Summary: Matt comes home after being concussed on the job with the assumption that you're a heavenly angel who has come to save him.
Warnings/Tags: I am not religious so please let me know if any of this is atrociously inaccurate, mentions of blood, head injuries
A mumbled prayer roused you from your sleep.
"—my guardian dear, to whom God's love commits me here—"
You shifted, lulling your craned neck forward until your chin rested on your exposed collarbone. The entirety of your lower body felt stiff, and your face contorted in a wince as a resounding crack stemmed up the entirety of your back when you shifted. Goosebumps erupted across your skin as a breeze brushed past your bare body, and you fisted the blanket messily draped over your half-naked figure.
"—ever this day at my side—" the voice plead. Your eyes twitched, and your vision was whittled with the haze of exhaustion as your eyelids audibly hinged with every weary blink.
The red trail staining the white carpet caught your attention first, spattering the floor from the wide-open window all the way to the dark puddling surrounding the dark figure knelt between where your spread legs hung over the edge of the living room couch.
You managed to slowly sit up from your place within the couch cushions, tired eyes tracing the harsh, tattered edges of what was left of the familiar mask barely enveloping his head.
"Matt," you whispered, watching his entire face twitch as he sniffled, and the hands intertwined over his mouth quickly moved to wipe the fresh string of blood which fell from his nose. "Jesus Christ."
"—to light and to guard," he forced himself to go on, clasping his fingers back together over his stained, split lips.
"Matt," you repeated, feeling unsolicited tears well in your eyes as you frantically looked over the rest of him. "Matt, what the hell happened?"
"—to rule and guide," he rasped, chest heaving at the finale. Words failed as your stunned silence followed the prayer of admiration only for the painful squeak of what was left of his leather suit to break it as he slowly and painfully tipped his head back, revealing the true mess of his bloody face. He parted his bright red lips, the mess splattering his teeth resembling crimson paint under the harsh, advertising lighting. He let out a shaky exhale. "Amen."
His blood-pasted lashes fluttered, and his blow wide pupils lazily rolled to look down the length of his face in your vague direction.
You opened your mouth to say something—anything, but you found yourself at a loss of words as you followed the gloveless hand he raised. The crimson tips of his fingers ghosted the apple of your cheek, and his unseeing eyes fluttered.
"You don't need to tell me," he murmured, cracked lips unmoving. "I know what you are."
"Matt," was all you could manage to say.
"I thank God for sending one of his messengers," he mumbled, still scared to touch you as his torn hand traced the outline of your shoulders, "to lead me away from where I have strayed."
"Mathew," you said, finding your voice. His contorted expression beneath what was left of his mask twitched your warm exhale as you leaned forward. Afraid of touching an injury, you tentatively skimmed your fingers along the sticky skin of his jaw, and his neck craned to follow the sensation of your ghostly touch. You met his foggy eyes. "You need to tell me where you're hurt, Matt."
"I thank Him," he mumbled wetly, his blink slow as his fingers brushed the thin strap of your sleepwear, "for sending someone to save me."
You quickly cupped the nape of his neck as his head threatened to fall back, and you felt the lump in your throat swell as you flexed your fingers through the sticky liquid coating the edges of his matted hairline. Withdrawing the offending hand, the thick coating of crimson had your vision wavering.
"Jesus," you whispered, insisting his head up enough to meet his wavering eye level. "Were you hit in the head, Matt?"
"You're here to..." he tried, but trailed off as his eyes rolled back to follow his mask as you slowly removed his tattered helmet, "...to save me right?"
Your entire face contorted, and you rolled your lips to stop yourself from making a sound as the extent of his injuries laid bare before you; the hollows of his unknowing eyes were dark and swollen, the bridge of his nose sharply twisted and broken. A deep cut you hadn't seen before extended from his hairline down to the crease of his brow, and what appeared to be the sighting of a bullet grazing at the edge of his jaw had blood still cascading down the side of his neck.
You inhaled slowly, doing your best to smother any audible shakiness.
"What am I saving you from, Matthew?"
He blinked, plush lips parting further.
"Save me," he wept, "from the devil inside 'me."
His swallow looked painful, and his chest shook out of desperation for air as he hung his head in your hands. Twin tears spilled down the raised texture of his cheeks, their trails red as they cleaned his marred skin.
You worded an apology before reaching forward and gathering him into your arms. A shocked sob rattled the entirety of his body as he quickly wrapped his arms around your body, burrowing his red face into your chest and desperately pawing your back for leverage as you cradled his hurting head.
"I will save you, Matthew," you murmured into his hairline. You cautiously carded your fingers through his tousled hair and hummed when you eventually found the origin of his delirious speech; a rather large, raised gash cut across his scalp, the angry, red crescent gouged into the side of his head.
He nuzzled his nose into your shirt, and you felt the warmth of his blood seep into the fabric as his arms tightened around you. Gently, you swept the hair from his forehead and managed to find a healthy patch of skin to plant a reassuring kiss against. "I will keep you safe, I promise."
"Thank you," he cried into you. "Thank you, God. Thank you."
It's constantly talked about how Charlie Cox has struggled to stop doing the blind stare thing he does for Daredevil. And this video really shows that:
