SOLITARY CREATURES
pairing | matt murdock x reader
summary | Your ex-boyfriend, Matt Murdock, breaks no-contact when he needs someone to patch him up. But are things really over between you?
warnings | exes to maybe-lovers, goofy/sarcastic reader, hurt/comfort, banter, Catholicism, injury and blood, ambiguous ending that leans hopeful, matt is shirtless, whale sharks
wc | 3.8k
MATT'S LIVING ROOM SWIMS IN SHADES OF BLUE.
You glance sidelong at the electronic billboard posted outside his windows. “The aquarium’s got a new whale shark exhibit,” you tell him.
The ad shows a whale shark — surprise surprise — swimming up to greet smiling guests. In bold white letters, the ad reads: Come Meet the Gentle Giant
You frown.
“Do you think they only have one?” you ask, then immediately feel like a moron when you remember Matt can’t see the billboard. “It says gentle gi-ant,” you explain, “not gi-ants.”
Matt’s response is a pained groan.
He’s lying flat on the couch. Shirtless, bruised, bloody — classic Matt.
You’re kneeling in front of the couch, an open first-aid kit at your side. You’ve got a needle pinched between your fingers, threading it with what is definitely not medical-grade thread.
Eventually Matt chokes out real words.
“Whale sharks are solitary creatures,” he says. “They only gather to eat.”
Hmph.
You don’t like the way he answered. Casual. Or as close to casual as someone can get while fighting for breath. Like this isn’t weird. Like a whole year hadn’t passed since the last time you were in a room together. Like you’re still his girlfriend, entitled to a serious response to every “Would you still love me if I was a worm?”-esque question.
“Well that’s sad,” you say.
Matt shakes his head. Pretty stupid since every movement seems to cost him, but it’s clear he means to comfort you. “They prefer it that way. Besides,” he winces, “is it the aquarium down on Surf? The building’s too small. Even if they tried, they probably couldn’t get a permit for more than one.”
“Then maybe they shouldn’t have any.”
“Even if whale sharks prefer to be alone?”
Your traitorous eyes flick up from the needle to his lips. No one prefers to be alone, you almost tell him.
But that’s too vulnerable. Too close to an admission.
Instead, you say, “Even if.”
A flash as the billboard changes. New colors bathe the living room: bright red and bleach white. You don’t have to look to know what ad is on display.
The emergency room wait time for Metro-General.
Ironic.
If it was up to you, that’s where Matt would be right now. In a real hospital, getting real medical treatment.
But that’s an old argument, and vigilantes are stupid by nature. “Why would I need a doctor?” asks a dying vigilante. “This random civilian has seen Grey’s Anatomy, right? That’s basically an M.D. crash course. Someone, quick! Give them a sewing kit before my intestines meet a Brooklyn sidewalk.”
With the needle readied, you chew your bottom lip and consider Matt’s injuries. His muscled torso is a sweaty mess of slashing cuts. The worst cut steals your attention, a straight line from the top of his hipbone to a little past his belly button. Looking at it turns your stomach. It’s one of the wounds that reminds you the human body is nothing more than a meat sack.
You swallow bile — swallow fear — and reach for one of the hand towels beside the first-aid kit.
Gently — very, VERY gently — you dab the towel against his bloody wound.
Matt writhes, arching off the cushions.
“Sorrysorrysorry!” You hardly recognize your own voice. You’re too focused on Matt, his clenched teeth stifling a groan, fists curling at his sides.
Apologies don’t cure pain.
Distraction might.
“Have I ever told you how much I hate that billboard? I mean, don’t get me wrong! I miss penthouse living every day. But you know what I don’t miss? Falling asleep on the couch and waking up to the lights of a hemorrhoid cream ad burning into my retinas.”
True. You do hate the billboard, and you do miss Matt’s apartment.
Your current apartment is a shoebox that Foggy helped you score two days post-breakup. To call it a hellscape would be too kind. The lights are all faulty, a massive roach has squatter’s rights under your white refrigerator, and you’re one hundred percent certain that Frank Castle lives down the hall.
You’ve been careful to keep that last bit hush-hush. If Foggy or Karen were to find out that you share a mailroom with the Punisher, they’d definitely tell Matt.
