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Matt and Sister Maggie talk in the Lord’s stomach. 

The basement walls of the Church echo and ache. Water drips unevenly from the sink, still faintly smelling of blood and mucus. Matt’s feet throb from standing and the cool night air slips in through cracks in the brick. 

Sister Maggie’s pulse thrums steadily. Her voice does not waver. 

rik

“Can you be trusted to be back on your own?” 

He thinks about nights spent curled up on the cot behind them. Coiled so tightly his skin was sore while the thing, the black emptiness where his calling used to sit, expanded. Ate away at him until there was nothing left but a corpse. A ghost, haunting his tragedy. 

He thinks about how he can’t return to that. Can’t let himself become that sort of burden again, not with Foggy and Karen waiting for him to show up to whatever sham event they’ve planned to make sure he’s still alive. To check that he hadn’t thrown himself off the tallest building Hell’s Kitchen had to offer. 

Not that they would know the thought had crossed his mind. 

Not that the thought had crossed his mind. 

“Yes,” he sighs. The words are ashy in his mouth. “You don’t have to worry about me.” 

Sister Maggie’s silence speaks volumes. 

“Alright, I get it. I promise I’m okay.”

Her exhale is curt. “If you insist.” 

He does. He’s fine. Nothing to worry about anymore. 

Nothing at all. 

Melvin Potter nags at him. The same way his back and hips and head nag at him throughout the day. The same way his ears ring after a long day, invisible bells clanging right next to him, Melvin Potter’s imprisonment whispers in the back of his mind. 

It’s Matt’s fault, of course. If he hadn’t asked Melvin to make his suit in the first place, if he didn’t keep going back for help, Fisk wouldn’t have targeted him again. Betsy would still be working as a parole officer and not on the run. Melvin wouldn’t be rotting in a prison that he didn’t deserve to be in, not after trying so hard to do the right thing. 

The part of Matt that thought Melvin got what he deserved for helping Fisk again withered and died the second he accepted Foggy and Karen’s help on that rooftop. All that remains is icy guilt for leaving Melvin to the cops. 

Foggy doesn’t get it. 

“Explain it to me one more time? The guy who made your suit, who – correct me if I’m wrong here, buddy – works on and off for Fisk, is currently in prison after trying to serve you on a silver platter to the Feds. And you want to help him?” 

They’re standing in Matt’s apartment. Despite napkin promises of a brand new Nelson, Murdock & Page, law firms don’t grow overnight. Office space courtesy of Nelson’s Meats has yet to be moved into. Hell, Foggy and Karen hadn’t even quit their jobs yet. They kept reassuring him, though. Soon, they promised, soon.

“Represent him,” Matt corrects. “Yes.” 

“It kinda sounds like he deserves to be in jail, though,” Karen chimes in. 

“If you don’t want to be involved, I understand–” 

Foggy’s heart rate spikes. “Woah, Woah, Woah, that’s not what we’re saying at all. Totally down to be involved. Super involved. I think what Karen and I don’t understand is why you want to help a guy that seems to have a history of screwing you over and working for your arch-nemesis?” 

He tamps down the childish impulse to insist that Fisk isn’t his arch-nemesis. People don’t actually have that outside of petty high school drama and Saturday morning cartoons. 

If Matt were better with words, he would describe the way that Melvin’s voice warbled when he talked about Fisk, the fear for Betsy that made his words shiver with despair. He would describe the elation in Melvin’s heartbeat when he made a deal with the Devil, a suit in exchange for freedom. The sheer amount of debt Matt is in for the suit alone, the countless nights that the armor served as a guardian angel to guide him safely home. Every time a knife skirted off his skin, he had Melvin to thank.

Melvin, who thought he was a hero. 

He thought you were a hero. I told him assholes like you and Fisk are cut from the same cloth. 

He would describe Betsy’s anger if he could. Her grief was as cold as the anger that urged him to walk away from the whole affair. 

But Matt’s not better with words. Instead, he says, “I have to do it. He helped me when no one else would. It’s my fault he’s in this mess in the first place. I promised I would protect him. I owe it to him.” 

Whatever Foggy and Karen see in his face, whatever silent conversation they have with their eyes, they end up agreeing. 

The silence when Matt refuses to take a cab to the prison is so very loud. 

Their heartbeats when Matt asks if Karen can drive them instead are so very quiet. Cautious. 

“Sure, buddy,” Foggy says carefully. “I’m fine with that. Karen?” 

“Yeah, that’s fine. But you’re paying for parking.” 

It’s a good joke. Defuses the tension. Matt even laughs at it with them, to show that it’s alright to lighten up. 

“I’ll pay for it,” Matt agrees. 

With what money, he has no idea. 

Fisk’s voice whispers behind him. Tells him he’s not good enough. Can’t represent Melvin, can’t restart the firm. Can’t avoid letting his friends down again. 

Reminds him that the only good idea he ever had was getting on his knees to let that pipe crack his skull and he can’t even do that right. 

He tells himself that he’s being irrationally nervous when they enter Rikers. Hard to feel irrational when the last time he was here the whole prison tried to murder him, Matt’s brain reminds him. 

He wills that part of his brain to shut up and ignores how the clanging of locked doors echoes in metal hallways. Ignores the shouting and the jeering and how the stench of packed bodies makes him sweat. 

He’s okay. What are the odds that Fisk can pull the same trick twice? Or would even want to? 

Ha. Fisk is never going to want to stop killing him. Deluding himself into thinking otherwise is asking for a death sentence. 

His heart kicks into overdrive when the guard at the entrance asks to see his ID. Matt grins politely and digs for it in his wallet, praying that the cane and glasses are enough to distract from the fact that the last time he was here his name was Franklin Nelson, who conveniently happens to be here for real next to him. Based on the fragments of scents and sounds Matt pulls from the guard on the other side of the glass and his blurry, drug-addled memories, it’s almost definitely a different person. 

Almost definitely. 

Probably. 

The guard lets them through without an issue. 

Foggy runs his fingers over Matt’s where his hand rests on Foggy’s elbow, checking in. Matt aims his face in Foggy’s direction and gives him a small grin. Hopefully, it’s reassuring. Most likely, it further convinces Foggy that Matt is a horrible liar. 

Matt enforces steady, measured breathing all the way to the interview room. Melvin sits cuffed on the far side of the table. His starched prison jumpsuit burns Matt’s nose. So different from the array of chemicals that Matt had grown used to associating with Melvin from the workshop. It only makes Matt’s guilt rebloom. He has to get Melvin out of here. And not just because Matt could use a new Daredevil suit sooner rather than later, but because Melvin should be allowed to work freely, using his talents for good, rather than wasting away behind bars for a crime he was coerced into. 

“Mr. Potter?” Matt takes the lead, approaching the table and sitting across from Melvin. Foggy and Karen sit on each side of him. “My name is Matthew Murdock and these are my associates, Franklin Nelson and Karen Page. We’re lawyers from the law firm Nelson, Murdock & Page. We’d like to represent you as legal counsel if that’s something that you’re interested in.” 

The gears turning in Melvin’s head are practically audible. “Who sent you?” 

“Nobody sent us, Mr. Potter, but I do believe that we have a mutual friend.” This was the difficult part – deciding whether or not to tell Melvin his identity. It’s tempting, but Melvin’s been a loose end too many times. Too much blackmailing makes for poor bedfellows. Better to get Melvin to trust him the old-fashioned way, by establishing a rapport. “He says he’s sorry for how things went down at the workshop and that he did his best to warn Betsy.” 

“You know Daredevil?” Melvin sits up, alert and loud.

“Yes,” Matt hushes him. “Not that I can discuss it here.” 

Melvin nods. “Is Betsy okay?” 

“Since Mr. Fisk has been returned to prison, she should be okay. If you give me a way to contact her, I am happy to reach out and make sure she’s alright.” 

“Thank you.” 

Beyond those pleasantries, there’s nothing abnormal or eventful about the meeting. Foggy joins the conversation and helps collect background information about Melvin and the case, with Karen chiming in occasionally. Plans are made for follow-up meetings and letters. Reassurances that they’ll try to contact Betsy are reaffirmed. It’s not the most exciting preliminary client meeting they’ve ever had – that honor would have to go to the live chickens in the old Nelson and Murdock that tried to fly around the office mid-conversation – but a solid foundation for Melvin’s appeal is built. 

Matt’s guilt is appeased for now. Small miracles. 

The anxiety that stirred when they entered the prison falls so dormant during the meeting that Matt forgets it’s there. Right up until the guard escorting them out pulls them away from the route that will bring them to the exit. 

“Where are you taking us?” He won’t take another step. They can’t make him. 

“Your presence has been requested,” the guard answers, unconcerned. 

Foggy and Karen have now stopped too. “By who?” 

