs it free and tosses it aside.
You turn your face away immediately, heart thudding at the weight of the trust he’s just handed you. You keep your eyes focused on your hands, on the blood, on the task, and when his breathing stutters, you talk – soft, constant.
“Stay with me,” you repeat like a mantra. “Okay? I’ve got you.”
He makes a humming sound, and you try to work as quickly as you can, grateful that the cut on his temple is shallow and seems to have stopped bleeding. When you sit back on your heels, your hands are slick with blood, your chest tight with fear you’re only barely holding back.
“I think I’m done,” you say softly, patting his knee to get his attention, but he doesn’t respond. His head is tipped back, chest moving very slowly, and fear grips you by the throat. “Hey! Stay with me, okay, stay–”
You swallow thickly, standing, hovering over him. What do you do, what are you supposed to do, oh my god is he dead–
“Fuck, wake up, please, I don’t even– I don’t even know your name.” You find yourself babbling as you hover over him, hands shakily feeling for a pulse at his neck. He groans, and relief hits you so hard you almost sink to the floor.
He groans again, muttering something lowly, and you frown, leaning in, but he’s already gone quiet, his body relaxing in a way that tells you he’s passed out, from the exhaustion or the pain or the injuries or all of the above. You pull a blanket over him, still dutifully not looking at his face, and then you turn around.
Your apartment looks like a crime scene.
Blood on the duvet. On your shirt. On your hands. On your floor. The sharp, metallic smell of it clings to the air, mixing with antiseptic and the stale coffee you never finished earlier. You stand there for a second, staring at the rise and fall of his chest, waiting for the fear to dissipate.
It doesn’t. Not fully, fracturing instead into a dozen smaller things.
You clean yourself up first because you’re on autopilot and your hands are shaking too badly to do anything else, scrubbing at the skin until the water runs pink, then clear. You change your clothes, take deep breaths, count his breaths like a lunatic.
You find his mask on the floor, soaked in blood, and you hesitate over it for a long moment before adding it to the wash with his shirt. It feels wrong to touch it, even now, like it’s a boundary you’re not supposed to cross – but he crossed it first.
By the time you’re done, the adrenaline finally burns itself out, leaving you hollowed and exhausted and still keyed too high to sleep properly.
You sit on the couch, staring at the bed, listening to him breathe, letting the reality of what just happened settle into your bones.
Eventually, without remembering the exact moment you decide to lie down, you do. Curled awkwardly on the couch, eyes fixed on the edge of the bed like you’re afraid he’ll disappear if you stop looking–
Sleep takes you anyway.
Matt wakes slowly.
Not the sharp, instinctive snap of consciousness he’s used to – the kind that comes with pain and threat and the immediate need to move – but something thicker, heavier, like pushing up through dark water.
The first thing he registers is wrongness.
The bed, the scratchy blanket, the hum of an unfamiliar refrigerator, close enough that he can feel the vibration through the floor.
And then his hand shoots up to his face, landing on unfamiliar fabric pulled low over his eyes – not his mask, but covering his face just the same.
His body stills completely, breath going shallow as his senses reach outward, his fingers running over the fabric – knit, pressed lightly against his cheek, warm from body heat. A… Beanie?
There’s one heartbeat close by, familiar, but slow – sleeping. Relief and something dangerously close to affection twist together in his chest, and he exhales, long and controlled, forcing his body to stay where it is.
A few seconds later, that heartbeat stutters.
You wake with a sharp inhale, disoriented, pushing yourself upright on instinct when you realize he’s awake. For a split second, you just stare at each other – him propped awkwardly on your bed, you tangled in a blanket on the couch like you fell asleep mid-thought.
“Oh,” you say, then, quieter, “Morning.”
“There’s something on my face,” he says calmly, but there’s tension threaded through it, tight and careful.
“Shit, yes, about that–” You wince, scrambling to your feet, suddenly too aware of the space between you – how you’ve never seen each other in the daylight.
“Your mask was… Soaked,” you explain, words tripping over each other. “I didn’t know if it was, like, a health hazard to put it back on your face, so… I put it in the wash with your shirt, and I gave you my beanie.”
A beat passes.
“I didn’t have anything else,” you add quickly, because silence feels dangerous. “And I didn’t– I mean, I kept my eyes closed when I changed it. I didn’t look.”
He listens. Not just to the words, but to the way you say them, the steadiness of your pulse now that the panic has passed, the truth sitting plainly in your voice.
“…Thank you. For– For everything.” He says quietly, and you let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding, shoulders dropping.
He reaches up then, slow and deliberate, fingers hooking into the edge of the beanie. Pauses. Breathes. And then he pulls it off, carefully, almost reverent, like he’s acknowledging the moment for what it is.
He turns his head toward you fully, and your breath hitches – soft eyes and thick brows completing the rest of his face. Fuck, he’s beautiful, you think, heart stuttering, and you watch a smirk tug against his lips.
“I’m Matt,” he says after a moment, swallowing thickly. “It’s nice to meet you.”
Something settles between you at the sound of it – not relief, not fear, but recognition. The final piece of a puzzle sliding into place between you. You smile and repeat it back to him like you’re anchoring it in place, following it with your own name.
With three movies to compare between, I really appreciate how each Knives Out movie explores justice from a different thematic angle, not based on the murder that was committed but based on the cruelty that led to that murder.
In Knives Out, a compassionate, ethical young woman treats everyone around her with generosity, and the people around her repeatedly try to take advantage of her kindness to force her into losing the fortune that was gifted to her by a dear friend. There, justice means that she keeps the fortune and decides that actually, she doesn't have to be kind and giving to people who've proven themselves assholes.
In Glass Onion, a woman loses her sister to a gang of wealthy, successful people who've sacrificed their principles for the sake of ambition and ego. There, justice means that everyone involved will be made notorious: whatever their other accomplishments, they will forever be known for being complicit in the burning of the most famous painting in history.
In Wake Up Dead Man, the church takes advantage of a young girl's loyalty and faith to place her under a lifelong burden and fill her with guilt, shame, and hatred. Justice means helping her understand what was done to her and the women around her, and giving her compassion so she can find peace.
This is cool because it means the movies contradict each other! The compassionate justice of Wake Up Dead Man would be totally misplaced in Knives Out, and so would the toppling-monuments justice of Glass Onion. And because each movie has something different to say, they all stand on their own and feel fresh.
This is also why Benoit Blanc is the uniting figure but never the protagonist of these movies. He's an agent of legal justice in that he's the detective and it's his job to figure out whodunnit, but the protagonist -- Marta, Andi and now Jud -- is always the character who delivers thematic justice.
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