woe... brainworms upon ye @museumjackal - Tumblr Blog

Jan 30

Sanctuary

Summary: When something you’ve been holding close to your chest threatens to spill out, you decide to withdraw from your friends at Nelson, Murdock & Page

Note(s): This one has been sitting in my drafts for a while, I seriously debated posting it. I tried my best to treat these subject matters with respect, please let me know if I did anything wrong

Warning(s): Mentions / moment of transphobia towards the reader, talks about religion

You always knew that working at Nelson, Murdock & Page meant dealing with secrets.

People came in dragging entire histories behind them, some you knew, but most you didn’t. You sorted through case files with bruised knuckles, wiped dirt and grime off “mysteriously discovered” pages, or ignored blood still crusted into the corners of evidence photos. You learned quickly to be discreet, smiling gently when a client came in with fear stamped across their face. To shred things without asking. To care quietly.

So you thought you were pretty good at holding a secret yourself.

Until yours started to eat you alive.

You finally realized it on a Tuesday morning.

The coffee in your dented travel mug had gone lukewarm on top of a desk that was still cluttered with red-stamped files and half-filled sticky notes from the night before. You hadn’t meant for things to fall apart. You didn’t wake up one morning and decide to unravel like someone threw a spool of thread down a hallway.

You had shoved it down years ago- but then a case walked into the office.

A kid, maybe eighteen. Black hoodie pulled up tight, nails bitten down with chipped red paint, too thin for the weight in their voice. You watched their hands tremble, watched them glance sideways as they said, “It was bad where I was. They wouldn’t let me be who I am. I’m not going back.”

Graciously, Foggy had taken point on the case. You’d just been there to type, to smile, to offer them water.

Something in you cracked wide open, an oozing wound of guilt and shame thrumming in your chest.

That night, lying in bed with the city buzzing far below your apartment, you stared at the ceiling for hours. Words formed slowly in your mind, hesitant and soft, but undeniable.

I’m trans.

You don’t say it aloud, not at first. You’re content to just timidly test the syllables in your head, cradling the idea like glass- something beautiful, but dangerous. It didn’t feel like fireworks or freedom. It felt like everything stopped moving.

You remember what happened last time.

The first time you said anything- just hinted at what you were feeling- the slap across your face came faster than the rest of the sentence. They called you a mistake, an offense, a sin. Your mother cried. Your father slammed the Bible on the table so hard it cracked the wood.

You weren’t allowed back after that.

You’d only been sixteen when you learned that some kinds of love came with conditions.

So even now, years later, living in a rundown apartment you earned by scraping together paychecks and sleeping through hunger, your fear remains. The only name you could think of was Matt Murdock.

Matt had always been good to you. Not just kind, not just polite, genuinely good. The kind of good that felt rare, a warmth that settled in your ribs to fend off the chill of Hell’s Kitchen. He’d stayed late countless nights when you were behind on filing paperwork, being the first to offer you an extra bag of chips if your stomach so much as thought about grumbling. With the amount of times he had carried an extra umbrella so you wouldn’t get drenched walking home, you were surprised he didn’t have an industrial sized box tucked away somewhere in his office.

You didn’t grow up with a lot of faith in people. But Matt... Matt was different.

Which is why you didn’t know what to do now.

Because this was the same Matt Murdock who crossed himself before cases and muttered prayers under his breath when things got tense. Matt, who once told you that grace was something you had to practice, like forgiveness. Matt, who at one point actually kept a crucifix on his desk- mainly as an April Fool’s prank, but still. Matt, who always said “God help us” when Foggy explained that a client walked in with a suspicious amount of blood on their clothes. You knew that Matt was Catholic.

There’s fear dancing in your veins. Not just that Matt will reject you- but that he’ll do it kindly. That he’ll say it with sorrow in his voice and judgment in his heart. That he’ll say, “I’ll pray for you,” like a funeral, and expect you to thank him.

You love this job. You love them.

He never once judged you before. But this felt different., this felt... personal. And unfair. To him, especially, because people are allowed to believe what they believe. You didn’t want Matt to feel like he had to reconcile you with his religion. You didn’t want to even consider asking that of him. And you definitely didn’t want to be one of those people- those stories that made him feel like he had to choose between you and his God.

So you chose for him. You pulled away.