Adrenaline floods his body. He can’t get a grip on his breathing, his lungs working overtime without his permission. Readjusting his grip on his cane, Matt shuffles his feet in preparation to run. Or charge the guard. Whichever is more necessary. Pushing past Foggy and Karen to fight would be difficult. Standing behind Foggy to be led puts him at a disadvantage. Stopping the officer from grabbing either of his friends as leverage would be harder from where Matt’s positioned but he’d be able to at least shove the other behind himself as it happened. 

Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck. Fighting his way out of the prison was impossible enough the first time. Doing it with two civilians would be near impossible. 

“Don’t worry,” the guard chuckles. “It’s not Fisk.” 

Oh great, this guy already knows what he’s afraid of. Perfect. 

That answer only begs more questions. If not Fisk, who? Stick would be embarrassed to see how unprepared he is walking into this. 

“We’re not going anywhere until you tell us what this is about.” 

“Matt…” Foggy murmurs warningly. 

“Is it the warden?” Karen asks. 

“Sure. It’s the warden.” 

Matt refrains from commenting about how that’s the least reassuring reply he’s ever heard, and people have point-blank threatened to kill him. 

Foggy does it for him. “You know that’s not very convincing, right?” 

The guard ignores the comment. “We don’t have a lot of time. Let’s go.” 

Forcing himself to move is a challenge. Matt’s body has not gotten on board. It remembers the last time Matt was forced off the established path, brought to a medical bay to face the full brunt of the prison’s population while injected with poison. Limbs uncoordinated, stumbling along like a newborn foal as an Albanian dragged him towards the exit. By the time he made it back to the cab, he could barely keep his eyes open, much less lift his head or move any part of his body. He was practically paralyzed. 

At least the drugs wore off enough to let him flail to land when he woke up. 

The whole day is a bad memory, beginning with stealing Foggy’s wallet and ending with fleeing from the FBI raiding his apartment, still smelling of the East River. Avoiding a repeat performance of any part of it is Matt’s top priority. 

Not that he gets his wish. As soon as he steps foot in the hallway's small enclave, understanding slams into Matt. Growing more confused, Foggy and Karen’s heartbeats jerk in surprise and they start to smell even more of perspiration. Clearly, they don’t recognize the man in front of them. 

But Matt does. 

“Vic,” he greets the head of the Albanian syndicate. 

“Mr. Nelson,” Vic Jusufi says. “Or should I say, Mr. Murdock?” 

Matt’s lips tighten. Vic learning his name – fake and real –  is not a good sign. 

“I upheld our deal,” Matt reminds him. 

“You did,” Vic agrees. “I have to say, I was surprised. It barely looked like you could walk out of here last time, much less take down Wilson Fisk. Yet here you are.” 

“What can I say? I keep my promises.” 

“Yes, you do.” Was that what this was all about? Confirming that Matt kept his desperate oath to put Fisk in the Albanians' reach? “The way you fought that day, even drugged, it was impressive. Obviously, you’ve had a lot of training.” 

Vic knows he’s Daredevil. Anyone who knew of his and Fisk’s rivalry, and had seen Matt fight would be able to put the pieces together. It wasn’t rocket science. Only Daredevil could brawl his way out of a building designed to kill him, by the command of Wilson Fisk of all people. He was practically begging for someone to identify him with that situation. 

“Having someone who can fight like that, someone so capable and a lawyer no less, would be very beneficial to my organization.” 

Perhaps Matt is giving Vic too much credit. 

“ That’s what this is all about? Recruiting me to the mob?” 

Matt can hear the slide of Vic’s lips over his teeth as he smiles. “Is that so surprising? A man of your skills with that kind of vendetta against Fisk? I think we could work something out.”

“Not interested.” 

“Really? You were very interested in working with me to get Jasper Evan’s identity.” 

Karen inhales sharply. He never told her this is where he got the information from. It seemed frivolous at the time, unnecessary when so much other critical stuff was happening. Now, it felt like one more thing he kept from his friends. 

“That was a one-time thing,” Matt counters. “We had a common interest. Now we don’t.” 

“Then you have no interest in keeping the security footage from that day private?” Vic says slyly. 

Matt sighs. “Fisk. He watched the whole thing through the cameras.” 

“Didn’t bother erasing the footage after, either,” Vic affirms. “Don’t worry, I took care of it for you.” 

For himself too. Covering his own tracks during the riot and making sure that there was no evidence of his confession to the motorcade massacre. Smart thinking; smart enough that Matt feels like an idiot for not thinking of it himself. 

Vic says something in Albanian to the prisoner standing behind him, who steps forward and hands Vic an item. Smells like plastic and metal, like a phone or a laptop. Too small for either. Matt tilts his head in confusion. 

“He’s holding out a USB drive to your ten o’clock,” Foggy whispers. Gratitude flows through Matt. He’s thankful that Foggy’s keeping up the appearance that Matt is just a regular blind man, as well as glad that he doesn’t have to exert any extra energy to figure out what Vic is holding. Unless prompted to, people almost never describe their own actions. In his regular life, Matt gets a kick out of shaming people for their oversight. As Daredevil, it becomes another annoyance that makes it even harder to work alone. 

Matt can already hear Foggy sarcastically saying that that might be a sign. 

“The footage from the riot,” Vic elaborates. “As a sign of good faith.” 

Matt raises his eyebrows and takes it. He runs his fingers over the drive before turning around to the exit. “Let’s go.” 

The Albanians let them through without issue. Doesn’t matter. Matt can feel Vic’s eyes boring into him as he walks away. 

“What the hell was that about?” Foggy asks as soon as they get outside. “Since when did you know the Albanian mafia? Was that the mafia? I’m not exactly up on my organized crime lingo.” 

“Yes, they’re the mafia,” Matt answers at the same time Karen says, “ That’s how you got Jasper Evan’s identity? By making deals with the Albanians?” 

Matt shrugs. “I wanted to know why Fisk turned on them. Finding out Jasper Evan’s identity was a happy accident.” 

“Only you,” Karen snorts. “Jesus.” 

“What was that about upholding your deal?” Foggy says, continuing the hellish game of twenty questions. 

“I promised him that if he gave me the name of the man who shanked Fisk, I would deliver Fisk back to him to do whatever he wanted.” 

Foggy and Karen just breathe as the information settles in on them. In, short bursts of cold air. Out, long, warm bursts of disappointment. 

“It’s a good thing Fisk wasn’t brought back to Ryker’s then,” Foggy concludes. 

“Yeah.” Matt licks his lips. “It was.” 

The USB drive gets thrown on his counter the second he gets home. 

Logically, it should get hidden. Keeping something that dangerous to his identity out in the open is suicide. The only thing worse would be putting pictures of him in the Daredevil suit on his fridge. Getting discovered would kill any chance at rebuilding his life that he has. 

Good thing suicide has never phased him much. 

Matt and Sister Maggie talk in the Lord’s stomach. 

The basement walls of the Church echo and ache. Water drips unevenly from the sink, still faintly smelling of blood and mucus. Matt’s feet throb from standing and the cool night air slips in through cracks in the brick. 

Sister Maggie’s pulse thrums steadily. Her voice does not waver. 

“Can you be trusted to be back on your own?” 

He thinks of long nights where the sounds bounce unevenly against the basement’s stone walls. Where his limbs barely followed his commands and he was carried to the bathroom on the back of a nun’s goodwill. Where the future smelled like rot and decay, and its texture was rough against his fingers. 

“I don’t know,” he says. “I haven’t decided yet.” 

Matt goes to the bodega and only has $16.72 in his bank account. He learns this, naturally, when his card declines at the counter. 

It’s embarrassing for a grown man his age, is what it is. He should have at least twenty dollars in his bank account. He’s almost thirty, for Christ sake. 

It does make sense though. He hasn’t been earning any money since the first iteration of Nelson and Murdock shut its doors permanently. In the time between that and Midland Circle, Matt had been living on savings, trying to figure out his next move. Admittedly, not the smartest plan, but it was all he had when the thought of getting a new job felt like getting stabbed in the chest. 

Admittedly, he hadn’t really been thinking that far ahead either. A future without Daredevil in it was bleak. The will to pursue such an empty life got weaker and weaker. 

Currently, whatever money still remains in his account goes to Karen. The amount of rent he owes her is astronomical. New York City isn’t as cheap as it once was and it's going to be a while before he pays her back in full. 

The circumstances make Matt’s grocery money pitiful. 

He smiles awkwardly at the cashier and takes his hands off the counter. “It’s fine. I’m not taking these.” 

He’ll snag something at the new office. Theo’s usually generous about sharing any extra food at the end of the day. Matt’ll accept the leftovers and eat those. He’ll figure out the money situation later. For now, two meals (one, if he’s really being honest here) will have to do.

