Cracks in the Armor
Three weeks of medication had rebuilt Matt's walls, but they weren't as solid as before.
He could feel it as he walked through the prison security checkpoint - something slightly off in his chemical balance. The morning dose hadn't settled right, leaving him with a subtle shakiness he hoped only he could detect. But he couldn't postpone this meeting. Not when Fisk was making moves again.
"Mr. Murdock." The guard's voice was professionally neutral. "Arms out."
Matt complied with the security pat-down, grateful that at least the scent blockers were working properly. The guard was an alpha - they all were in this section - and the last thing he needed was to trigger any protective or aggressive instincts.
"Follow me." The guard's footsteps echoed on the concrete floor. "Prisoner is already in Interview Room 3."
Matt's enhanced senses mapped out the prison as they walked - three hundred and seventeen heartbeats in this wing alone, each telling its own story of violence and regret. But one heartbeat stood out. Steady. Powerful. Controlled.
Wilson Fisk.
The interview room door opened with a mechanical buzz. Matt stepped inside, immediately assaulted by the overwhelming scent of alpha dominance that Fisk had always exuded. Even in prison orange, even behind bulletproof glass, the man was every inch the apex predator.
"Matthew." Fisk's voice was as Matt remembered - cultured, careful, with violence lurking beneath every syllable. "I must admit, I was surprised when they told me you had requested this meeting."
Matt took his seat, keeping his movements precise and controlled. "Let's skip the pleasantries, Fisk. I know you're planning something."
"Planning?" A slight shift in posture - amusement? "I'm serving my sentence, Matthew. Learning from my mistakes. Isn't that what your justice system is designed for? Rehabilitation?"
"You don't rehabilitate." Matt leaned forward slightly. "You adapt. You evolve. And whatever you're evolving into now, I'm going to stop it."
Fisk's heartbeat remained steady, but there was a new note in his chemosignals - curiosity. "You seem... different, Matthew. Your time away has changed you."
Something twisted in Matt's stomach. The morning dose was definitely wearing off too early - he could feel his own scent starting to shift beneath the blockers. He needed to make this quick.
"The only thing that's changed is my patience for your games." Matt's fingers tightened on his cane. "Your lawyers have been busy. Your assets are moving. Tell me why."
"My lawyers are doing their jobs." Fisk shifted slightly, and Matt tensed at the sudden spike in alpha pheromones. "But you... something's not quite right with you, is it? Your scent..."
Matt's heart rate jumped. No. No, this couldn't be happening. Not here. Not with him.
"I don't know what you're talking about." The words came out too sharp, too defensive.
"I always wondered..." Fisk's voice softened in a way that made Matt's skin crawl. "How someone of your... size could fight the way you do. Such precision. Such grace. Not the brutal strength of an alpha, but something else entirely."
"Shut up." Matt stood abruptly, his chair scraping against the floor. The sound was too loud, everything was too loud, and his carefully maintained control was slipping.
"An omega." Fisk said the word with something like wonder. "All this time, the Devil of Hell's Kitchen has been an omega. And something else too, isn't it? Something younger, something that needs protecting-"
"I don't need protection." Matt's voice was a growl, but he could hear the tremor in it. "Especially not from you."
"No?" Fisk stood too, his massive frame casting a shadow through the glass. "Then why can I smell your fear? Your need? Those chemical suppressants you're using... they're dangerous, Matthew. They're hurting you."
The concern in Fisk's voice was worse than any threat could have been. Matt felt something inside him respond to it - that treacherous part of himself that wanted to be cared for, to be safe. He shoved the feeling down violently.
"The only thing hurting me is having to breathe the same air as you." Matt turned toward the door, then stopped. "Whatever you're planning, Fisk, I'll find out. And I'll stop you. Just like before."
"Before?" Fisk's voice carried a new note now - something almost gentle. "Before, I thought I was fighting an alpha. Now... now I understand so much more. You've been fighting your own nature all along, haven't you? Forcing yourself to be something you're not."
"You don't know anything about me." But Matt's hands were shaking now, his control crumbling under the assault of Fisk's alpha presence and his own failing suppressants.
"I know that you're hurting yourself to maintain this facade." Fisk took a step closer to the glass. "I know that you're afraid - not of me, but of being seen for what you really are. An omega. A little. Someone who needs-"
"Guard!" Matt called out, his voice cracking. "We're done here."
The door buzzed open, but Fisk's voice followed him: "You can't run from yourself forever, Matthew. Sooner or later, those walls you've built will come down. And when they do..."
Matt didn't wait to hear the rest. He barely registered the guard's concerned questions as he was escorted out, barely noticed the way other inmates reacted to his passing scent. His entire focus was on getting out, getting away, getting somewhere safe.
The city air hit him like a slap when he finally emerged from the prison. Too many scents, too many sounds, everything amplified by his distress and the failing suppressants. He made it three blocks before he had to stop, ducking into an alley to press his forehead against the cool brick wall.
"Damn it," he whispered, hands clenching into fists. "Damn it, damn it, damn it."
His phone buzzed - probably Sister Maggie wondering where he was. He ignored it. He couldn't face anyone right now, couldn't trust his voice or his scent or his control.
Fisk knew. Fisk knew everything. And worse than that, Fisk had seen through him with such ease, had picked apart his carefully constructed identity like it was nothing.
The walk back to St. Agnes was a blur of sensory overload and emotional turmoil. By the time he reached the church basement, his hands were shaking so badly he could barely get the pill bottles open.
Double dose. He needed a double dose to get back in control. It was dangerous - Joey had warned him about that - but right now, the danger seemed preferable to the alternative.
As the medications slowly took effect, Matt curled up on his bed, trying to shut out Fisk's words. But they echoed in his mind, mixing with all the other voices that had ever made him feel weak, different, wrong.
Above him, the church continued its eternal rhythm of prayers and bells, oblivious to the war being waged in the basement below - a war between who Matthew Murdock was supposed to be, and who he really was.
A war he was starting to fear he might lose.