It should’ve been freeing. Instead, you sat at your desk the next morning, staring at the lines of a client intake form, your chest tightening with every tick of the clock.

Nelson, Murdock & Page was small- just a cozy floor of a Hell’s Kitchen walk-up, one half of the space converted into offices, the other half divided by old wood paneling and the occasional exposed brick wall. Your desk sat directly outside Matt’s office- you were the gatekeeper, the organizer, the one who answered phones and sorted through the chaos and tried to make sense of it all.

Normally, you liked it. The rhythm of it. The way Foggy cracked jokes and Karen passed you coffee without asking, how Matt would sometimes tap his cane twice when he needed you and you’d already be halfway to the door.

But now, every sound made you jump. Every time Matt opened his door, you kept your eyes glued to your computer screen. He was blind, but not oblivious. He could hear the change in your breathing, the way your voice wavered when you spoke. And worse- he could feel things. You didn’t know how, but somehow Matt always just... knew. When someone was scared. When someone was hiding something.

And you were hiding something big.

You learned swiftly to be quiet. You answered him with short sentences, emails instead of knocking. He notices, of course he does. He pauses at your desk one afternoon before going out for a break- white cane in one hand, suit jacket hanging open, a soft little crease between his brows that usually only shows when someone lies to him.

“You alright?” he asks. Just two words, but they hit you like a hammer.

You smile too fast. “Fine.”

He tilts his head, listening, maybe for the racing of your heart or the catch in your breath. You wonder, not for the first time, how much he really hears.

But, he doesn’t press. He just nods, adjusts his grip on the handle of his cane, and walks out of his office.

You stare at your screen for ten more minutes before realizing you’ve typed nothing. And you tell yourself- just a bad day.

Honestly, the office smelt better than most places in the neighborhood. Coffee, cheap printer toner, Karen’s vanilla lotion, Foggy’s hair gel, and Matt’s cologne- sharp and expensive, something you couldn’t name but would know anywhere. You’ve worked there long enough to memorize every creak in the floorboards, every sigh of the old building, every place where sunlight manages to filter through.

Now it was suffocating.

Foggy was next.

You’d never really had a brother, but Foggy Nelson was probably the closest thing. He was always the first to hover near your desk in the morning, leaning on the counter like he had all the time in the world. He was loud, quick with a joke, and talked with his hands so much he knocked over things on your desk at least twice a week. He’d bring you terrible bagels on Mondays and call it tradition, and a donut on Fridays to celebrate. He told you things he didn’t tell Karen or Matt, probably because you were always there, always listening.

He called you by name like it was a tether, like if he said it often enough, you wouldn’t drift too far. But you pulled anyway.

Foggy was loyal to a fault, and you knew it. You saw the way he looked at Matt- how they had an entire history built from dorm rooms and courtrooms and broken bones. If Matt turned away, Foggy would too. Not out of malice, but out of habit. You didn’t want to shut him out, but he was Matt’s best friend. If it came down to it- if Matt said something, even quietly- Foggy would pick a side. And it wouldn’t be yours.

So you started skipping lunch with him. Leaving his messages on read. You even start making excuses when he asked if you want to play board games after work. Not because you don’t trust him, but because Foggy’s the kind of person who would want to fix everything. Who would knock on Matt’s door and say something like, “Hey, I think our secretary’s going through something”. You can’t risk it, you’re not ready. You don’t want Matt to hear about it secondhand and feel cornered.

He still tries. He’s like a golden retriever in human form; warm, talkative, too emotionally intelligent in his own chaotic way. He still brings you coffee every morning with a stupid pun written in Sharpie on the side. He calls you nicknames he makes up on the spot. “Captain Clipboard.” “Schedule Sorcerer.” “Supreme Lord of the Printer”. Doesn’t stop leaving a pastry from your favorite shop on your desk, no matter how many you no longer eat. Slips you a “Hey, I’m around if you want to talk” note like it’s high school and he’s trying to be subtle.

When you leave early or take your breaks late, you dare to think you’re being clever.

Foggy finally corners you after work one day, leaning against the doorway as you pack up.

“Okay, cards on the table,” he says. “Did I do something? Did I say something dumb and not realize it? Because you’ve been acting like I have leprosy.”

You force a laugh. “No. You’re fine. I’m just... tired.”