So what if his stomach aches the way his back and hips do? Isn’t that worth the price to pay back his friend? Emotional pain is immaterial; nothing could ever pay back the pain he caused after Midland Circle. No object could close the gaping hole in trust that staying behind caused. But he can pay back the money he owed. So what if it ran him into the ground? He’s been there before. Seen the bottom of the hole and climbed out, torn to ribbons and bleeding regret. 

Matt doesn’t frequently have mistakes that he can fix so easily. So if he has to skip a few meals to do it, that’ll always be worth it. 

Sister Maggie is never pleased when he comes to the orphanage in the middle of the night. Especially when he’s bleeding when he arrives. 

“Get in,” she hisses. “Before the children wake up and see you.” 

“Sorry,” he mumbles back, barely audible to his own ears. Ear. Who knew getting punched in the head would knock his left ear back out of commission? 

“Matthew…” Sister Maggie sighs and oh, had he said that out loud? 

She hustles him deeper into the orphanage, taking a sharp left then right, and he stumbles as his feet hit the basement stairs. The ringing in his ear is so disorienting he’s unable to follow the path he’s so familiar with. Pushing him onto the cot, Sister Maggie leaves him to get supplies from the other end of the room. Childishly, he wants to ask her if she’s coming back. He swallows the desire down. 

“What did you do to yourself tonight?” She mutters, wiping the blood off his face with a warm towel. “Run in front of a car? Fight twenty men at once?” 

“It was only six,” Matt corrects, only realizing a second later that he’s not helping his case. 

“Of course, only six. My mistake.” 

He doesn’t apologize again, though the words bulge behind his lips. 

It’s difficult to get a read on his relationship with Sister Maggie. She’s not his mother – not in any way beyond biology that matters. She didn’t tend to his scraped knees or discipline him or read his report cards, not more than any other nuns at the orphanage. No investment in his childhood beyond the carefully crafted wall that she constructed and championed. Her only notable contribution to his life was the months of care she gave him after Midland Circle; their well-worn trust coming from weeks of rehabilitation and steadfast resolve. Trust that was shattered the second she revealed (if one could even call her private confession a reveal, more being caught in the act) her true relationship to him. At this point in his life, Matt felt more comfortable calling Stick his father than Sister Maggie his mother. 

The shudder that went through him at the thought of calling Stick his father is evidence enough of how damaged their relationship is. 

Still, she runs the towel over his face, and Matt can’t stop himself from leaning into her touch. From wanting to ask if she had done this for his dad too. If she had done this for him when he was a baby -- when she could bring it in herself to hold him. 

“How are you?” She asks. “How are you healing?” 

He chuckles. His hips ache unrelentingly when he stands for too long. His back resists movement when overworked. His ears are unreliable at best any time he’s hit in the head. The tinnitus keeps him awake at night and his insomnia doesn’t help either. The rain lights up all his ailments, highlighting exactly where the building crushed him under its thumb. Fisk and his father speak to him when exhaustion boils him alive. “I’m alright.” 

She harrumphs him but doesn’t contradict him. “And how are your friends?” She emphasizes the last word smugly, still gaining amusement from rubbing it in his face that he does have them after all his grandstanding. 

“They’re good. Busy quitting their jobs and starting up the new firm.” 

“You don’t sound too excited,” Sister Maggie points out. 

“I am.” He is. Working with Foggy and Karen again is a dream come true. Something he never thought would happen after the disastrous Castle case. The prospect of messing it up though… 

Foggy and Karen quitting their stable, well-paying jobs to work with him again puts a bad taste in his mouth, is all. It’s hard to see friends throw away their lives on a guaranteed bad decision. 

They would know something about that, a part of his brain slithers out to say. 

He squashes the thought down. 

“Just nervous is all,” Matt finishes lamely after an awkward amount of time has passed. 

“Right,” Sister Maggie agrees. “It must be hard. Putting your life back together.” 

“Had to be done eventually.” 

“It’s good to hear you say that. With all that feeling sorry for yourself, and the dramatics about being dead, I thought you’d never get back out there. Paul and I even talked about making you pay rent.” 

Even though he knows she’s joking, the mention of Father Lantom still makes his chest hurt. The death is still too new, too fresh, to comfortably discuss. Unlike Elektra, the wound hasn’t scabbed over. Searing pain still accompanies any reference to the priest that practically raised Matt. That should’ve been saved, had Matt been a little faster, a little better. 

“Ha,” Matt says instead, rather than airing all his grief like laundry. “I don’t know if I’d be capable of paying that much rent. New York isn’t cheap.” 

The thought of paying his rent, paying back Karen, and paying rent on the basement would be enough to send any New Yorker into a coma. Matt makes a mental note to say thanks in his next prayer for not weaving that financial strain into his tapestry. 

“It never was.” Sister Maggie pats his shoulder. “You’re all done.” 

Matt tentatively runs his fingers over the stitches on his forehead. Only two or three stitches, covered by a band-aid. It doesn't look great, but he can still go places without pulling instant pity from bystanders. 

“Thank you,” Matt says as Sister Maggie waves him off, putting the first aid equipment away. 

Matt’s almost tempted to ask if he can stay here. Spend the night like he used to before he had places to be and a will to be there. Curling under the thin covers of the cot has an appeal beyond his silk sheets. Here, he doesn’t have to be anyone. He can fade into the stone and sheets and haunt the halls without any expectation. No cases to resolve or friendships to improve. He can sit here and have his mom wipe the scrapes on his face, bandage his cuts and ask how he’s doing. He won’t have to go back to his empty apartment and mold himself into the Matt Murdock that can be in broad daylight and not want to melt back into bed. 

But he doesn’t ask. Because he does have a life to get back to, and Sister Maggie made it very clear, even when he was recovering, that he wasn’t welcome to stay here forever. Mother or not. 

She walks him out the door and it’s hard not to let the slam of it echo with the ringing in his ears. 

Calling the number Melvin gave him for Betsy is a dead end. It rings and rings before going straight to voicemail. No answering machine. No cute message detailing her name and instructions at the beep. Just a standard the person you are calling is unavailable. At the tone please record a message when you are finished recording you may hang up or press one for more options. 

Beep. 

Matt taps his cane against the metal scaffolding overhanging the sidewalk and steps to the side, out of the way of foot traffic. 

“Hi, this is Matthew Murdock from the law firm Nelson, Murdock & Page. I’m calling on behalf of Melvin Potter, who is a client of mine. If you could call me back at this number, that would be great.” 

Ever since he was a kid, Matt used to play this game. The rules were simple. When he was sad, he would count all the people that would miss him if he suddenly vanished. All the people that would stop and say to themselves, “Say, where’s that Matt Murdock? I haven’t seen him in a while.” 

First it’s: 

CPS, of course, when he’s a child and it’s their literal job to know where he is. 

The nuns, because he’s their ward. 

Stick, because he’d miss training. 

His aid in school, because she’d be without a kid to follow around and tell what’s on the board. 

As he gets older, the list changes to:

Foggy, because they’re roommates. 

Foggy, because they’re best friends. 

Foggy, because they’re partners. 

Foggy, because he’s the only person in Matt’s life that’s willingly stuck around. 

Karen, because she’s their office manager and maybe his girlfriend and maybe the cleverest person he’s ever met. 

Elektra, because who are they when not devouring each other whole? Cannibalizing their desires and feeding them to one another until one taps out? 

And then: 

Nobody, because Matt pushed everyone out of his life and there’s nobody left to care if Matt vanishes. 

So why not vanish? 

“You’re sure you don’t wanna come, buddy?” Foggy checks, wrapping his cashmere sweater around his neck. It’s edging on just cold enough to wear one and soon, spring will make the item obsolete. Foggy insists he’s going to keep wearing it anyway, that it cost too damn much, Murdock, to stop wearing it just because the weather got a little warmer. Karen giggled. Matt had raised his hands in defeat. 

Those same hands now itch with the phantom sensation of the scarf rubbing against them. 

“Yeah, I’m sure. It’s you and Marci’s date night. Go have fun.” It wouldn’t be the first time Matt had third-wheeled them, but he never wanted to make a habit of it, not even in law school. There are some plans that you just have to pass on. 

Foggy’s heart rate spikes slightly though he doesn’t say anything else. He’s been reluctant to leave Matt alone for too long, persistently inviting him to everything from casual hangouts to Nelson family dinners to him and Marci’s date nights. It’s endearing, if not exhausting to constantly reassure Foggy that he’s not going to fake his own death again if he steps out of Foggy’s eyesight. 

Matt’s not complaining. He knows he hasn’t earned that right. 

“Really, Foggy. Go. Enjoy yourselves. Tell Marci I say hi.” Marci would most likely scoff in disgust at the greeting from Matt. It’s the thought that counts. He’s Foggy’s best friend and she’s his fiancée. At some point, they have to start pretending like they like each other. Ideally, before the wedding. 

