From the Ashes
The scent suppressants were wearing off.
Matt Murdock could feel it in the way his skin started to prickle uncomfortably beneath the scratchy sheets of St. Agnes' infirmary. The familiar chemical barrier that kept his true nature hidden was fading, just like everything else in his life had crumbled away. He shifted restlessly on the narrow bed, grateful that Sister Maggie had left him alone for the moment. The nuns didn't know - couldn't know - what he really was. An omega. A little. Two secrets that would destroy what remained of his reputation if they ever got out.
His enhanced senses picked up the steady drip of holy water in the church above, the whispered prayers of the faithful, and the rustle of habits as nuns moved through the ancient corridors. Familiar sounds from his childhood, now tainted by failure and loss. The basement air was thick with incense and candle smoke, but beneath it all, he could detect his own changing scent. He needed his pills. But his emergency stash had been destroyed along with Midland Circle, along with Elektra, along with everything.
"I know you're awake." Sister Maggie's voice cut through his thoughts. Her footsteps were precise, measured - beta, his mind supplied automatically. Most of the clergy were betas. It made things simpler.
Matt didn't respond. He couldn't. The weight of everything - Elektra, the building, his failures - pressed down on him like the tons of rubble that should have killed him. That maybe should have been allowed to kill him.
"Still giving me the silent treatment?" Maggie's tone carried a hint of amusement. "You haven't changed since you were a boy here."
The words hit too close to home, stirring something in the carefully locked-away part of himself that wanted to be small, to be cared for. He shoved the feeling down violently. "Leave me alone," he growled, his voice rough from disuse.
"You've been saying that for weeks now." She moved closer, and Matt could smell the antiseptic on her hands. "Your wounds are healing well, but you're not letting the rest of you heal."
"I don't deserve to heal." The words came out before he could stop them, raw and honest in a way he hadn't allowed himself to be since he'd first presented as an omega at fifteen, since he'd first realized he was a little at seventeen. Both revelations had been met with the same response - find a way to hide it, to control it, to be stronger.
Sister Maggie's heart rate picked up slightly - concern, maybe, or frustration. "God doesn't punish us, Matthew. He forgives us."
A bitter laugh escaped him. "Tell that to the people I've lost. Tell that to the people I failed to protect." His fists clenched in the sheets, and he could feel the tremor in his hands - withdrawal from the suppressants, from the cocktail of pills that kept him normal, kept him functional. Kept him from being weak.
"The Lord works in-"
"If you say 'mysterious ways,' I swear I'll walk out of here right now." The threat was empty and they both knew it. He could barely stand for more than a few minutes at a time.
The silence stretched between them, filled with the endless symphony of the church above. Finally, Maggie sighed. "You need to eat something. Build your strength."
The mere thought of food made his stomach turn. Everything felt wrong - his skin too tight, his senses too sharp without the dampening effect of his usual medications. He needed to find a way to get more pills before anyone noticed. Before his body betrayed him completely.
"I need to be alone," he said instead.
"You've been alone enough." But she was already turning to leave, her habits rustling softly. At the door, she paused. "God didn't bring you back just to watch you destroy yourself, Matthew."
The words echoed in the small room long after she'd gone. Matt turned his face toward the ceiling he couldn't see, listening to the prayers above, wondering if any of them reached heaven. His own prayers hadn't been answered in a long time.
Hours passed in a haze of pain and memory. Matt drifted between consciousness and fevered dreams, his enhanced senses making everything too sharp, too real. Without his pills to dull the edges, every sound was a knife, every smell a story he didn't want to read. The church bells rang for evening mass, and he could hear Father Lantom's voice carrying through the stone, speaking of resurrection and redemption.
There was no redemption for him. Not after everything he'd done. Not after everyone he'd lost.
His skin felt hot, feverish. The first real signs of heat approaching, his treacherous body responding to weeks without suppressants. He needed to leave, needed to find a pharmacy, a dealer, anyone who could help him maintain the careful facade he'd built over the years. But his body wouldn't cooperate, wouldn't move the way he needed it to.
