Desparate Measures
The morning brought no relief.
Matt woke to the sound of morning prayers drifting down from above, his body slick with sweat. His enhanced senses told him it was early - the air still held that pre-dawn crispness, and the city's pulse hadn't yet reached its daily crescendo. But more concerning was the way his own scent had changed overnight. Sweeter. More omega. More vulnerable.
He pushed himself up, ignoring the protest of healing muscles. His ribs screamed in protest, but the pain was almost welcome - a distraction from the growing heat under his skin, from the way his mind kept trying to slip into that dangerous space where everything felt soft and small.
"You're up early." Sister Maggie's voice came from the doorway, making him startle. He hadn't heard her approach - another sign that his control was slipping. "And you're feverish again."
"I'm fine." The words came out rougher than intended, his throat dry. He could smell the concern rolling off her in waves, mixed with something else - confusion? Had she noticed the change in his scent?
"You're many things, Matthew, but 'fine' isn't one of them." Her footsteps approached the bed, and he heard the clink of a glass being set on the bedside table. "Water. And you're going to drink it this time."
The command in her voice triggered something in him - that part that wanted to obey, to be good. He shoved the feeling down violently, but his hands still reached for the glass. The water was cool against his throat, and he hadn't realized how thirsty he was until the first sip.
"There's a pharmacy three blocks from here," Maggie said casually, and Matt nearly choked on the water. "Whatever medication you need, I'm sure they can help."
His heart hammered in his chest. "What are you talking about?"
"I'm not blind, Matthew. You're in withdrawal from something." She paused, and he could hear her heartbeat - steady, calm. "I don't need to know what it is. But if you need help-"
"I don't." The words came out sharp, defensive. "I don't need anything."
A soft sigh. "Your father was stubborn too. Must run in the family."
The mention of his father sent a spike of pain through his chest that had nothing to do with his physical injuries. Jack Murdock had died never knowing what his son really was. Matt intended to keep it that way - let his father's memory remain untainted by the truth.
"I need to start training again," he said, changing the subject. "I've been lying here too long."
"You can barely stand."
"I'll manage." He swung his legs over the side of the bed, ignoring the wave of dizziness that followed. His feet touched the cold floor, and he forced himself to stand. "See? I'm fine."
The room spun alarmingly, but he locked his knees, refusing to show weakness. Sister Maggie's heart rate picked up - worry, probably, or frustration.
"And what exactly do you plan to do once you're on your feet?" Her voice was sharp now. "Go back to getting yourself killed?"
"Better than hiding here." He took a step, then another, using the wall for support. "The city needs-"
"The city needs you alive," Maggie cut in. "And right now, you're in no condition to help anyone."
The truth of her words stung, but he pressed on, making his way toward the small bathroom attached to his room. Each step was a battle, but he forced himself to move normally, to hide the trembling in his legs.
"I'll leave you to your stubborn self-destruction then," Maggie said, turning to leave. At the door, she paused. "The pharmacy opens at eight. They deliver, if you're interested."
After she left, Matt leaned heavily against the bathroom sink, his arms shaking with the effort of holding himself up. In the mirror he couldn't see, he knew his face would be pale, drawn. Weak. The word echoed in his mind, taunting him.
He needed a plan. The pharmacy Maggie mentioned wasn't an option - too many questions, too much paperwork, too much risk of exposure. His usual supplier, a discreet doctor who understood the need for privacy, had been arrested months ago. That left the street dealers, but in his current condition...
A wave of nausea hit him, and he barely made it to the toilet before retching. Nothing came up - he hadn't eaten in days - but his body kept heaving, punishing him for his weakness.
When the spasms finally passed, he slumped against the cool tile wall, listening to the world above. Sister Maggie was talking to Father Lantom in the church proper, their voices carrying through the stone.
"He's getting worse," Maggie was saying.
"He needs time."
"He needs help. Real help."
"Matthew will ask for help when he's ready."