“You don’t mean that,” Foggy says, “But I will. Stay safe tonight. Text me when you get home.” 

Matt nods and agrees. Texting when Matt returned from being Daredevil is new for them. Anxiety from Matt’s post-Midland Circle, anti-Fisk rampage made it hard for Foggy to trust that Matt wouldn’t run off and be as self-destructive as possible once back in the land of the living. Nightly texts became mandated for Foggy to know that Matt made it home alive. 

Foggy had tried to get Matt to include updates on how he was feeling and how injured he was in the texts. No way that was happening. An unnecessary invasion of privacy and way over the line. Foggy simply has to make do with knowing that Matt is alive at the end of each patrol. Cruel, maybe. A healthy boundary, in Matt’s opinion.

Having Foggy so involved in Daredevil is strange. Before, Daredevil was an unwanted interloper in Matt and Foggy’s relationship. Matt’s trauma and rage a deformed and mutilated limb that Foggy desperately wanted to amputate. Foggy was worried, Matt understood that. Still, the poorly hidden horror and disgust that Foggy carried with him when referring to the Man in the Mask, before and after he learned that it was his best friend, was something that Matt’ll never forget. The shame and embarrassment of having someone so close turn their back on the most fundamental aspects of yourself. The agony of being rejected. Of being abandoned. 

Matt thought Stick leaving had hurt. His departure had nothing on Foggy’s, who had promised to be there through thick and thin, highs and lows, internships and unemployment. Who promised he would always love the ugly parts of Matt because that’s what best friends were for. Who couldn’t stick it out when Matt revealed his true colors. 

But Matt’s self-aware. He knew that Foggy would leave as soon as he and the Devil became properly introduced. Everybody does it. Only a matter of time. 

He just thought he’d get more time with Foggy before it happened, was all. Maybe a couple of years of a law partnership. Maybe more than a summer of helping the neighborhood and one big case for the papers. Maybe enough to put Nelson and Murdock on the map, like they talked about. 

Maybe Matt had been an idiot for hoping that Foggy would understand. Because Foggy met the Devil and ran. Foggy met the Devil and told Matt that keeping himself busy was enough to stop chasing sirens. 

Foggy thought the Devil was a disease. Probably still does. Whatever the Devil really is, he won’t be stopped with extra cases and a ninety-day chip. Not with invites to dinner either. 

Because Matt’s met the Devil and he knows exactly how to satisfy him. 

Elektra is warm hands trailing down his body. Wandering, firm fingers that carve paths of heat along his torso, around his hips, scooping his chin. She holds him in the palms of her hands, breath blooming against his face, and whispers “Matthew,” in folding, whirling cursive. She makes him shiver and shake and tremble. She pisses him off and turns him on and pushes every button to trigger every emotion he could have. 

She does all of that and then she dies. Again and again. 

In his dreams, they’re sitting in the cramped stairwell. Calm before the storm. Anxious before the anger. Two child soldiers in way over their heads. 

He tells her that wherever she runs, he’ll run with her. 

She doesn’t believe him but they play pretend anyway. 

The dream distorts her voice. Her smell. The way that her skin melts into his fingerprints. 

When he wakes up, his sheets feel like blood, silky smooth running out of her back and through his fingers. 

He thinks he can still smell her lingering on his bed. Months after her body has cooled and months after they clung together for the last time. Psychosomatic, Matt tells himself on the bad nights. Super senses, on the good ones. 

Breathing is a violent fight and forcing his body to stay in bed, resisting the urge to pull rubble out of Midland Circle and claw his way back to her, is nearly impossible. 

They should’ve both died there. Living without her is a crime against nature. Outliving Elektra is something Matt’s not meant to do. 

God apparently thinks otherwise. At least Job enjoyed this fucked up joke. 

Matt eats potato chips when his stomach curdles in pain, rolling over itself in a tight ball. A stale bagel when the chips aren’t enough. Dollar pizza when he leaves work and needs spare calories to burn off. Fainting from hunger in the mask is a surefire way of getting himself killed. Even he knows that. 

He buys the cheapest band-aids at Duane Reade, even though the heavy-duty bandages are what really keep his insides inside on dangerous nights. Keeps the milk past its expiration date because there’s still liquid left in the carton. Tucks his cane into his jacket and hops the turnstiles on the subway more than he’d usually risk to avoid paying the fare. 

Surface-level solutions at best. Doing these things doesn't get him more money. All it does is keep the money he is making from draining quicker. 

Karen hasn’t pressed him on the payments. Matt pays her back in installments and refuses to think about the damage it does to the bills he still has to pay. Carrying two rents at once is hard. Nearly impossible in a city as expensive as New York. The cost of living is ever rising and tenants unable to stay afloat get kicked to the curb. Karen’s lucky it didn’t happen to her while she was shouldering Matt’s burdens. 

Rent gets harder and harder to make, and Matt thinks about the Church basement. His own little sanctuary. Living there was the best deal he’s ever gotten – the best deal anybody in the city could’ve gotten. Renters on StreetEasy would reenact the Hunger Games for a shot at the housing Matt took for granted, like everything else in his life. 

Insane square footage. A bed, bathroom, and space to train. No nosy neighbors.

Matt was at his worst and never had it so good. When his stomach grumbles, he laughs about it. 

“Hi Betsy, it’s Matthew Murdock again. Please give me a call back when you get this to discuss Melvin’s case. Thanks.” 

Beep. 

Damn it. 

Rain pounds against the glass, making the windows shudder in their frames. Thump shake. Thump shake. Thump shake. Rattling rings in his ears, worsening the faint tinnitus leftover from the night before. Barely noticeable, unless he’s paying attention, really. 

Matt focuses on the ache in his lower back instead, where his spine meets his hips. Dull pain blankets the area, putting pressure on already overworked muscles. Fighting too hard for too long last night did Matt no favors. Soreness trails across his body and is made more agonizing by the rain. Air pressure changes are a hassle with old injuries, bringing out the aches that cause no trouble eighty percent of the time. 

Moving around his apartment like an old man means getting ready for work takes longer than it should. The rain makes the train more crowded than usual. Navigating the sweaty, humid subway and the wet sidewalk, in addition to the slow, painful morning, create a wonderful mood to arrive at the office in. 

“Aw, who crapped in your Cornflakes?” Foggy jokes as soon as he sees Matt. “Don’t scowl at me. You’ll scare the clients.” 

Matt’s not in the mood for this. He’s literally never been less in the mood for this. 

“There’s nobody here.” 

“Fine, you’ll scare Karen then.” 

Karen peaks her head around the corner. “Scare me with what?”

“Matt’s face,” Foggy answers. “He’s scowling.” 

“Do we have to do this?” The longer he stands, the more his back screams at him. Once they’re done with this awful conversation, Matt can sit down and take some of the pressure off. It’ll be magical. He can already imagine the relief. He just has to get to his office – if only Foggy could shut up about his face. 

“Yes.” Foggy lowers his voice. “Did something happen last night? Is that why you’re in such a mood? Is everything okay?” 

“Nothing happened.” Except for the bastard that felt the need to repeatedly slam him straight into a brick wall. Not to worry, though, because Matt knocked four of his teeth out in return. “I’m fine. Ready to work.” 

Matt even tries smiling when he says that. By the sound of Karen’s eyebrows rubbing together, it only makes her frown. Shit. 

In the end, the best thing to do is bypass them and head straight to his desk. 

Unfortunately, working out of Nelsons’ Meats means no private offices. They all shared one room, with three desks pushed to opposite corners with filing cabinets in between. Privacy was a thing of the past. The only way to get Foggy and Karen to lay off of him was to put his headphones on and dive into work as quickly and deeply as possible. 

Until, hours later, he needs to go to the bathroom. Thankfully, a few of the audio files are on his phone. Walking and listening is no challenge, so Matt leaves his headphones on. Sitting down had initially been a relief like he thought, although the uncomfortable seat made the pain in his hip unbearable. A bathroom trip would swap the ache for a while, giving his hip time to relax while his back took the strain. 

Karen shuffles next to him. Best to keep his head down, pretend like he’s still engrossed, and make a fast exit. Don’t engage. Don’t give her a reason to think that he wants to talk. The number one rule his father gave him was to keep his mouth shut when he didn’t have anything nice to say, and with the mood he’s in, the chance of something nice coming out of his mouth is slim to none. Nothing personal, simply one of those days.

Meaning: avoid, avoid, avoid. 

Meaning: 

Bam. 

It’s excruciating. 

It’s lightning coursing through your body at a thousand, a million, a trillion volts while you spasm on the floor. 