The sound of footsteps in the corridor outside made him tense. Different from Maggie's - heavier, male. Father Lantom, coming to make another attempt at saving his soul.
"Matthew." The priest's voice was gentle, careful. He smelled of wine and bread - communion recently finished. "Sister Maggie says you haven't eaten today."
"Not hungry." The words came out rougher than he intended, his throat dry.
"You won't recover your strength this way." A pause, then the scrape of a chair being pulled closer to the bed. "You're punishing yourself."
Matt turned his face away. "Maybe I deserve to be punished."
"For surviving?" Father Lantom's heart rate remained steady, calm. "Or for failing to save everyone?"
The question hit like a physical blow. Matt's hands trembled as he pushed himself to sit up, ignoring the protest of healing muscles. "I let her die. Again. I let them all down."
"You nearly died yourself."
"I should have." The admission hung in the air between them, heavy with truth.
"God disagrees." Father Lantom's voice hardened slightly. "He brought you here for a reason."
Matt laughed, the sound harsh and broken. "What reason? To lie here useless while the city suffers? To hide in the basement of my childhood home because I'm too weak to face what I've done?"
"To heal. To find your way back to yourself."
"Myself?" Matt's laugh turned bitter. "You don't know who I am, Father. What I am." The words caught in his throat, decades of secrecy warring with the desperate need to confess, to be absolved.
"I know you're a man in pain." The priest's voice softened. "I know you're running from something more than just your failures at Midland Circle."
Matt's heart rate spiked. Could the priest smell it on him? Was the suppression wearing off enough that his true nature was becoming evident? Panic clawed at his throat.
"Your secrets are your own, Matthew." Father Lantom stood, his joints creaking slightly. "But remember that God loves all his children. All of them. As they are."
The words hit something deep inside Matt, something small and scared that he'd buried long ago. His hands clenched in the sheets as he fought back the unexpected surge of emotion. "Some things are better left hidden," he managed.
"Are they?" The priest moved toward the door. "Or are they just another way you punish yourself?"
After Father Lantom left, Matt lay in the darkness, his enhanced senses mapping the world around him. Somewhere in the city, sirens wailed. People needed help. His help. But he was trapped here, by his injuries, by his weakness, by the secrets that threatened to unravel everything he'd built.
He could feel his control slipping, the careful walls he'd constructed starting to crack. Without his suppressants, without his carefully maintained schedule of medication, it was only a matter of time before everyone knew what he really was. An omega trying to live in an alpha's world. A little pretending to be big and strong and capable.
The thought of anyone finding out made him physically ill. He'd worked too hard, fought too long to maintain his image. The devil of Hell's Kitchen, brought low by his own biology. By his own nature.
A distant crash caught his attention - something happening in the kitchen above. His senses automatically mapped the scene: two novices dropping a tray of dishes, Sister Maggie's exasperated sigh, the smell of soap and ceramic dust.
He needed to get out of here. Needed to find a way to get his medications before it was too late. But his body was still too weak, still healing from injuries that should have killed him. The irony wasn't lost on him - saved from death only to face a different kind of destruction.
The night wore on, bringing with it the familiar sounds of the city he'd failed to protect. Somewhere out there, Wilson Fisk was still alive, still a threat. And here he was, hiding in a church basement, fighting his own biology instead of fighting for justice.
Matt turned his face into the pillow, trying to block out the world, trying to hold himself together for just a little longer. But in the darkness of his mind, he could feel everything starting to unravel, and for the first time in years, he wasn't sure he had the strength to stop it.
Tomorrow, he told himself. Tomorrow he would find a way to get his pills, to rebuild his walls, to be strong again. Tomorrow he would figure out how to be the man - the alpha - everyone thought he was.
But tonight, in the quiet darkness of St. Agnes, Matthew Murdock lay alone with his secrets, listening to the city cry out for a savior he no longer knew how to be.