sometimes matt murdock deserves to sleep in a frilly pink princess bed too
gf!reader, addiction to crossword, 640 words
your angel haunting the fire escape is early tonight. fumbling with the window latch, his fingers numb and clumsy, he half-falls into the warmth of your bedroom leaving a trail of muddy water on the hardwood.
you barely glance up from where you're cross-legged on the canopy bed.
it's only twenty-two minutes until the clock strikes midnight and the jumbo crossword puzzle you're working on closes on its own.
"took you long enough," you say idly. matt looks absurdly out of place juxtaposed with the pink-and-white walls: a horned devil, blood trickling from his nose and gathering into his stubble. "rough day?"
"could've been better," matt grunts, collapsing by the foot of the bed. he tugs his cowl off, one eye swollen shut, angry. "dislocated a shoulder and had to uh," he shrugs noncommittantly, gesturing, "pop it back in. got stabbed lightly after that. oh, and," his fingers find his temple, "baseball bat."
you make a face. stabbed lightly? reluctantly, you tear your eyes away from your laptop screen and slide off the bed to fetch the first-aid kit. nothing about this is particularly new; it's a practiced dance of winces and hissed breaths until you've shucked the suit off him and gotten him back down onto the duvet.
"scoot," you command, climbing back on with the kit and your laptop. you get to work cleaning the knife wound first, brow furrowed in concentration... on your screen. "huh."
matt tilts his head up. "what?"
"what's 'strips in a club'? five letters."
matt exhales amusedly, realizing you're on your crossword hunt again. "undresses? teases?" he mumbles, and you frown. "that's not five... oh, well." you turn back to him, prodding at the incision with your fingers. it must still hurt, but all cleaned up it doesn't look as bad. "ok, good, i don't think you need stitches. let's just dress it then let me know if it feels funny or anything."
"bacon?"
"huh?"
"strips in a club -- sandwich. it's bacon."
"oh, fu-- that's brilliant," you curse gleefully, clicking away at the keys with your free hand. "ok, five down, ten letters-- 'something to see stars with...'"
"telescope?"
"tried that, but that's nine."
matt's quiet for a bit, labored breathing filling the room. you shimmy a little to reach for the tape, and move matt's hand to hold pressure over the wound. "'concussion'?"
"what? that's not--," you chew at your lip, and chuckle. "oh. you're really good at this."
he tries to laugh back, though it quickly turns into a pained cough. "it's funny, my dad used to say that when i'd get into fights as a kid, actually." you see his throat bob lightly, mouth tipping at an upturn. he licks his lips. "he'd ask if i was 'collecting stars'. 'save some for the other kids, matty,' he'd say."
it's nice to think, matt as a little boy. in the past, it used to take you more effort -- it's hard to imagine matt as anything else but the one you met, a handsome, charming guy with a penchant for getting beaten bloody. but he's always been like that, you suppose that hasn't changed. picking fights. collecting stars.
"come on then," you say softly, helping him shuffle up so he can rest his head on the pillows. "careful, don't move too much. time for bed."
you maneuver matt under the pink-and-white canopy, and spot your stuffed puppy peeking over the headboard.
butterscotch is something from your childhood, something that carried over when everything else had to move on. you grab it and place it gently against matt's chest. "here. take care of each other, ok?"
drained completely by exhaustion, matt seems to not have any argument left in him. he doesn't protest, wrapping an arm around butterscotch. so childlike in your frilly bed. the rain continues its steady rhythm as you tuck them under the heavy blanket.
maybe tomorrow will be better for him. devil or not, you're just glad matt's here, safe under the canopy, collecting stars.
gracieabrams
amandla