Not that Matt would care.
…
…
…
Okay, fine. Matt would care. About everything.
He’d go on for hours about the risk of electrical fire, how roaches carry E. coli, that your landlord’s violating New York State law by refusing to install a carbon monoxide detector, and oh, yeah, a convicted murderer might knock on your door any day now for a cup of sugar!
Just thinking about it makes your chest hurt. The depth of Matt’s care.
And Matt — sweet, loving, woeful Matt — makes it all worse by saying, “I offered to buy curtains.”
He had.
Countless times.
Once again chewing your bottom lip, you toss the towel aside. You’d cleaned enough blood to see what Meredith Grey would’ve called subcutaneous tissue. Or maybe she wouldn’t have. Maybe it’s something else. Grey’s Anatomy, after all, is not an MD crash course.
Either way, the raw mess of his stomach proves what was already obvious: this cut is deeeeeeeeeep.
“Sure you don’t want any pain killers?” you ask him. “I’ve got Midol in my bag.”
He shakes his head once.
You scoff. “You know you don’t earn tough guy points for taking it raw, right?”
Matt laughs at your poor phrasing; though “laugh” might not be the best word for it. It’s more of an exhale turned cough turned sound of agony, but whatever. You take it as a win! If Matt wants to feel the pain of being a human embroidery project, so be it. At least you managed to distract him for a second, make him chuckle-cough over something silly.
“Hold your breath,” you tell him.
His brows knit with confusion. Soon as he starts to ask why, you shove the needle through the edge of the ruined flesh above his hipbone. His question becomes an exclamation that is very un-Catholic.
“That’ll be seven Hail Marys, Murdock.”
A vein pulses at his temple. “Feels more like a Psalm 88 kind of moment.”
“Is that a joke?” You settle into the old rhythm of stitching him up. Needle in, out, pull the thread, repeat. “You know altar boy humor goes over my head.”
“I was never an altar boy,” he reminds you.
You tut. “How ableist.”
“Not because I’m blind.” Amusement flickers through agony, reminding you that pain is second nature to Matt. You’ve only finished one stitch, yet already he can mask a wince when the needle pops through flesh. “I was a nervous kid,” he explains, “especially in front of crowds. My hands used to shake so much the pastor thought I’d drop the candles and set the altar on fire.”
“What a headline,” you say. “Local Blind Boy Burns Parish: God’s Judgment or Innocent Mistake?”
He chuckle-coughs.
You ask him, “Couldn’t you have carried the wine?”
“You mean the body of Christ?”
Your eyeroll is affectionate. “The wine.”
Transubstantiation is one of those things you’ve always filed under Complete Malarkey. How does random bread and crushed grapes become the body and blood of Jesus Christ? By invoking the Holy Spirit? Is that not a form of witchcraft? And why is it cannibalism to eat each other, but not the Son of God?
Catholics are, in your opinion, an awfully confusing people.
Matt’s no exception. A devout lover of God — yet a glimpse up from stitching reveals his mouth curving into a small smile. He’s always liked your sacrilege. It amuses him. Gives him reason to challenge his faith.
“If the pastor was too nervous to let me hold a candle,” he says, “you can bet he wasn’t eager to hand me the blood of our Savior.”
“If only he could see you now,” you say. “Well not now, but in court. I’ve seen you and Foggy tackle plenty of cases in jam-packed courtrooms, and not once have you ever set a judge on fire or spilled Jesus down their moo moo.”
“You mean the judicial robes they work decades to earn?”
“Whatever. Hey, while we’re on the subject, how come they did away with those powdery wigs?”
“A barrister’s wig?”
“Do you get paid by Big Law to make sure I use their terminology right?”
“I do,” he says, “and you’re cutting into my paycheck.”
You laugh.
A comfortable silence settles.
Matt’s stomach remains tense under your fingertips. But his breaths come easier now — a steady rise and fall that breeds comfort inside you. It’s easy to lose yourself in the rhythm. Needle in, out, pull the thread, repeat.
The room around you glows pale purple. It’s easy to lose the present in the past, you realize. Your mind flips through old memories like songs in a jukebox, lingering on a favorite.