It’s getting chemicals poured directly into your eyes, chewing through your nerves. Except it's not your eyes but your back. Your hips. It’s your vertebrae shattering into a billion pieces and your muscles constricting until you're immobile. It’s blinding pain while you lay on the floor with arms wrapped around you. It’s clawing at the air because you can’t uncurl your fingers and panting and not being able to see. 

He can’t see. 

He. Can’t. See. 

Dad? 

Dad, I’m scared.

Matt and Sister Maggie talk in the Lord’s stomach. 

The basement walls of the Church echo and ache. Water drips unevenly from the sink, still faintly smelling of blood and mucus. Matt’s feet throb from standing and the cool night air slips in through cracks in the brick. 

Sister Maggie’s pulse thrums steadily. Her voice does not waver. 

“Can you be trusted to be back on your own?” 

He thinks of deafness. Of wheelchairs and moving through the world in need of perpetual assistance. He thinks of Orientation and Mobility training; standing at the crosswalk with a hand on his shoulder, listening to cars whizzing past on trembling legs, and knowing that his life would always come back to this. Nine years old and unable to take three steps forward. Almost thirty years old and the same feeling rushes back, unable to take three steps forward. Forever prisoner in a body that won’t obey – won’t fold under pressure nor finish what it starts. He thinks about never being able to run across a rooftop or throw a punch again. Being forever reliant on the kindness of others, when the only thing that Matt’s kindness got him was an early grave. Show others you care for them and they spit in your face. Better to be dead than dependent. 

“No,” he says. “I’ll end it as soon as I get the chance.” 

His ears are ringing. Loud, clanging bells call all his thoughts to Mass and away from any productive work that would tell Matt why he’s on the floor. Why he can’t get up from the floor. 

Why can’t he get up from the floor? 

Why is he on the floor? 

“Matt, buddy? Matt…” He thinks he hears Foggy. Why is Foggy so far away? Foggy should come closer so he can stop yelling Matt’s name from so far away. 

Maybe if Foggy comes closer he can make Matt’s body stop hurting. His back really, really hurts. 

“...Call someone?” Karen’s voice drifts in. “Sister Maggie?” 

Sister Maggie isn’t needed. Matt knows what this is. This is what happened when he fell out of bed right after Midland Circle and when he pushed himself too hard while retraining and when he fought to prove he still had it and lost. 

He hit the mat. He fell down and splattered across the floor. 

Murdocks know how to get up, though. Matt can get up. Once he rolls over onto his stomach, he can crawl to his hands and knees to get up. All he has to do is rollover. Easy. 

Violent spasms wrack him, immobilizing his torso, as soon as he starts to roll. A moan slips past his lips. Breathing through the pain becomes an Olympic Sport. 

“Woah, Woah, Woah,” Foggy says. His footsteps vibrate through the floor, jostling Matt. Cringing away from the footsteps makes the pain worse but the floor shaking presses harshly against his hip. Matt wants to scream at the Catch-22. “Don’t move. We’re gonna get you help, okay? Why didn’t you tell us anything was wrong?” 

Because nothing was. Because other than some bruising, Matt didn’t get injured last night. Because a shattered hip, broken back, concussion, and blown eardrum from months ago are no new injuries. Just things that slow him down on rainy days. 

Matt stays on the floor. Karen crumples up her cardigan and sticks it under his head. The whole thing is way too similar to the early days of his recovery, laying on a cot at St. Agnes unable to move, for comfort. Waiting for hours to pass in solitude. Distancing himself until the room felt far away, small and unreal, compared to the dragging weight of his mind. 

Together the three of them sit. Quietly, Karen and Foggy talk amongst themselves. 

Matt drifts. 

The smell of the leather tips him off. 

“No.” The word rolls off his tongue like a boulder, heavy and bulky. “No, no, no.”

“What’d you say, Matt?” 

He has to get up. He has to prove that he can walk on his own. He’s not going back in that thing. 

The brake on the wheelchair squeaks as Sister Maggie parks it right in front of him. “Back to this already, are we, Matthew?” 

Matt grunts rather than answers. Why can’t he roll over? Once he rolls over, he can stand up and show them that he can take care of himself. He doesn’t need them calling his mom when he’s hurt. He’s a grown man. He’s managed without a mother for a long time, through various illnesses, ailments, and injuries. She doesn’t get to swoop in now and pick him up off the floor. And she especially doesn’t get to do it and reprimand him in the same breath. 

“Just– Jesus Christ, Matt. Get in the chair,” Foggy huffs. Sister Maggie directs Foggy on how to grab Matt as he flails, attempting to squirm out of their grip. Of course, his body doesn’t get the memo. Muscle jerks make getting away agony and lock up his ligaments. Movement is limited. After a futile thirty seconds, Matt lets himself go limp and be maneuvered into the wheelchair. 

It feels like giving up. 

“Weak,” Fisk jeers from the corner. “What a pathetic display. The Devil of Hell’s Kitchen... wheeled away. Taken down by a filing cabinet and a distracted secretary.” 

Part of Matt wants to object that Karen is the office manager. More than that, now that she’s coming off her journalism career. The other part of him thinks that arguing over semantics with a hallucination is bad form. 

Focusing on the grind of the wheels against the floor is easier. Soothing. A consistent sound that can drown out Fisk’s breathy comments, laying into him the way he knows he deserves. 

Going back to Clinton Church is the smart move. The basement is already tricked out to take care of him when he’s in this condition. Being brought back to his old cot and reminded to press the button when he needs help is nothing short of humiliating, though. 

Taking the muscle relaxer Sister Maggie feeds him and sinking into a dreamless sleep is a coward's way out, but Matt’s always been his weakest within these walls. 

He fades to Maggie, Karen, and Foggy conversing upstairs. 

“He needs to see a doctor,” Foggy insists. 

Sister Maggie responds calmly. “I told him that if he wanted modern medicine he knew where the door was.”

Foggy scoffs. “Obviously, he is not the best judge of his own health.” 

“Foggy…” Karen says. 

“No, Karen. Matt was injured. He was almost killed in a building collapse. He needed a doctor. Not Church.” 

“What were they supposed to do?” Karen pushes back vehemently. “Matt is a wanted vigilante. They couldn’t just drop him off at the hospital without raising some flags. Not to mention, at the time this happened, Matt was a suspected kidnapping victim.” Skin against skin as Karen rubs her forehead. “Jesus. The way he was running around with Fisk, I thought maybe he wasn’t under Midland Circle after all. That he just, just escaped or something, right in time. Lied to us for all those months for fun.” 

Now it's Foggy’s turn to say, “Karen…” 

“Matthew was gravely injured when he came to us. Dropped off by a stranger who had found him near the docks,” Sister Maggie cut in. “He was…far beyond our usual medical care. I insisted on calling the police. Paul – Father Lantom – convinced me otherwise. We did the best we could, but like you said, we’re a Church, not a hospital. For weeks, Matthew’s back and hips prevented him from getting out of bed without extensive assistance. Walking with a cane didn’t come for months. Deafness prevented him from going very far when he finally could.” 

“Deafness? Matt was deaf?” Foggy asks. 

“Tinnitus in his right ear. Limited hearing in his left. Apparently, his senses of smell and taste were also affected, but I could never understand all that superpowered stuff.” 

“I can’t imagine,” Karen breathes. “He’s so reliant on his senses, losing them…” 

Karen doesn’t finish the thought. 

Sister Maggie sounds strained. “It was a difficult period. Matthew wanted to know if he still had it. If he could still fulfill his calling as Daredevil with his limited abilities. I’m afraid my efforts, while well-intentioned, did nothing but push him further into distress.” 

“I’m sure that’s not true, Sister,” Karen soothes. 

“No, no,” she rejects. “I wasn’t born yesterday. It didn’t take a lot of time with Matthew to realize that Midland Circle wasn’t an accident.” 

No. 

“I encouraged him to start training again. I thought that anything that got him out of bed must be a good thing. But Matthew couldn’t go back, not with how severe his injuries were. We found a local boy for him to fight. Another boxer. At first, it was incredible. The way he moved – it was almost like,” the sudden scent of saline, “like seeing Jack fight again. One clean shot to the head was all it took. Matthew went down, couldn’t orient himself, couldn’t fight anymore.”

No. 

“I should’ve watched him better that night. I was so angry when he came back. Yelling at him for trying to--to get himself killed when I should’ve,” she cuts herself off. “I’ve never been much of a mother to Matthew, but I was so, so wrong. I can only thank the Lord that Matthew has found it in himself to forgive me enough to let me back into his life.” 

Matt doesn’t want to hear about this. Doesn’t want Foggy or Karen to hear about this. 

That night is tucked in his subconscious in a big box labeled THINGS NOT TO TALK ABOUT. It sits next to the night his dad died and the day Stick left him and beating Roscoe Sweeney and Elektra dying and the time spent at the bottom of Midland Circle. The memory is rotten; it festers and molds in the back of his mind. A mortal sin that Matt can only pray to be forgiven for. 

