A little out of place
For some reason, not conforming to the depressive norm makes you and your ethos questionable. But a reassuring perspective sits at your side. Taps your foot. Holds your elbow. It’s a nice feeling.
part three of wanting what you can't have // matt murdock x f!reader
wc: 2000
cw: sensory issues and anxiety ig
It’s a few days after your bar excursion, and yet, you're still bouncing back. Truly, you didn't even get that drunk. You just maintained a tipsy state. Matt and Foggy disagree, and Karen has no opinion since she can hardly remember.
You take an ibuprofen on your way out the door. On the drive, you imagine the layout of the upcoming meeting and your main expectations.
You and Matt plan to meet at Isabella’s school to accompany Ms. Hernández García to her daughter’s IEP meeting, where you would play the role of advocate and Matt as the defence, ready and willing to cite laws you were quite familiar with.
Slipping into the unfamiliar front office, you're directed to the conference room across the hall. You observe Matt through the window in the door, watching him sit and fiddle with his folded up cane. Repeatedly stretching and loosening the elastic between the joints. You open and close the door behind you, surveying the only person in the room. Greeting him, you announce, “Morning, Mr. Murdock.”
Striding to his side of the table, you watch a playfulness pull across his face. “Good morning.”
“You’re awfully chipper at,” You check your watch. “eight thirty one in the morning.” You pull out a seat next to him and set your absurdly heavy bag on the table.
“Well, you make it easy.” He knows the mistake as soon as it falls from his mouth, quickly attempting to rectify it, “Sorry, I didn’t–”
It’s his default, of course he’ll slip up now and then. You shake your head unconcernedly. “It's alright. You ready? This is a bit different from your standard criminal law.”
He smiles, gazes towards you and says, “Ready as I’ll ever be.” His folded hands tap, indicating hesitation. Concern rises when you spot stained watercolor bruises across his knuckles. You almost ask, but choose to unpack your things and settle in. Not the right place nor the right time.
“That’s the spirit. Keep it up, you’ll need it.” A steady stream of meeting-goers enter. You can’t help but notice that all of them wear a corporate gray scale. It’s depressing, and it isn’t a big deal, or least it shouldn’t be. But after the fourth person comes in with a white blouse and black pencil skirt, your leg begins to bounce.
Glancing down at your Ms. Frizzle-like attire, you spiral. I knew I had an important meeting today, and yet I wore the solar system dress. I should have at least forced myself to wear the plant one, but everything was so itchy. I–
Leaning over to you, his face turned to hide the words from potential prying eyes, Matt whispers, “You okay?”
You reply just as discreetly. “Just look a little out of place is all.” His face pinches in confusion and concern. This is so stupid. It isn’t a big deal, but you’re so anxious even the blind man could tell. Get it together.
Contritely, you admit, “I chose the wrong day to wear my solar system dress.” A loud laugh bursts from his mouth, which he quickly tries to cover with his hand. All heads in the room snap to the both of you, probably sitting a bit too close together. Flustered, you look at your lap and smother a smile; his big laughs seemed to be stored away, so it’s a very welcomed sound.
His hand is still clamped over his mouth, trying to pull himself together. But his eye crinkles rivet deeply, full of amusement. After taking a few moments to catch his breath, he nudges your shoulder with his own, and whispers between teetering laughs, “There’s never a wrong day for your solar system dress.”
Blood rushes to your cheeks. It’s not like you need someone’s opinion, especially a man’s, to know your dress is fucking awesome, but the blatent and firm reassurance burrows deeply. Softly, you repeat the statement aloud, more as a reminder to yourself than anything, but Matt nods happily.
Before the meeting even begins, an unbelievable problem comes to light. The school didn’t provide a translator for the mother; Señora Hernández García will be out of the loop. Wonderful. How convenient for the school board and extremely inconvenient for the client. Your unmasked annoyance radiates, but administration across from you doesn't seem to care. Matt communicates as much as he can about the situation at hand, but Señora urges that the meeting still take place, trusting that the two of you would advocate for Isabella and her needs.
These meetings are always the same. The parent, caregiver, or teacher saying, “Hey, this kid needs extra help.” and the school administration telling the concerned parties, ‘It’s really not that bad, plus that’s too expensive.’ Those with no expertise seem to always sit at the helm.
Finally, the last two latecomers trickle in, allowing the meeting to start. Everyone takes a seat.
The principal sits at the head of the wide oak conference table. “Good morning everyone, thank you for taking the time out of your busy schedules to meet with us. Let’s go around the table and introduce ourselves.” He fans a hand towards his chest. “I’m Bill Stern, the principal of Highland Elementary. And you?”
Most of the seats are held by facility members. Two of Isabella’s teachers. You and Matt. Matt introduces himself, and his reasoning for being present. You do likewise.
Bill holds a wry smile. “So, you’re a social worker, hmm?”
You discreetly fidget with your fingers below the tabletop. “I’m a school social worker, yes.”
“Ah, a school social worker, my mistake.” The balding man sets his folded hands on the table, watching you. “You talk to kids, play a game, color, and send them on their way?” He holds a large grin, glancing at his colleagues, who share similar smirks, but you don’t like that joke. You hate it when people say that. You glance at Matt, scanning his body language.