You and Matt used to dance in this room. You both had two left feet and spent more time tripping over abandoned takeout containers than actually dancing, but what did that matter? You were always giggling. Matt was always smiling.
The steady weight of his hands on your lower back had been the closest you ever came to finding proof of religion. Because someone like Matt couldn’t be the result of some random assimilation of atoms. Perfection at his level required divine planning. The sweetness of spirit mixed with the miracle of light. A pure heart placed inside his chest by the sure hand of God.
But despite what the Bible tells you, God is not an expert craftsman.
Matt is proof of this, too.
When silence stretches into discomfort, you glance up.
Matt’s dead.
Okay — okay, okay! — not dead since he’s still breathing. But he looks dead, eyes shut and lips parted enough to go full cadaver.
You snap, “Eyes open, Murdock.”
“Why?” His quick response eases your nerves, even if he doesn’t obey your command. “Want to see if I can tell how many fingers you’re holding up?”
“You probably have a concussion.” Not to mention a bloodborne illness or two. When’s the last time he got tested for hepatitis? “The last thing I need is for you to fall asleep and never wake up again.”
You’re pulling the thread through his wound when you notice the smirk in his voice.
“Would you miss me?” he asks.
You hesitate.
Of course.
Of course you’d miss him.
“Foggy will start ditching me for Thursday brunch if I let you die,” you tell him. “Do you know how many waffles your life would cost me?”
Matt opens his eyes. He blinks like his eyelids weigh a thousand pounds. Like they might shut again at any moment.
He keeps them open.
“Three,” he says.
“Waffles?” you ask.
“Fingers,” he chuckle-coughs. “That’s how many you’re holding up. Three.”
Amusement bubbles in your chest, rushing up your throat like a Mentos dropped into a bottle of Coke. You try to stifle it, but a lone giggle slips out.
“I’m not holding up any fingers, idiot.”
He huffs softly. “Talk about ableism.”
You’re offended, perplexed, giggling even more now. “That was so not ableist!”
“Next you’ll claim Braille offers subpar education.”
“Since when did me insulting you become me insulting the entire blind community? And I’m not even calling you an idiot because you’re blind! I’m calling you an idiot because you’re an idiot.”
“Ouch. So you really think so low of me?”
“I just said so, didn’t I?”
His head tilts where it lay on the armrest. “Remember when I graduated summa cum laude from Columbia University?” he asks.
“Remember how you currently look like the victim of a violent anthropomorphic lawnmower?” You smile when he chuckle-coughs. “Yeah, not a thing that happens to smart people, Matty.”
The world stutters for a beat. Or maybe that’s only your pulse, jolting at your embarrassing slip-up.
Matty. You almost curse yourself; what was your tongue thinking?
Matt accepts defeat with a humble “Fair enough” that doubles as your path of least resistance. He’s always been good at withholding salt from a wound, giving you time to stew in self-loathing.
You have no doubt he can still hear your heart thumping stupidly against your ribs.
This isn’t easy. Being here. Seeing him. Pretending your breakup isn’t as much a third party in this room as the billboard’s glaring lights.
You’ve already stitched three-quarters of his wound. You should finish your work in silence. Then leave before he can make this anymore difficult, remind you of some reason to stay.
And yet.
“What’s Psalm 88, anyway?”
Matt likes this question.
“You dated a Catholic for two years,” he says, “and you don’t know Psalm 88?”
“Sorry, I hadn’t realized reading the Bible was a prerequisite for sucking your—”
Ever a child of God, Matt cuts you off — his voice an octave too high — with a sudden urge to recite.
“Lord, I am overwhelmed with troubles and my life is slipping toward death. You have put me in the lowest pit, in the darkest depths. You have taken from me my closest friend—” his voice wavers here “—and made me repulsive to them. Why, Lord, do you reject me? From my youth I have suffered. Your wrath has swept over me. Your terrors have destroyed me. They surround me like a flood, engulfing me completely. Darkness,” he says, “is my closest friend.”
You say nothing.
Needle in—
You think about how pain has always been second nature to Matt.
—out—
You think about the breakup.
—pull thread—
The breakup you’d initiated.