Nobody is allowed to know about it. Sister Maggie can guess it, and Karen and Foggy can assume about the history, but nobody is allowed to know. That night is Matt’s and Matt’s alone, cradled tightly against his chest and lodged in his throat when he lines up for confession. If Matt wants to kill himself, it’s his own damn business. Nobody else's. 

In his dream, Elektra wraps her arms around his torso, his face. Her lips brush against his, hot breath rolling off his skin. 

This is what living feels like, she tells him. 

And then Stick stabs her through the back. 

Foggy comes home with him. Foggy is there to make sure Matt doesn’t do anything stupid. When Matt tries to tell them that he doesn’t need a babysitter, he’s vetoed three to one. 

This wouldn’t be happening if Maggie hadn’t told them about his suicide attempt. 

Attempts. 

Whatever. 

It doesn’t matter. The point is, Matt settles on the couch while Foggy putzes around the kitchen. Coffee wafts out as the water eeks out of Matt’s Keurig. Leather sticks to Matt’s skin, sweaty from the heat trapped underneath the throw blanket Foggy tosses to him and nerves. Matt’s head throbs and his stomach churns and he wishes Foggy would quit messing with the coffee maker and come over here already. Ask the questions that clearly burned through him as he tapped his fingers on the cab door the whole ride home. Answering is like pulling teeth but sitting and waiting is like pulling fingernails. 

Foggy quits messing with the coffeemaker and rounds the corner of the couch, two steaming mugs in hand. One goes to Matt, who lets the decaf fizzle against his tongue while Foggy sits down next to him, leg bouncing. 

This is it. Foggy will ask if Matt’s tried to kill himself and Matt will tell him it was no big deal. Not even active – just being in the wrong place at the wrong time. Letting fate take its course. With a little help from a lead pipe, of course. 

Foggy wouldn’t get that detail. That can stay in the box in Matt’s mind. 

The point is, Matt’s ready. Roaring to get this over and done with so they never have to do it again. 

So, naturally, Foggy throws him a curve ball. 

Foggy quits messing with the coffeemaker and rounds the corner of the couch, two steaming mugs in hand. One goes to Matt, who lets the decaf fizzle against his tongue as Foggy sits down next to him, leg bouncing. 

“Can I watch the footage? From the security camera?” 

The video is ten minutes long. To Matt, it had felt like an hour. 

The drive is still sitting on his shelf. Completely untouched since he brought it home from Rikers. Bringing it to the couch is an exercise in self-restraint when every fiber of Matt’s being tells him to stomp it into little pieces or hide it somewhere he’ll never have to see it again. 

It starts in the med-bay, with the injection and his phone call with Fisk. Phantom stinging in his palm reminds Matt of the knee-jerk panic he felt, the dread of hearing the phone ring and realizing it was Fisk on the other end of the line, drugging him to the gills. 

Matt listens for the grunts as he was slammed into the hallway and the creak of the bench that he shoved into one of the prisoners. He hears his own footsteps echo against the metal walls. Prisoners jeer and call for him. His own voice hoarsely begs for help. Batons thump against the guards’ riot gear and Matt thinks about how much he doesn’t want to be watching this. Listening to his own pain replayed for amusement. 

Foggy’s heart doesn’t sound amused. It beats hard and loud with stress. Sweat gathers under his arms and along the top of his lip. Rough panting makes Foggy breathe unevenly. Still, he doesn’t ask to stop watching. Doesn’t comment beyond a tight “Jesus” or “Fuck, Matt” under his breath. 

The part where Matt meets with Vic is conveniently missing. Covering tracks in case the two ever work together again, which they won’t be. Matt meant what he said. If Vic’s looking for a new member of his empire, he’s sorely mistaken. Even worse, he put Daredevil right on his trail. 

Stumbling through the halls with the fake guard is still in though. All the way up to the part where Matt slumps into the cab, begging the driver to leave. Nothing after that, when Matt was blacked out and taken to a watery grave. Nothing to tell him what happened in those absent hours. 

At least nobody knows about that. Unless Matt goes to a public pool or the beach, any water-related trauma can stay hidden, just the way he likes it. 

“I-I,” Foggy starts. “Christ, I don’t even know what to say, Matt. That was something out of a movie. I didn’t even know stuff like that happened in real life.” 

“Well, it does,” Matt says dully. Detached. Angry somewhere far away that he can’t reach. 

“Are you okay? That’s a stupid question. Of course, you’re not okay. That kind of fight would traumatize me for life.” Even though Foggy’s not wrong, the statement is grating. Who’s Foggy to determine whether Matt’s okay or not? What does he know about what Matt can handle? Matt’s been handling his shit fine for years, thank you very much. What’s one fight in hundreds? 

“I’m fine, Foggy.” 

“No, you’re not fine. Stop saying that.” 

“Yes, I am.” 

“No, you’re really not.” 

“Excuse me?” 

“Why are you acting like this is some sudden revelation? You couldn’t get off the floor earlier because you’re still so injured from the building collapse you were in. The one that you didn’t get medical attention for! Not that any of that kept you down for long, right? Not Matt Murdock, who got into a prison fight right after recovering. Just one of those things on its own would be enough to warrant not being fine.” 

“I’m not a child. You don’t need to lecture me, alright? I know all these things happened. I lived it.” 

Foggy’s voice softens. “I’m not trying to lecture you. I’m just worried.” 

“Don’t be.” 

“How could I not be?” Foggy asks incredulously. “You pretended to be dead for months. Healthy people don’t do that. They don’t lie to their friends like that.” 

When does it end? Matt rejoins society. Pays back his rent. Restarts the firm he lost and starts working again. Moves back into his apartment and goes for drinks and makes jokes. Tries to do right by the people he hurt. So when does he stop getting shit for some of the worst months of his life? When does it stop? 

“It wasn’t about lying to you. It wasn’t about that.” 

“Then what was it about, then, Matt? You wanted to push us out of your life and you went so far as to make us think you were dead to do it. I’m not mad about it, buddy, not like Karen, but it was a shitty thing to do. Even you have to admit that.” 

The distant anger hits him in full force. The Devil comes to life with nothing but blind rage. Pulsating fury possesses Matt until he can hardly remember that he’s in the apartment and not standing in the Church basement, screaming at the stained glass. 

“I wanted to be dead,” Matt says slowly. “I wanted to be dead but couldn’t be. It wasn’t about you or Karen or pushing anyone out of my life. I wanted to be dead and letting you think I was was the closest I could get.” 

It goes like this: 

Three people go down to the bottom of Midland Circle. 

One with a beautiful woman waiting for him at home with open arms, just like the neighborhood that loves him. 

One with a crippling alcohol addiction that somehow doesn’t interfere with her thriving business and friends that want nothing more than to be associated with a local hero. 

And one with no job, no friends, and no future that doesn’t look fucking miserable. 

Waking up to survive is cruel and unusual. A joke that only God could laugh at. 

But that’s how He wants to play it? Fine. Matt can play along. He can breathe and piss and shit with the best of them. He can go through the motions. Take up space and food and be the unwanted guest that haunts the orphanage walls. 

Actually living, though? Matt definitely did not have to do that. 

Foggy swallows hard. “Thank you for telling me that.” 

“What?” 

 “Thank you for trusting me with that,” Foggy repeats. “Naturally, I don’t like the idea of my best friend being suicidal but thank you for sharing that with me.” Foggy steps in closer, wrapping himself around Matt. Warm, firm arms pull him in, keeping Matt trapped in the comforting smells of strawberry, paper, and Doritos. “I love you and I’m here for you, okay? No matter what. If you ever feel like that again, you can come to me. No judgments.” 

Matt shudders. Tears leak out of his eyes without permission. Crying is weakness. Letting other people see you cry is admitting defeat, turning your back to the danger and opening up to be hurt. Matt has only ever cried in front of Foggy six times, seven counting the time that they watched the Lion King together. Logically, Matt knows that Foggy is safe. Showing emotion won’t garner a punishment or disgust. But crying has always been private. Something to be done at night where nobody could see the shards ripping up Matt’s insides. The act itself is gross and sticky. Wanting someone to slobber all over you is not a thing. Better to be alone and safe than sorry. 

And Foggy knows all this, has to with how long he’s known Matt, and only holds him tighter. Squeezes Matt until his weight is bearing down on him. Holds Matt securely and says “I got you, buddy,” and “let it all out.” Foggy runs his hand up and down Matt’s back while Matt smashes his forehead into Foggy’s shoulder and sobs. Ugly and messy and snotty. Ruining Foggy’s shirt and unable to stop long enough to apologize. 

“I’m-I’m-I’m,” Matt stutters, unable to control his breathing. 

