Matthew Michael Murdock is an immoral sinner. The devil in disguise. Literally.
This, and his, quite honestly contradictory saviour complex combined creates some kind of fucked up need for atonement that almost nothing can satisfy.
But God, he can try.
The bathroom floor is cold, sturdy and slightly damp. The perfect combination to make Matt's skin crawl as he stumbles through the doorway, barely held together by a fresh set of stitches and a bandage or two. His mask hits the floor with a gentle swoosh as he folds into himself, sliding down the wall. Once seated, he gently raises his shirt to feel for damage. He runs his fingers along a few grazes, a couple of slashings from a knife and just one bullet wound, from where he narrowly missed a shot he was almost too exhausted to dodge. Tonight, he had to deal with some tragic cases, young girls being snatched off the streets, a boy, barely five years old, screaming for help, sobbing and wiping his snotty nose all over his sleeves as he begs for Matt to save his dad.
Matt lets out a breath he didn't know he was holding. Only just past three in the morning, too. Seems to be his lucky day. He begins to clean up a bit, carefully washing around his wounds and changing into pyjamas for the night. Just as Matt gets into bed and begins to drift off, he feels eyes on him. He feels the walls closing in. He hears the screams of people he can't help. He hears the whispers of people he just missed. The pleas of women a few streets down who were about to be hurt. I couldn't save them is the only thought that goes through his mind before he starts panicking. He sits up in a cold sweat, listening intently before he realises.
He can't breathe.
Matthew Murdock can't breathe.
He stumbles back out of bed, grabbing for a coat or a jacket or something, for Christ's sake.
He finally lands on a large, heavy trench coat to throw on. As he finishes putting it on, he grabs his cane, glasses and hesitates down the stairs of his building. He barely makes it halfway down before he realises that he can't stand up straight, anymore. Matt, gasping for a single breath, drops down onto the stair he was previously stepping on, tears welling behind his glasses. They fall down his face, and with each one, he forgets more and more why he's crying, to begin with. He gasps, choking out a slight chuckle. Matthew Murdock, The Devil of Hell's Kitchen, Vulnerable and weak, sobbing his heart out on the stairs for a reason that not a soul remembers. The biggest issue as of right now, though, is the screaming all around. The first thought in a while comes. Is my lung collapsed again? Is that why I can't breathe? He can hear much too much, he can feel it, too. Sirens, Hurt children, gunshots, and footsteps. The one thing that he can't hear, though, Is his phone chirping at him, an awkwardly upbeat sound for the situation at hand.
Foggy, Foggy, Foggy.
Foggy, Foggy, Foggy.
Foggy, Fog-
The phone abruptly stops making noise altogether.
Matt lifts himself to his feet, gently making his way back up the stairs, making an effort to stay upright. He couldn't be seen outside after this, so he decides the roof is the next best thing. Each step feels monumental, Like a weight was tied to his shoes. Is this it? Am I dying? or is this just divine retribution?
After some time, and lots of struggling, the lawyer reaches the roof of his building, Missing several more calls in the process. He slumps down against one of the edge walls, letting the breeze cool him down. After about ten minutes, Matt manages to slow down his breathing enough to think. After a few more minutes, he's shaken, but no longer crying, and his heartbeat slows close to normal. And after another minute, Matt begins to fiddle with the coat, finding an almost cylindrical tube in the pocket of this particular one. He pulls it out, recognizing it as his lighter. He doesn't smoke, that's for sure. In fact, it'd be sinful for him to do so. And arguably, what he does use it for could be considered a sin too, but it's just to atone , Matt sighs, flicking it on.
The warmth of the flame soaks into his hands, the only warm thing in this whole building. Slowly and gently, he pulls one arm to another already burn-covered arm, searing a new mark. Matthew inhales hastily, though he's used to worse injuries. He continues this for a minute, bringing one arm to another and burning himself until he's practically fried his nerves and all he can smell is burnt flesh. Each time he inhales slightly, digging his fingernails into his knee. This repeats several times, motivated by a sick sense of 'doing the right thing'. Atonement , he thinks. I can discuss this with Father Lantom if needs be. Although, He knows he won't ever discuss this with him. He won't discuss this with anyone, if he can help it. Unfortunately for him, though, footsteps reach the top of the stairs. Matt hears this too late. He's greeted with a loud cheer from his friend. His friend that got here at the worst possible time.
"Matt! I found you! We were worried sic- What are you doing?!" Foggy stumbles over his words, rushing over to where Matt sits, frozen in place with a flame hovering under his arm. Foggy's heartbeat speeds up to a degree that if Matt were thinking any clearer, would be treated as a genuine medical concern.