It was the weakest deflection you’d ever attempted, and you battle the urge to cringe at yourself.

“Sure,” he says, eyes searching your face like he already knew something was wrong, “Is it the Reynolds case? Because I get it, that guy’s a creep. But you can talk to us, you know. Me and Karen- we’re here.”

You nod too quickly. grabbing your bag like it’s a lifeline. “I’m good, really. Just busy.”

“You mad at me?”

You looked up from your shoes sharply. “What? No. Why would I be mad?”

He shrugged, but not casually. “You’ve been... distant. I dunno. I just figured maybe I pissed you off and didn’t realize it.”

“No,” you said quickly, then softer, “It’s not you.”

He studied you. Then offered a small smile. “Okay. Just- if you need something, you can tell me, alright?”

He watches you go. Doesn’t push. But he looks worried.

You want to tell him, and you almost do. But then you think about Matt again.

You think: If I tell Foggy, he’ll tell Matt. And Matt will look at me like my father did. Like I’m broken.

So you don’t.

You cry in the bathroom and tell yourself again that it’s just temporary. Just until you figure out what you’re doing. Who you are. What you’re willing to risk.

You pull away from Karen last.

She’s smart. Too smart.

She starts picking up your slack without saying anything, filling in where your focus drifts. She brings you lunch, gently places a hand on your arm when your hands tremble during an intake. She had a way of seeing you even when you didn’t want to be seen- sharp eyes, sharper mind. She came to you when the files didn’t add up, trusted your instinct when something in a case felt off.

You nearly cry the first time she hugs you on instinct.

Karen doesn’t ask what’s wrong. She just says, “You’re not alone, okay?” and means it.

You almost told her. You’d felt it, the way words crept up your throat: I think I’m trans.

But then Foggy walks in, laughing about something Matt said. And it dies in your throat.

Later, against your best judgement, you find yourself sitting across from her at a café on a gray Friday afternoon. She’s talking about a witness who backed out of giving testimony, and you’re nodding along, only half-listening because something in you is breaking open.

She’s looking at you with the same quiet intensity she uses on reluctant clients. The kind of look that makes people confess things they weren’t even planning to say.

“You’ve lost weight,” she says. “Are you sleeping? You look pale.”

She had this way of seeing people. Not the way Matt did with his heartbeat-listening, lie-detecting super-sense, but with plain, human intuition. Karen Page had lived through hell and clawed her way back with grace and fire, and it made her the most emotionally observant person you’d ever met.

You make up an excuse about an errand and leave her sitting at the café.

You quickly ignore her texts after the first one: Please call me. I miss you.

You cried reading it. You didn’t deserve friends like them. Not when you were failing this spectacularly at just... being honest.

But what if you told them- what if you told Matt- and everything fell apart?

What if he couldn’t reconcile the person he knew with the truth you carried?

You didn’t want him to feel like he was being tested. Like he had to prove his compassion. That wasn’t fair.

So you stayed quiet. And more alone.

Weeks passed like fog, heavy and unclear. The firm still won its cases. Crime still crawled in the dark corners of the city. Daredevil still patrolled the rooftops, still made headlines with broken ribs and bloody knuckles.

You stopped going to the office altogether. You told yourself it was temporary.

A few weeks later, another client came in with bruises so dark they looked painted on. It was a difficult case- violent, messy, impossible to fix in a single court date- all hands on deck. You avoided eye contact as you worked intake, sat with them while they stammered through their story. You nodded, gently, when they said something that mirrored what you’d felt. About feeling trapped in a body that wasn’t yours. About not being believed.

You went home that night and cried until your throat gave out.

And in the morning, you opened a blank document and typed out your resignation- after waking up from a nightmare where your mother told you, once again, that you were disgusting.

Two weeks. It felt like enough time to vanish politely.

You didn’t say much in the email. Just that you were grateful. Just that it was time. You left the rest blank. You didn’t want to lie. You just didn’t want to tell.

You sent the email at 3 a.m. and turned your phone off at 3:01.

The next morning, you didn’t go in.

