Matt was fine. It was scary, really, how fine he was. He had, after all, been killed by a falling building. And lost his girlfriend. Again. Probably. And he may or may not have been hoping to die. And there might have been voices and a series of very bad decisions that may indicate head trauma or at least a lack of self-preservation (more so than before). But, despite all this, Matt was completely, unnervingly, terrifyingly fine. He just was.
When he was in the office, he smiled and nodded in all the right places. He laughed at Karen and Foggy’s jokes and he drank coffee like a madman to make it through long days. He was Matt Murdock. He was just the same as he always had been. Whenever he would do something so distinctly Matt, Karen and Foggy would share a look and wonder if Midland Circle had ever happened. But he was fine. He was okay.
As Daredevil, he was still not afraid of thugs with weapons that would scare anyone else. He still did kicks and punches and even managed to sprinkle in some unnecessary but definitely cool ninja flips. He still fought bad guys and got into trouble he should know better than to get into. He still smiled through bloodstained teeth when someone got arrested, still growled when he heard injustice. He was still the Daredevil from before. Not the Daredevil that got crushed by falling rubble. Not the Daredevil who went in knowing he wouldn’t come back out. He was the same old Devil of Hell’s Kitchen. The public had no reason to think anything had changed.
But things had changed. Things have to change if you get crushed by a building, right? If you lose someone you love? If you lose yourself? If you reach the point of wishing you were dead rather than being thankful you survived? Right?
The Defenders, once they started talking and working together again, thought that Matt should be more wary. More broken. He shouldn’t be the same. He should be angry. Angry that they left. Angry that they didn’t look for him. Angry that they didn’t even have the guts to tell Karen and Foggy and instead left them to stare at an empty doorway and figure it out themselves. Should be angry that he was dragged into that fight, to begin with. But he was Matt. Standoffish, sometimes, but hopelessly optimistic in all things redemption. Except with himself, but what’s new? He wasn’t any different at all. His death didn’t affect him in the slightest.
Sister Maggie and Father Lathom couldn’t find any nuances in his behavior. No bone-chilling confessional questions of life versus death. No broken confessions about the hell he went through. Same as always, moral dilemmas and casual conversation over lattes. Matt didn’t mention anything, didn’t show any sign of trauma. Lathom was skeptical at first, but Maggie’s insistence that miracles happen helped convince him that maybe, just maybe, Matt’s luck changed. Maybe he finally got to feel okay.
Everyone talked, discussed, and shared notes, trying to figure out if there was something they were missing. There was not. Matt, by all accounts, was the same as he always was. He was Matt Murdock. He was Daredevil. He was fine.
He was not fine. He plastered on fake smiles and laughed and frowned and talked and joked like some actor in a play. He took his cues like the best of them, and he had them convinced that he was the same. That he was fine. Well. He was not fine. He was drowning. He was falling. He was burning. He was broken. He was breaking. He was a million other little impossibilities. He was… he wasn’t. He didn’t know who he was, really, wasn't sure what he was beyond the act he put on day in and day out. He was a damn fine actor, convincing everyone that he was fine. Pretending that he still wasn’t choking on all the dust that swirled around him. Pretending that he could still breathe through the crushing weight always on his chest. Pretending he wasn’t cold from how much blood he lost. Pretending he was clean despite the blood and dirt and grime forever coating his skin. Pretending he wasn’t still trapped in that silence, in that impossible nothingness, in that void. Pretending he wasn’t dead. Pretending like he didn’t wish he was.
He looked fine. They couldn’t see the ugly scars, the ones that decorated his thighs. (He was afraid that people might notice if they were on his wrists.) He wasn’t going to do anything, didn’t want to risk going to hell. He just wanted to know that he could still feel. If he was bleeding, he was still alive, right?
He looked fine. He covered up his bags from lack of sleep, making sure to play it off as bruises or something. No one asked questions. No one noticed how he couldn’t sleep. How he’d close his eyes and it would all come back, how he would go from his bed to a pile of rubble in seconds. How he’d hear the world imploding and feel every crack, break, and tear. So he’d sit on his couch and listen to music on his laptop. Or sit on the roof just to feel the breeze that meant he wasn’t under it anymore. Meant he was safe, he was free.
He looked fine. He was always dressed up, whether it be a lawyer suit or a super suit. The clothes skillfully hid his thinning body. His diet of late consisted of air and regret. He could occasionally stomach bland foods, rice or pasta, but the smallest taste of dirt or dust brought it all back. And eating hurt. He didn’t eat for so long when he was under. Now, food was heavy and felt wrong. He subsisted on office coffee and office snacks because the old Matt would eat and drink it, so too must he. Sometimes he’d have to excuse himself and purge his body of the awful weight settling inside him. It wasn’t healthy, but it's not like he could do anything else. Not like he cared, really.
He acted fine. For all intents and purposes, he was Matt Murdock, blind attorney, and Daredevil, badass ninja. He made all the right faces and moved in all the right ways. No one noticed when he’d trip or bump into something, distracted by memories. No one noticed him jump when he heard loud noises, jumping as if that would save him from the walls falling around him, atop him, killing him.
He sounded fine. He was all business, jokes, sarcasm, and growly Devil voice. He was normal. No one noticed if his voice was a bit hoarser from the screaming. From the weak whines that were ripped from him when he finally shut his eyes at night. From the constant quiet words whispered to himself, broken ‘you’re ok’s’ and ‘it's over nows’. He sounded happy and chipper and when he answered the phone he sounded tired as always and not like he’d been crying for the past four hours.
Matt was fine. Everyone but him knew that. He was just a bit behind, that's all. He’d get there. If he kept up the act, if he pretended he was okay, who knows? He might turn out okay. So he’d smile and he’d play his part. He’d be Matt Murdock. He’d be Daredevil. He’d be fine.
He didn’t feel like Matt Murdock. He didn’t feel like Daredevil. He didn’t feel fine.