Foggy sits down and snatches the object from him. "What are you thinking, Matt?! First you don't answer my calls and now you're doing this to yourself?!" his voice shakes, clearly worried. Matt doesn't respond. He just sits with his arms to his sides, mouth slightly ajar.
Foggy takes his lack of a response as an answer, quickly standing up, brushing himself off, and sticking a hand out towards Matt.
"Come on, Buddy, lets go inside and talk about this." He pauses after a beat or two, realising his mistake. "My hand is out towards you if you wanna take it." Foggy holds his breath. Matt flinches away, but after a few moments of silence, he sighs. Matt takes Foggy's hand and together they re-enter his apartment, slowly making their way to his couch.
They both sit down. Foggy looks around the room for a moment, noting the unusual mess around. Typically, Matt's floors were free of mess, allowing for easy movement around his apartment to prevent any accidental injuries that he really didn't need to be dealing with. Today, though, there were clothes scattered. Foggy notes this as being unusual, but brushes it off and looks out the window. Matt sighs and puts on his best court-room-need-to-be-polite smile. "Sorry about that, Fogs. I'm fine, though. We've got work tomorrow, why don't you head home?"
"Home? Now? That's bullshit and you know it, Pal. What was that, Matty?" Foggy sighs, with a hint of annoyance at Matt's suggestion. "I'm worried, Buddy. That was actually really messed up."
"It was nothing, Foggy. Don't worry. I'm Fine."
Foggy sharply exhales "Like hell you are. Was that some kind of twisted make-up-for-your-sins thing? Why wouldn't you call me? Or even your priest?"
Matt remains silent for a minute or two. He counts Foggy's heartbeats. He thinks, and then he answers.
The smile drops. "It takes a toll, 'daredevilling' and all that comes with it. You've never had to hear their screams. The cries for help. The amount of sirens in this city alone. I have to protect it, Foggy, and I miss so much. I miss people because I'm helping others, how am I meant to decide who's more worth saving? It has to be part of Gods plan, but at the same time, why would he put this task on me? Why would he put the devil inside of me? During the day, I have to walk around as if I didn't just let someone get hurt around this corner, or as if the stench of blood from the dumpster isn't my own. I have to atone, Foggy. I have to make it up to those I couldn't help. The heat...helps manage that. It's like hellfire, in a way, everlasting torment or atonement..." he trails off, his breath hitching from the weight of the confession and leaving Foggy trembling, slightly.
"...That's still not right, Matty." Foggy breathes out.
"It's all I can do to atone for my sins. My mistakes. My devils." A tear rolls down Matt's cheek and he quickly wipes it away, , Sighing once again.
The room is silent for a few seconds too long, and Matt takes the opportunity to stand up and begin walking away from Foggy. Of course, he notices, spinning around to face Matt.
"Where do you think you're going, Matty? After that?" Foggy gets up and begins to walk over.
Matt keeps walking and sighs "Kitchen. Going to make a sandwich. Do you want one?"
"What? No, No, No! You sit down and rest, Pal. You need it, I'll make them. Your usual?"
"I don't need to rest, Foggy, I'll be fine. You've seen the kind of injury I usually deal with, this is nothing." Matt chuckles slightly, his voice slightly raising in tone towards the end.
"No way, Buddy. Have you ever once considered your emotions in this? Go. Sit. I'm making your usual."
Matt hesitates, but gently nods, walking back to the couch, draping his coat over a chair. Foggy makes two sandwiches. One plainer than the other, as to not mess with Matt's senses. The two sit down, eating their sandwiches quietly, not one word shared between them. When they finish, Foggy walks their plates back over to the kitchen. They both sit on the couch, not talking much, putting on a candle not too strong but not too plain, and Foggy begins a new conversation about work the next day. It's not a deep conversation, but it does its purpose of easing some tension between the pair. Shortly after their conversation trails off, Matt becomes comfortable enough to lean slightly on his friend. The two of them sit like that for a while, not saying another word in fear of breaking the fragile calm they'd created, until Matt falls asleep.
Foggy puts out the candle and falls asleep soon after, assured that Matt would be alright, at the very least for tonight. Although it wasn't perfect, he'd come over and make boring sandwiches any day, at any hour if it meant Matt wouldn't do that again. Foggy just wanted him to know he was here, and Matt did. It's not to say he wouldn't ever struggle again, but Foggy was there and his heartbeat was regular and they were alive and safe.