Dark Minds and Darker Places
It was another late night at the office, more by choice than anything else.
Forcing down another microwaved box of so-called food was an unfortunate necessity tonight. This time, it was a turkey dinner with all the fix-ins. The cranberry sauce was more mush than anything truly palatable, but its tangy sweetness was at least a bit better than the watery slop of the lukewarm mashed potatoes.
You cabbed to Matt’s afterward, arriving just a little after 9. You’d texted him earlier to let him know it’d be a late night - just so he wouldn’t worry - and he said he’d leave the door open for you.
Perfect.
And now, back you were at his place, prying the door open with the stealth and silence of a mouse.
As if he doesn’t have laser hearing.
Whatever.
“Matt?” you called out, closing the front door softly behind you. On quiet feet, you approached his living room - from which emanated the soft glow of lamp light, presumably left on for your arrival.
To the ease of your anxious mind, the living room was empty, as was the kitchen, bathroom, and bedroom. You even checked the closet and breathed another sigh of relief when you saw it was all-clear, aside from a few coats, blazers, and storage bins.
Okay.
Time to move.
In a flash, you flew into the bedroom and pulled your suit from your go bag. You promptly stripped out of your work clothes, kicking your shoes and slacks to the side and throwing your hair into a high ponytail with something like fury. Tugging on your suit couldn’t be done quite as fast, but you sure as hell tried.
The workday had led you into a spiraling, heavily-distracting habit of checking the location of Cruz’s phone. It hadn’t moved until today, at which point you’d found its coordinates buried in the depths of some warehouse. You’d thought it to be abandoned, but research and a quick rifle through your Confed Global files found it to be, by extension, owned by a Confed Global subsidiary.
Ambushing Cruz seemed reckless on the surface, sure. But if you could get to him, threaten him somehow - maybe you could find another step closer.
And, in any case, this spiteful feeling rushing through you had grown too intense to take. Rage broiled through you, thunder and lightning wreaking havoc on your body and mind. It was too much to lie in Matt’s bed and stare at the ceiling, to steal a beer and kill time on his couch - too much to do anything but really get rid of this bitter, storming, all-consuming fury.
You had to get it out of you somehow.
What better punching bag, stress ball, complete relief than the very reason for this feeling?
With your mask on, your hair back, and your boots tied tight, you strode on quiet feet back through Matt’s living room, taking a high step over that splintered first step of his staircase as you made your ascent. At the top, you twisted the knob of his door to the roof and, sucking in a breath, stepped outside.
Wind whipped through your hair. It was cold, sharp, bitter - mirroring the ice stretching through your core, your heart. Your narrowed eyes softened, though, as you stepped further onto Matt’s rooftop, shutting the door behind you.
Your lips parted. You couldn’t help but pause as you caught sight of those other buildings, taller and sturdier than this, as they stretched up toward the sky. The shorter ones caught your attention as well, with some small enough that you could leap onto them if you had a running start and superhuman legs. Above all, the view before you was a glowing picture of life, a painting of all things bright and real.
The city buzzed beneath you in the night. Every light around you and below glowed in shades of gold and silver, sparkling out toward the stars in a skyscape of its very own. Buildings twinkled, cars whirred through the streets - it was alive in its own right. Each block was a constellation, matching the constellations in the sky above you, every inch of sparkling light and glowing dark reflecting across the horizon.
The breeze whipped through your hair again, a reminder of your stance, tall and strong on one of many New York rooftops - and, in turn, a reminder that your target tonight was beneath a rooftop of his own.
As beautiful as this vision was, you shut your eyes, a familiar rhythm thrumming bitter and resentful in your chest.
Your throat burned with the screams you’d been shoving down. Tumbling and turning around you, this world was creasing your resolve at the edges, wearing your leather skin thin and frail. It was your job to turn the anger inside into something productive, to create a protective layer over what had been broken and scarred.
You had to do something that would release that tension - something to make you feel like you still had strength left.
Maybe Cruz wasn’t at the center of everything, but he’d gotten in the way. You knew he was the reason this wrench was thrown in your path. And, after everything as of late, you couldn’t take another loss lying down. You thought about this newest invasion on your life, the way Cruz had taken advantage of your moment of weakness, thoughtlessness, desperation, and your nostrils flared with the sharpness of your breath.