—repeat.
“NOT TO TOOT MY OWN HORN, but that is going to be one fine scar.”
Half an hour has passed since you finished stitching Matt up. If you were wise, you would’ve excused yourself the moment you closed the first-aid kit. But excuses are easy to come by, and even easier to make yourself believe.
I’ll stay a little longer, you keep telling yourself. Just to make sure he’s okay.
At some point the two of you switched places. You’re on the couch now, legs folded underneath you. Matt stands in front of you, testing his body for breaks and sprains — stretching an arm, rolling his neck.
At your comment, he pauses his self-assessment to run his fingertips over the stitches. You track the movement, a slow sweep from hipbone to belly button.
“Some of your best work.”
The praise straightens your posture.
The curve of his lips becomes devilish. “I’m surprised,” he adds. “I thought you’d be rusty.”
“Your faith in me is astounding, Murdock.”
“My faith in you is boundless,” he shoots back. “But it’s been a while since you last played nurse.”
With theatrical flair, you say, “An artist never forgets how to paint.”
“Even if they swore they’d never touch a brush again?”
Levity drops from the air like a butterfly hitting a bug zapper.
He hadn’t meant for it to come out that way. Not resentful, but…hurt. You know this because you know Matt, and he’d sooner walk into traffic than make you feel guilty for your choices.
Some relationships are like a winter storm. Rarely do we take the first snowflake to mean danger. Some people even find them beautiful — like noticing the quirks and habits of the one we love. But snowflakes pile up. They become inconvenient. Isolating. And, in some cases, they become dangerous, too.
Sometimes the only way to stay safe is to evacuate.
Matt will never blame you for evacuating.
With a soft sniff, he turns his head toward the windows. Too quiet, he asks, "What advertisement is showing?"
The billboard shines with a dark image, car keys lying next to an empty whiskey glass. "Think twice," you read aloud, "don't drink and drive."
Matt nods. "Good message."
You nod. "Indubitably."
Matt keeps facing the windows, but your own focus has already shifted back to him. He looks sad. Confused. Like he’s trying hard to hide both emotions, yet failing miserably.
A flash as the billboard changes. White light illuminates Matt’s profile — bruised, bloody, beautiful as ever.
As if he knows the ad has changed — as if he can hear it somewhere, electrical pulses whispering secrets only to him — he asks, “How about now?”
You don’t answer. You don’t know.
You can’t look away from him long enough to find out.
“I would’ve bought curtains,” he mumbles, and you don’t know what he’s talking about. Then it hits you. Your confession about the billboard, how you always hated it. “If you would’ve told me the light bothered you, I…” He swallows. Calls upon shaky confidence, betraying that what he says next lives somewhere between truth and wishful thinking. “I would’ve fixed it.”
Your eyes start to burn.
He would’ve tried, you know. He would’ve tried.
You find yourself rising off the couch. Taking a step — two, three — to close the gap between you. Matt looks away from the windows and you swear he can see you. He does, in that peculiar way of his. Through soundwaves bouncing off your skin. The smell of your shampoo. The rhythm of your heartbeat.
“I know,” you say.
“Then why didn’t you tell me?” he asks.
“I’m telling you now, aren’t I?”
“Back then. Why didn’t you tell me back then? It would’ve been an easy fix.”
Your laugh is half-sob. “No, Matt–”
He reaches up to cup your cheek. “Yes,” he whispers.
It takes Herculean effort not to lean into his touch. You manage, but don’t pull away from him, either.
“Fine. You’re right. Curtains would be an easy fix. Get on Amazon and they’ll be here in ten seconds. But what about the bigger issues? The lies? The secrets? You trying to get yourself killed?”
He winces. “I’m not dead yet,” he tries to argue.
“Yet,” you say. “Key word, Matty.”
An awful key word. One that had been haunting you for far longer than the year you two had been apart.
You had never wanted to leave Matt. And if you’re being honest, you hadn’t even left because of the lying and the secrets — though they were factors. When it came down to it, you’d left because Matt was on a suicide mission. Because you wouldn’t survive watching him die.
Only now — with the warmth of his hand on your cheek — can you see the flawed logic in your breakup plan.