No laugh. Ridged jaw. Flared nose. Normally lax hands curled into fists.
Mimicking the principal’s body, you fold your hands, setting them in front of you. “It’s far much more than that. That’s why I’m here,” You pan across the large table, with far too many people with far too complicated job titles.
In this moment, you dream of the god-awful waiting room chair from Nelson and Murdock’s; it seems far more comfortable than the current scene. Because at least Karen, Foggy, and Matt didn’t make you play mind games. “What do you do?” he asks.
Confident, you explain. “I have been a foundational resource in the dissection and exposure of the school’s negligence, as well as providing the willingness to configure realistic, legitimate aids, as if this child was a student of my own.”
It was a satisfactory answer. The meeting goes. And goes and goes and goes. In your periphery, you watch the lapping clock hands. You’ve had to swallow a few laughs as Matt continuously brushes his fingers against his watch, desperate for empty academic vernacular to stop. After hitting the hour and a half mark you’re thinking of excuses to leave and drag Matt along with you.
A cautious teacher brings up the valid point of Isabella’s struggles with sudden but necessary changes, like coming in from outside. Bill nudges a colleague to his left, joking, “Maybe we should just set the kid loose. Wouldn’t have any more of these dang meetings.”
I’m so hungry. My shoes are too tight. The fluorescent lighting is minutes away from murdering me. The last thing you need is some smartass comment. “These meetings may feel exhaustive at times, but they are needed,” you respond.
He smiles, but you don’t like it. “Just joking, sweetheart.”
It’s like he wants you to hate him. No one should ever use a pet name for you. Especially a person in power. You want to tell the dickward to shut the hell up and ‘catch a bubble’, but instead you retort, “That was an interesting thing to say out loud. Refer to me by my name, thank you.”
The room doesn’t just fall silent, it plummets. Overhead lights buzz. A muted bell rings down the hall. Oppressive tension sits thick in the office space, but Matt’s shoe taps against yours under the table repeatedly, as an unseen, unheard, round of applause. Bill clears his throat, but you're disappointed to see he doesn’t look as uncomfortable as you had hoped. And yet, it wasn’t in vain, because he’s suddenly eager to end the session. Fine by you.
The colony of gray moves, scatters, and filters through the door, but you stay focused on your breathing and packing up. Concentrating on returning documents back into their color-coordinated home. Matt unfolds his cane and waits patiently. Something about the loyal action feels profound. Finally finished, you brush your fingers against Matt’s hand and ask, “May I?” He hums in affirmation.
His hand lingers only for a moment, then finds your elbow. As you walk past the school office, you quietly confess, “I really hope I didn’t mess up at the end. It just kinda blurted out. Isabella is a good kid and I’d,” Pausing, you take a deep breath. “I’d be devastated if she can’t get what she needs because I was stark.”
His jaw is no longer hard, but patient and understanding. Matt proposes the hypothetical. “What if he said that to Ms. Hernández García? Would you have ignored it?”
That answer is clear and sudden. “No. I wouldn’t.”
“Well there ya’ go.” Matt rubs a hand across his mouth and chin, then skirts around an abandoned backpack and lunchbox that have slumped far away from the brick wall. His cane lifted and stationary in his hand; you are his sole guide (who obviously isn’t paying too much attention.)
Matt turns to you. Something's off. “Do you wanna get coffee?”
Your mind becomes light and sore, similar to when you were at the bar a few days prior.
“I could go for some coffee.” You open the main doors and he trails behind, reaching for your arm once more.
“Wonderful. Lead the way.” His smile is full. Should I? Men rarely get complimented, just say it.
“You have a very good smile.” Hopefully you sound more assured than you feel.
A bit of pink nips his ears and his smile manages to widen. “Well, thank you.” Your insides hurt; you’re getting sick of these stupid, annoying aches. Internally, you go through standard breathing exercises, hoping that the anxieties will fade.
Matt can’t help but think that he may be on the right track. It wasn’t a test; he really did want to sit and spend time with you outside of a busy bar and boring meetings. But he hears your heart flip. It was a small stutter, but it was there. A swift release of dopamine dashes across your skin, leaving an extremely faint taste of eclectic citrus in the air.
He knows he’s in way too deep. Far, far too deep. But it only makes sense.
It’s the way you feel so earnestly. Your solar system dress in an ocean of corporate grief. Your advocacy and drive for justice in a manner different from his own. Your honesty and liberally given compliments. Hell, it was the way you called him out the first time you met him. He gives up on the futile effort of stifling his smile.
He feels your eyes on him. “What are you smirking about over there?”
Maybe something will come naturally, but if he has to settle for loving you in secret? Then so be it. “Nothin’. Just really excited about coffee.”
You hum in suspicion. “Mhmm…do you think we should go to Coffee Joe’s again? We could pick something up for Foggy and Karen too. They might even get Foggy’s order right this time.”
“How about Sweet Treats? Maybe they’ll have your muffins.” Matt smiles, listening to your heartbeat, enjoying the slow rise. Basking in the hazy lemon response.
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