Your apartment honestly isn’t much. You live on the third floor of a building in a part of Hell’s Kitchen most people avoid after dark. Every room somehow smelled like old radiator steam and someone else’s bad cooking. Your bathroom faucet screamed every time you turned it on, and the heater worked only when it wants to. The lock on the front door sticks, the floorboards creak like they're mourning something, and your single window overlooks the alley behind a deli that never throws its trash out fast enough. But it’s yours. You got it on your own, with no help from anyone- not your parents, not your past- and that’s something.

You used to joke that the apartment had “character.”

Now, it just feels like a place you barely survive in.

After they kicked you out, you worked shifts at a twenty-four-hour diner. Slept on couches, then someone’s floor, then a shelter bed that smelled like mold and fear. You fought for every inch of stability. By the time you landed the job at Nelson, Murdock & Page, you felt like you could finally breathe again.

But now? Everything was unspooling once more. The air was too thin. You ignored texts, unanswered emails, and let the phone ring endlessly. You ate less, slept less, and seemed to exist only as a ghost. The city roared outside your window while inside, silence reigned. You pretended that the world was not knocking at your door.

Until it did.

The rain blurred the city into watercolor as you sat on the couch, knees pulled to your chest, clad in a hoodie that hid your shape and thoughts.

The knocking began quietly.

You ignored it.

Then it grew louder.

You pulled a pillow over your head and curled further under an old blanket. You had not eaten. You had not showered. You felt brittle.

“Hey,” Karen’s voice said through the door. “We know you’re in there.”

You froze.

“I brought food,” Foggy called out. “From that Thai place you like. You're gonna make me eat pad see ew on your doorstep?”

You stayed silent.

“We just want to talk,” Karen added. “You’re scaring us. And Matt’s-”

“I’m not freaking out,” Matt said, voice dry.

“You are, actually,” Foggy muttered.

“Can you please let us in?” Karen asked. “We don’t want to push. We just want to make sure you’re okay.”

You stood slowly, heart hammering. Then you hear Matt.

“We’re not leaving.”

Your breath catches, and finally you unlock the door with trembling fingers.

Karen pushes in first, soaked to the bone, eyes wide and red-rimmed. She doesn’t say anything, she just hugs you like she’s scared you’ll disappear. You stand there, stiff, until you collapse against her.

Foggy follows, dropping the food on your kitchen counter, glancing around like he’s taking inventory. He moves through your apartment like he wants to fix everything but knows he can’t. He sees the cracks in the walls. The empty fridge. The blanket with the hole in it. You see him seeing it, and your stomach twists.

You hear the guilt seep into his voice when he says, “Jesus, you’ve been living like this?”

Matt is last, wet coat draped over his forearm. He folds his cane and leans it against the doorframe, listening in the quiet. His face is unreadable behind the dark glasses, but something in his posture- tense shoulders, clenched jaw- tells you he’s been thinking too much.

Slowly, Matt asks, “Are you being threatened?”

You shake your head.

Karen steps closer. Her voice is gentler now. “Then what’s going on?”

You breathe in.

And break.

“I’m trans.”

The room goes still. Rain hits the windows like a pulse.

You don’t look at them. You stare at the peeling paint on your wall, the old photo stuck to the fridge with a cracked magnet, your hands in your lap.

“My parents found out when I was a teenager,” you say. “I didn’t even use the word then. I just said I didn’t think I was... right. That something felt off.”

The silence thickens, your throat tightening viciously, and you have to force yourself to keep going.

“They told me I was possessed, that I was insulting God. My dad said I was lost. My mom didn’t even look at me when they threw me out. I haven’t heard from them since.”

You laugh bitterly.

“And then I started realizing- really realizing- who I was. And I thought about how Matt crosses himself when we win a case. How he holds his rosary when he thinks no one’s watching. How he talks about mercy like it means something real. And I panicked.”

Karen squeezes your hand.

“I didn’t want to make you choose,” you whisper, mostly towards Matt. “Between your faith and... me.”

Matt’s jaw tightened. “You thought I’d turn my back on you.”

“I thought you might have to. Even if you didn’t want to. And if you did... I couldn’t blame you.”

Matt stepped forward slowly, as though careful not to intrude too forcefully. His voice was low and steady, though it trembled at the edges.

“My faith... it’s not something I hold against people. It’s what tells me to love them. To fight for them. If I ever use my beliefs to hurt someone- especially someone I care about- then I’m not following anything worth believing in.”

He draws in a breath.