“It’s alright, it’s alright. Take a deep breath. In. Out. It’s okay, you’re okay.” 

The hand doesn’t falter. Stays steady and grounding. A firm touch that says it’s safe to fall apart because Foggy will be there, picking up the pieces alongside him. Dancing with the Devil on nights when he’s not just a vigilante but a screaming, clawing thing that eats up the kind parts of Matt and leaves behind an inferno. 

Matt goes boneless. Leans harder into Foggy and lets him take all of the weight. Just for tonight. Let Foggy carry the burden with him just for tonight. 

Matt’s head throbs and his face feels hot. Foggy slides out from underneath him and rearranges Matt’s limp limbs on the couch so he’s tucked together and comfortable. “You’re feeling a little skinny there, man. Let’s get you something to eat.” 

The words wash over him. Don’t register in Matt's mind, empty from pouring out every bottled-up emotion into Foggy’s willing hands. He doesn’t protest. Forgets to lie and say that he’s already eaten today or that he’s not hungry. Foggy gets up and goes to the kitchen and Matt doesn’t stop him. 

And when Foggy says “Hey, buddy, I don’t see any food in here. Skip grocery shopping this week?” 

Matt. 

Well. 

There’s really nothing left to say. 

New York is cold. Bitter wind cuts right through the black outfit, the clothes providing no protection from the weather. The red suit, while stiffer and dorkier, was better about that. It insulated, trapping heat to prevent Matt’s limbs from freezing mid-fight. Summer heat waves made that problematic but in the cold it was perfect. Matt tries not to think about the old suit on nights like this, where winter is fast approaching and Matt shivers on the ledge. 

The movies make it seem like there are plenty of back alleys in the city to hide in. Real New Yorkers know that the grid system makes alley’s nearly impossible to find. Early on in crime-fighting, Matt learned the best way to surprise people when lurking is to wait on the metal scaffolding overhanging the sidewalk. The pipes and planks are everywhere, but hardly anyone ever looks up. 

Betsy Beatty screams when Daredevil drops down in front of her at the end of the block. 

He guards her exit. “You’re a hard woman to find. I wouldn’t do that if I were you.” 

She stops reaching for the pepper spray in her purse. It had been making Matt’s nose itch since she was two blocks away. 

“You again. I already told you I wanted nothing to do with you after you got Melvin put away.” 

“I remember.” 

“What, but you don’t listen?” 

Fair enough. 

“Melvin’s been asking for you.” 

That hits her hard. Her breathing goes sharp and her heart pounds. “If you got Melvin mixed up in any more of your shit—” 

“No,” Matt says. “I haven’t. His lawyer and I… we’re acquainted. He asked me to find you. For Melvin.” 

“Right.” She’s skeptical. “And what happened to all that talk of me being in danger? Needing to run from Fisk? Ring any bells?” 

“Fisk’s been taken care of. You’re safe now.” 

Betsy scoffs. “And what happens when you decide you need Melvin’s help again? Are we gonna be safe then?” 

“I gave Melvin my word that I’d keep you safe.” And he’ll keep it. 

“How much is your word worth? What happens when we need to be kept safe from you?” Getting shot in the head hurt less. Chemicals burning away his sight weren’t nearly as bad as that accusation. “I meant what I said about Melvin being a good man. He is. But he’s also easily manipulated by the likes of you. I know who you are. The Devil of Hell’s Kitchen. People say that you throw men off buildings, beat them into comas. What happens when the next time, Melvin doesn’t go to prison?” 

The words are thick and bulbous, choking him. “Then that’ll be his choice.” 

“Men like Melvin don’t get a choice.” 

“So, what?” Matt asks, frustration burning through him. “You’ll turn your back on him?” 

“I love Melvin,” Betsy refutes. “But I won’t be involved with you.” She pushes past him, continuing down the block. “Goodnight.” 

Matt and Sister Maggie talk in the Lord’s stomach. 

The basement walls of the Church echo and ache. Water drips unevenly from the sink, still faintly smelling of blood and mucus. Matt’s feet throb from standing and the cool night air slips in through cracks in the brick. 

Sister Maggie’s pulse thrums steadily. Her voice does not waver. 

“Can you be trusted to be back on your own?” 

He thinks of darkness. Of crawling in the shadows until the light itches and scrapes. Of making a home for himself in Manhattan’s underbelly, slithering on his stomach like Lucifer in the Garden, snaking towards sin so tempting that to give in is to throw away your future and not care. To laugh in the face of damnation and ruin and destruction. He thinks of fashioning himself into the Devil and feels like for once, God can finally see Matt’s true face. Everyone can finally see Matt’s true face. 

“I’ve forgotten how to be myself,” he says. “And I don’t ever want to go back.” 

Karen corners him as he puts the finishing strokes on Melvin’s appeal. 

“Lunch?” She asks. It’s not a question, even if it’s dressed up like one. Rejecting her offer is something Matt would never do lest he risks the pain of death.

Or serious clerical harm. 

Foggy doesn’t come with them. That Karen doesn’t ask him to ping one of Matt’s oh shit sensors. That she brings him to a diner flags another one. 

Matt sits across from her and tries not to think about how he and Elektra sat in this very same diner so long ago, fighting over fries and oblivious to the downward spiral that they were sprinting towards. 

Matt sits across from Karen and tries not to think about how he really, really can’t afford this lunch. 

They make small-talk, discussing their current caseload, Daredevil, and anything but the reason why Karen brought him here. When the waitress comes, Matt tells her he’s fine with water. Karen orders a Diet Coke. The small talk continues while they wait. Excruciating, annoying, and tedious. 

They thank the waitress for delivering their drinks, put their orders in, and Matt can’t wait anymore. 

“I know the rent is late this month but I promise I’ll get the money to you soon.” 

Karen startles. “What? Matt–” 

“It’s fine,” Matt reassures her. “Don’t act like you weren’t paying a fortune in rent when I was, you know. I’ll pay you back, it’s just been a little tight this month.” 

And most likely next month too. But Karen doesn’t need to know that. He’ll find the money somehow. Pull it out of thin air like a magician with a rabbit. 

“Actually, I wanted to talk to you about that.” 

Matt’s brain auto-fills the rest. I don’t want your money anymore because I don’t want you in my life anymore. I need the money faster because you were such a burden that I’m sinking too. I spent so much time paying your rent that now I can’t pay mine and I’m being evicted and it’s all your fault. 

Karen tucks her hair behind her ear and flattens her hands against the table. “You don’t need to keep paying me. It’s fine. Debt repaid.” 

She huffs a little like she’s smiling and Matt resists the urge to shake his head violently. No, he wants to insist. Debt not repaid. Debt is still several thousand dollars and growing if you consider the interest and the way Matt’s chest aches when he thinks about standing in Karen’s apartment, listening to her story about her neighbor, and asking him exhaustedly What do you need, Matt? 

Matt needs to pay her back. Matt will starve himself to pay her back. Because starving is a better kind of emptiness than the one he feels when he thinks about how he treated his friend. 

“What? Karen, no. You paid my rent for months, I can’t let that–” 

“And I can’t let you destroy yourself for it. Did you really think I wouldn’t notice? None of your suits fit. You won’t come out with me and Foggy, not if it means you have to pay for something. You aren’t jumping on the pro-bono cases like you used to. Foggy said that there’s no food in your apartment and that–” 

Enough. “Okay, okay. I…” 

He should’ve expected this. Karen’s a journalist. Putting puzzle pieces together is quite literally her job. (Was her job. Thinking about how she gave that up for him forms a lump in his throat that he can’t deal with right now.) The countdown to when Karen figured out that pulling her out of a financial hole only dragged him into one began the second he agreed to pay her back. Matt had only hoped that he would have given her more before the confrontation happened. 

“We’re worried about you. I’m worried about you. The eating problems weren’t happening before all this, or at least, I think they weren’t. So, I need you to be honest with me. Is paying me back hurting you?” 

There’s a level of surrealism to the question. Ask Matt a year ago and this was a totally normal question for Karen – his quasi-girlfriend and the third member of their little trio. Fast forward a couple of months, past the nasty breakup and the awkward dance around the Daredevil fallout, and it wouldn’t have been completely out of place. Take a couple of steps forward, through the lies of Matt’s death and his selfishness in pursuing Fisk, and it’s unthinkable. Now, Matt just feels awkward, like a turtle beached on his back waiting for a bird to fly down and scoop him up. He’s exposed with his belly up by his own design. Karen has always been a bird, fierce and free-spirited. He can’t be mad at her for circling above him, waiting to pounce. 

“I hurt you first,” Matt says. “I lied to you and I took advantage of your goodwill and I didn’t even say thank you.” 

“You don’t need to–” 

Lie, her heart says. Lie, lie, lie. 