Matt laughed bitterly at that. He'd never be ready. Asking for help meant admitting weakness, and weakness meant exposure, meant people finding out what he really was, meant losing everything he'd built.
No, he needed to handle this himself. He forced himself to stand again, to splash water on his face. His fingers traced the familiar pattern of scars across his body - marks of battles won and lost, proof that he was stronger than his nature, that he could overcome anything.
Back in the bedroom, he began a series of careful stretches, testing his limits. His body protested every movement, but he pushed through it. He needed to be strong enough to get out, to find what he needed before it was too late.
The morning progressed slowly. Matt forced himself through basic exercises, rebuilding his strength bit by bit. By mid-morning, he could walk the length of the room without support, though the effort left him drenched in sweat and trembling.
Sister Maggie brought lunch - soup and bread - which he actually managed to eat some of. His enhanced senses picked up her subtle reactions to his changing scent, the slight increase in her heart rate when she got too close. She knew something was different, even if she didn't understand what.
"There's a phone in the office," she said as she collected the dishes. "If you need to call anyone."
Matt shook his head. Who would he call? Foggy? Karen? They thought he was dead, and maybe it was better that way. Better than them seeing him like this, weak and desperate and losing control.
As the afternoon wore on, his symptoms grew worse. The heat under his skin intensified, and his mind kept trying to slip into little space - a dangerous combination that made him want to curl up small and safe, to let someone else take care of everything. He fought it with everything he had, reciting case law in his head, focusing on the pain in his healing body, anything to stay present and adult.
By evening, he had a plan. It wasn't a good plan, but it was all he had. There was a dealer who worked the corners near St. Agnes, someone who sold suppressants to omegas who couldn't get them legally. Matt had busted him once, back when he was still Daredevil, but hadn't turned him in - something about the man's motivation, helping omegas who had no other options, had stayed his hand.
Now he would have to hope that mercy would be returned.
He waited until after evening prayers, when the church grew quiet and most of the nuns retired for the night. His legs were steadier now, though every movement still hurt. He found his clothes - what was left of them - folded in a drawer. The fabric felt rough against his oversensitive skin as he dressed.
The window was small, but he could fit through it. He'd done it before, as a child trying to escape the suffocating confines of the orphanage. His ribs screamed as he pulled himself up, but he gritted his teeth and pushed through the pain.
The night air hit him like a physical force - too many scents, too many sounds, his unmedicated senses overwhelming him with input. He dropped to his knees in the alley behind the church, fighting for control.
"You shouldn't be out here." Sister Maggie's voice came from above. She was leaning out the window he'd just climbed through, her heartbeat steady and unsurprised.
"Did you know I would try?"
"I know you, Matthew." There was something in her voice he couldn't quite identify. "Whatever you're running from, whatever you're trying to hide - is it worth dying for?"
The question hit him hard. Was it? But the alternative - letting people see him as he really was, weak and needy and everything he'd fought so hard not to be...
"Yes," he said finally. "It is."
She was quiet for a long moment. Then: "The dealer you're looking for moved to 48th Street. Behind the old pawn shop." Before he could respond, she added, "God sees us as we truly are, Matthew. All of us. And he loves us anyway."
The window closed with a soft click, leaving Matt alone in the alley with his secrets and his shame. His legs shook as he stood, but he forced himself to move. Forty-eighth Street wasn't far, but in his condition, it might as well have been miles.
One step at a time, he told himself. One more step, one more block, one more lie to keep his world from falling apart.
The city pressed in around him as he moved through the shadows, his senses painting a picture of life and death, love and violence, all the chaos and beauty of Hell's Kitchen at night. Somewhere in the distance, sirens wailed. Someone needed help.
But tonight, Matthew Murdock couldn't help anyone. Tonight, he was just another desperate soul in the darkness, searching for a way to keep his secrets safe, to stay strong, to be the person everyone needed him to be.
Even if that person was a lie.