“I’ve questioned God so many times I’ve lost count. I’ve shouted at Him. I’ve begged Him. I’ve walked away and come back. But the older I get, the more I realize- being trans doesn’t make you less worthy of love. Or grace. Or sanctuary. If anything, it means you’ve been through more hell than most of us, and you’re still here.”

You nibble a small part of your lip hesitantly.

“My parents told me being trans was a sin,” you say.

Matt’s face is tilted toward you, but his expression is distant. Remembering something, maybe.

“Then they forgot what sin really is,” he says. “Cruelty. Judgment. Abandoning someone you’re supposed to love. That’s sin.”

You close your eyes. It’s too much. It’s everything you wanted and didn’t dare to hope for.

“I thought you’d hate me.”

“I could never,” he says, voice raw. “God gave me a lot of things. Pain. Anger. But He also gave me you. And for that I’m grateful.”

Your breath breaks in your chest as tears blurred your vision.

Karen speaks next. “No one should have to choose between being who they are and believing in something bigger.”

Matt nods slowly. “God made the sky and the oceans and every strange, beautiful thing. You think He’d look at you and say, ‘Oops’? You’re exactly who you’re supposed to be.”

You wipe your face with your sleeve. The tears keep coming.

“You’re not a burden,” he said. “You’re not a test. You’re not a sin to reconcile.”

You sob.

Karen, Foggy, and Matt close in around you, a warmth you didn’t know you could still feel.

Karen clears her throat as you all separated, eyes as red as Foggy’s,“We all are so grateful for you. And we’re not letting you go through this alone.”

Foggy, sitting back on your fraying armchair, nods quickly, voice soft. “Listen, you’ve been there for all of us. You put up with my bad jokes and Matt’s brooding silences and Karen’s five coffee orders a day-”

“Hey,” Karen mutters.

“-and we’re not letting you go through this alone. You don’t have to live in a closet or this apartment.”

Karen leans forward. “I have a guest room. It’s tiny, but it’s yours if you want it.”

“You could stay with me too,” Foggy says. “I make a mean grilled cheese.”

Matt tilts his head. “My place is quiet. You could rest there, if you need it.”

You shake your head, dazed. “I can’t ask you to-”

“You’re not asking,” Karen says.

“You’ve been doing everything on your own for so long,” Foggy adds. “Let someone help you, just this once.”

The apartment feels smaller than ever. But suddenly, it doesn’t feel as empty.

You glance around- at the cracked window, the peeling paint, the thin walls. The life you’ve scraped together out of grit and survival. And then you look at them. Their soaked clothes. Their tired eyes. The way they’re here anyway.

It’s not pity on their faces. It’s care. Love, even, in its own messy, imperfect way.

Karen sighed softly, “Never do that again! We thought you were in danger.”

Foggy nudged your shoulder with his. “You could’ve come out wearing a full Batman suit and told us you were secretly a duck, and I’d still show up at your door with takeout.”

Karen took your hand. “We love you. Not for what you give us. Not for the work you do. For you.”

Foggy chuckled to himself. “And even if Matt was a judgmental asshole-”

“I’m not,” Matt muttered.

“- I would still show up at your door,” Foggy finished. “And so would Karen.”

Karen nodded, gently wiping her eyes. “We all love you. You know that, right?”

You could only nod in response.

Outside, the rain finally began to subside, and the city exhaled a long-held breath. For the first time in a long time, you dared to think that you might survive too.

Later, when they’ve dried off and the food is reheated and Foggy is dramatically critiquing the terrible lighting in your kitchen, you catch Matt standing near the window, one hand lightly pressed to the wall.

“You’re not alone. Faith and identity- they don’t have to be enemies. Sometimes they’re just different ways of trying to survive, trying to find something true.” he says softly.

You hummed in agreement, for the first time in a long time, you think maybe both can be beautiful.

Matt steps even closer, his cane clicking decisively on the floor. “And for the record, truth isn’t measured by the hurt it causes. Something I will gladly say if your ‘parents’ dare to show their faces.”

#hey op what if I told you this cracked my chest open and my heart is bleeding into the pavement #“not out of malice but out of habit” is a line that's really sticking with me because the foggy and Matt dynamic is so......wow..#the characterization here is great you got everyone down so well and the dialogue feels so canon #crying at 3am. whatever.