Sure, leaving Matt ensured you won’t be front row for his death. That it won’t be you holding pressure to wounds that can’t be stitched, crying “Lord, why do you reject him? Your perfect soldier, your pure-hearted boy?”
But that doesn’t free you from pain.
You’ll feel Matt’s death as a ripple effect through Foggy and Karen. You'll feel it inside of you, when his last breath severs the invisible string connecting you to him and him to you.
Distance will not spare you.
You will feel it.
It will hurt.
And will all this distance make it hurt worse? you wonder. Until tonight you hadn’t realized how unsteady you stood on your decision to leave. A single phone call had been all it took to undo three-hundred sixty-five days of progress. So much time spent assuring everyone you had made the right decision. That you’re happier without Matt. So much time — each second a tally toward a life free from pain, now useless as sand in an hourglass, so easy to flip.
You’re not happier without Matt.
You’re not happy, period.
The heat coming off his palm is too much. Does he have a fever? Probably. Is fever a normal response to getting sliced up like salmon on a Hibachi line? You have no clue. You'll Google it if you ever remember how to form thoughts not centered on the flecks of gold in Matt's eyes.
He speaks.
“I’m sorry I called tonight. I know I shouldn’t have. I know when you—” He can’t make himself say it. So he drags a hand through his hair. Pulls easier words from a bucket labeled: Half-truths. "I know you wanted to get away from all this. From me. And it was wrong of me to drag you back into it, but..." A chuckle-cough. "Whenever something happens...when I'm stressed, or hurt, or...or happy, I..."
His thumb traces your lower lip. Lovingly. Mournfully.
"You're still the only one I want around.”
You're bawling. You hate yourself for it, and you hate him for causing it. You sob and laugh and tell him, "You're a goddamn idiot, Matty."
He smiles at you. "I know."
"It was never you I wanted to get away from."
He hesitates. "I know."
You hate him for that, too. But what else could he have said? You both know nothing can erase the true problem. The Achilles' heel to an otherwise perfect relationship.
Daredevil.
God, you think, how is it possible to hate the mask but love the man behind it?
It's simple, though. You don't hate Daredevil. Can't. He'll be the death of Matt Murdock, but that doesn't make him any less the salvation of Hell's Kitchen.
You sigh. Does that justify it, then? Does some PEMDAS bullshit make it okay that Matt suffers so long as his suffering saves others?
You don't think so.
But you know Matt holds a different opinion.
A stupid opinion, but.
"I wish things were different," you tell him. No jokes. "Maybe we could drop Daredevil off at the shelter. Y'know, like a stray dog who won't stop digging in our trash."
Okay, fine. Some jokes.
Matt chuckles. “I don’t think the shelter will take him.”
“Can’t say I blame them.”
You don’t know when you grabbed Matt’s other hand, the one not touching your face. You only know that you’re playing with his fingers, trying to keep more tears from escaping. He hadn’t coughed when he chuckled this time. Does that mean he’s feeling better? You hope so — and hope not, too.
You're not ready to go back to your shoebox apartment. You don't want to crawl into bed alone. Spend all night wondering if walking out Matt's door a second time makes it permanent. What are you supposed to do? Go back to getting all your Matt-related info via Thursday brunch with Foggy? Search for scraps of him in your texts with Karen?
No.
You're not sure you can survive that, either.
But what does that leave?
"Let me buy you dinner."
Your pulse jolts. “Matt…”
"Nothing romantic," he promises. Though the way his thumb continues brushing your bottom lip feels opposite of that. "And it doesn't have to change anything. Tomorrow we can go back to our normal lives, pretend none of this ever happened. But tonight...how about pizza? We can call it repayment for you saving my life."
You should say no.
You smile despite yourself. "Fine, but I get to pick the toppings."
A flash as the billboard changes. Shades of blue wash over you both.
Even without Matt’s enhanced senses, you swear you hear joy spark to life in his veins.
"I wouldn't have it any other way.”
A/N | if you've read this far, i am in love with you and i've already booked our flight to Vegas. booked the Elvis impersonator, too. do you have any allergies i should know about? i love you.
seriously, thank you so much for reading! comments and reblogs much appreciated :)