“I do. Thank you, Karen. You were a good friend to me even when I was a terrible one to you. And an even worse boyfriend,” he adds because it’s been long enough. They can joke about it. 

“Barely,” Karen scoffs, cracking the tension slightly. “It was what? Maybe two weeks? That’s barely making it to first base.” 

Matt chuckles. “Fair.” 

Joking is good. Joking means that the money portion of the conversation is over and Matt can Venmo Karen rent money again at the end of the month. 

“But seriously, Matt. Talk to me.” 

Karen never did let anything go. 

“There’s nothing really to say. You know I was mostly working pro-bono after Nelson and Murdock dissolved. Not exactly known for paying well. And it’s not like I was swimming in savings before that. Don’t worry about it Karen, honestly, I’ll be okay. Tight for a little while, but nothing that I haven’t already done.” 

“Don’t you get it?” Karen’s eyebrows fold against each other, making a scratchy sound as the hairs rub together, furrowing. “The whole point of paying your rent in the first place was to make it easier for you to get back on your feet when you came back. Kinda defeats the point if you kill yourself to pay me back.” 

Playing these games is tiring. “I’m confused. Weren’t you the one who said that I owe you rent money?” 

She bristles. “Yeah, I was pissed. You lied, Matt. For a long, long time about something really shitty. I was upset that you let us think you were dead because friends don’t do that to each other. So, yeah, I told you I needed the rent money because you owe me at least that. But I’m not gonna let you use it as an excuse to hurt yourself. Foggy once told me that how you behave is on you, but how we treat you is on us. And I won’t be the kind of friend that enables that type of behavior. That’s not who I want to be.” 

Ouch. 

Matt opens his mouth, only to be cut off. “Stop. No more apologizing. Just tell me the truth.” 

What’s one more cut after a thousand of them? What’s one more indignity after a lifetime? 

“There’s not much of the money I got when my dad died left. Pretty much all of it went to living expenses when I was a kid and paying for college and then law school. After Nelson and Murdock dissolved… everybody wants the lawyer who almost won the Castle case. And good for Foggy, he deserved it, he’s amazing and talented and earned that. But who wants to be represented by the lawyer who made it crash and burn? Working pro-bono was the only way to keep getting clients, even if it meant not getting paid at all. I had some savings, but–” Matt laughed, dry without humor. “You know, I probably wouldn’t have been able to pay that rent all those months anyway.” 

“Why didn’t you say anything?” 

“C’mon, you and Foggy didn’t want anything to do with me. Rightly, so, but still. The last thing I should’ve done was come to either of you for financial help after everything I did. Be honest, would you have wanted me to, back then?” 

Karen’s silence is all the confirmation he needs. 

The waitress returns and refills Matt’s water. 

“What about now? Why not say anything now?” 

“Karen,” Matt sighs. The whole argument is redundant. Wasn’t Karen seeing the pattern by now? “How could I put more on you? What kind of friend would I be if I did say something?” 

“The kind that trusts his friends! Christ, Matt didn’t we just do a whole thing about this with Fisk?” 

Frustration roars back to life. “These things take time, okay? I’m trying my best here but it’s a hard habit to break. I swear that I want to be honest with you and Foggy, I just… I’m trying.” 

“I–I know,” Karen nods. 

“I’m sorry that it felt like I didn’t trust you again, I do. This, keeping my problems to myself, has been my whole life.” The explanation feels lame. Like he’s making excuses for bad behavior one too many times. Karen asked for the truth, though, and this was it. As pathetic as it may be. 

“I get it. I might not be happy about it… ” Karen must read something on his face because she backtracks immediately. “Not because I’m mad at you. You’re right that this is a really difficult thing to unlearn and it’s gonna take time. I just wish you didn’t have to do it at all. Next time, tell me, okay? We might not be together anymore, but I still care.” 

All Matt can do is nod around the lump in his throat, thankful not to have to speak as the waitress brings their food. 

Visiting Elektra’s grave still holds meaning, even if Matt knows that she’s not buried there. 

Having Stick’s plot right next to hers is an added bonus. 

Grass crunches underneath Matt’s shoes as he walks across the graveyard. Frost isn’t incredibly common in the city outside of a park. Matt could hear the wet blades sticking to the tip of his cane – switched out for one more accommodating to the grass – and hopes that the grass falls off later so he doesn’t have to pick them off. Thankfully, the day is cold without being biting. Weak sunlight lays gently on his skin. He focuses on that instead of the smell of rotting corpses. 

Elektra’s grave thumps dully when his cane taps it. Matt runs his fingers over the words to check he didn’t get his steps wrong. Nope. In bold lettering: ELEKTRA NATCHIOS. 

The only thing marking Stick’s grave is a blank stone. Matt considered a Bible quote, just to spite the old man, but his morality won out in the end. And without any identifying information, Stick’s stone remains bare of anything beyond his alias. 

Slowly uncurling his frozen fingers, Matt places the flowers down, petals brushing Elektra’s headstone. Leaving them is like ripping the stems straight out of his chest, thorns tearing up his insides. Making himself walk away without lingering, statuesque and stoic, is even harder. 

Moving on is important. Lord knows how many people tried to tell him that. Throwing his fate in with those who were determined only to bring out the worst in him, relishing in his depravity and revolting in his sanity, only hurt him in the long run. Stick and Elektra tore away the scaffolding holding him together for their own amusement and let the devastation collapse where it may. Matt destroyed himself to be what they hated and destroyed himself to be what they loved. 

And despite all of that, he’s the last one standing. The only one capable of turning around and continuing on. Normally, the guilt crushes him at the thought. What makes Matt so great? Why did he survive when others wanted it so much more? 

Turning his back on the grave sites, Matt exhales as that guilt doesn’t come. Only peace and the sound of traffic as the world churns on. 

Melvin wins his appeal. Tears stain his jumpsuit as he cries in the courtroom. Matt grips his shoulder as the verdict is read, thinking of Ray Nadeem. The day in court that he would never get and the justice he would never see. Helping Melvin is a small thing but it's so much more than others got. 

Matt wishes he could tell Betsy that from where she sits in the back of the courtroom. He thinks she might appreciate it. 

Matt and Sister Maggie talk in the pews of Clinton Church. 

She slides in next to him without saying a word. Basking in the mid-day silence, neither greet each other, instead choosing to sit shoulder-to-shoulder in thought. Minutes go by before Sister Maggie finally speaks. “I’m surprised to see you here during daylight hours. One would start to think you’re allergic.” 

“I come to Sunday Mass.” 

Sister Maggie hums. “True. Not quite the same as coming during a weekday, though, is it?” 

She has him there. 

“I’ve been busy,” Matt says. 

“It’s a sin to lie.” 

“Don’t tell me you have super senses too now, Sister.” Calling her anything other than her title seems wrong. She’s not Mom. Maybe never will be. For now, the address doesn’t appear to bother her as much as the deflection. 

“I don’t need them. Not with you.” 

“Do you believe in ghosts, Sister?” 

If the question surprises her, she doesn’t show it. “The Bible tells us that once you die, you go to the afterlife. ‘And these will go away into eternal punishment, but the righteous into eternal life.’”

“Matthew,” he places the quote. 

Sister Maggie dips her head. “25:46. There are spirits – angels and demons – but He is firm that after we die we don’t get to stick around. Why?” 

“The Church used to be a sanctuary for me. Where I could go to repent for the harm I’ve done outside of these walls. Now, it feels haunted. Makes it hard to come back for anything but Sunday Mass.” 

The observation is met with careful reflection. 

“Seeing the pulpit,” Sister Maggie says, “I find it hard not to imagine Paul’s body there.” 

“I should have saved him,” Matt breathes like a confession. “I should have gotten there faster or distracted Dex. I shouldn’t have let him die. Father Lantom believed in me and I failed him.” 

“We can’t see the back of the tapestry, Matthew. You taught me that. You saved so many people that day. Not just your friend, but all the parishioners there as well. Paul did too. And I think you would know something about preferring to die while serving your community.” 

It’s not a reminder that Matt enjoys hearing – his martyr complex is often brought up and seldom welcome – but he does understand her point. Standing by while somebody is in the line of fire was never something Matt could tolerate. There’s no doubt in Matt’s mind that he would step in front of Karen too if he was in Father Lantom’s position. It soothes a part of him, knowing that Father Lantom’s death was a choice. A decision made rather than a careless mistake. Matt doesn’t have to be happy about it but he can live with it. 

It’s a strange thought. Matt living. Might take some getting used to. Sounds nice though. Something he could grow to like. 

“Thank you. For that. I, uh, needed to hear it.” 

“Of course,” she says. “I have duties I need to attend to at the orphanage. I trust you’ll be okay on your own?” 

Matt grins, grounded where his hands are pressed flat against the wooden pews. “Yes. I think I’ll be alright.”