But it was your fault.
You took the risk; you made the decision.
It didn’t pay off, and that’s on you.
Your eyes burned as your throat did with the whip of the wind. A hard furrow of your brow sent those guilty thoughts to the back of your psyche.
My fault - whatever.
This is me making amends.
As you tightened your mask and clenched your jaw, stalking toward the top of the fire escape, you thought about Cruz’s entitlement, his god-awful remarks, the way he’d gotten away with everything in his life without so much as a slap on the wrist.
And, most of all, you thought about… making him hurt.
The way he’d hurt you.
You quickened your pace toward the fire escape - and promptly, exasperatedly, slowed at the sound of heavy boots clanking against its rungs. It could have been somebody else, sure, theoretically, but any hope for that was dashed as this man’s black mask and gloved hands lifted up through the darkness, his muscles straining as he lifted himself onto the uppermost ring.
Fuck.
Matt’s half-masked expression was shadowed in the dark as he slowed atop the fire escape. Examining his face more closely where you stood, you caught a subtle frown gracing his lips, and - although you were never unhappy to see him - your face gave a similar, knee-jerk scowl before you placated it into something pleasant, calm.
“Hey,” you offered cautiously. “Okay night?”
Matt didn’t respond right away. He breathed heavily as he hoisted himself up onto the roof, his boots crunching against stray gravel. Scanning his posture across from you, no injuries seemed apparent - though his chest heaved, his shirt seeming to have shifted slightly over his body with whatever movements had been demanded of him on this particular night. He tilted his head, pursed his lips, his voice mixed with a different sort of gravel, coarse and low.
“What are you doing out here?”
Unfortunately, you now knew that this Devil of Hell’s Kitchen had probably heard your stealthy change of clothes and your rush outside through his entire climb up the fire escape.
Maybe even as he jumped over those rooftops.
Can’t believe I thought this would work.
You set your jaw, making your tone as matter-of-fact as possible.
“I’m going out.”
“I guessed as much,” Matt nodded, stalking across the rooftop toward you. “Heard you getting ready.”
You half-smiled, shrugged. “Thanks for warming the streets up for me.”
Matt shook his head in response. His sigh was short, his voice severe.
“I’m not sure going out is such a great idea.”
Matt’s stubbornness and need to ensure you were taken care of was a combination that wasn’t particularly helpful in terms of what you wanted tonight. These feelings were too much to let fester, lying helpless in some plush bed that wasn’t even your own. You had to let it out; you didn’t know how else to handle it.
And you could be stubborn, too.
So, you grit your teeth, your mask of peace fading fast.
“Okay?”
His brow shifted down beneath the mask. “Okay? What does that mean?”
You pursed your lips, offering a shrug to lighten your point, though your skin buzzed with adrenaline.
“I mean, it’s not really your choice whether I go out or not.”
Matt’s lips pressed together. “I’m not saying it is.”
“Well, good. Then I guess I’ll be going.”
You stepped toward Matt, aiming to stride past him, but his gloved hand grabbed your arm. Although you found his touch comforting, right now, it was only getting in your way. You scowled.
“Hey,” he hummed sharply. “What’s going on with you?”
You scoffed, your tone a steel-edged blade, snapping cold across your tongue.
“What do you think?”
The sting of your snap was sharper than you’d intended, and Matt’s head jerked back at the sound of it. You felt a pang of regret at your harshness and lowered your voice - but you weren’t backing down.
“I tracked Cruz to a warehouse. Looks like it’s owned by Confed Global. I don’t know how long he’ll be there, so I need to move fast.” You paused, pointedly eyeing Matt’s hand, still wrapped tight around your bicep. “So, if you could let me do what I need to do, that would be great.”
Matt shifted his jaw. His hand released some of its rigid hold on your arm, but he didn’t move it off you. Instead, he hummed your name, chiding and stern.
“This is the guy who got your apartment broken into, as far as we know,” he reminded you, his voice hard-edged and serious. You watched him with bitter eyes as he seemed to tower over you in his insistence.
As predicted.
“Yeah,” you nodded sharply, “and he’s not just gonna get away with it.”
“It hasn’t even been forty-eight hours.”
“So he won’t be expecting me. Even better.”
A harsh sigh coursed through Matt, and he lowered his voice, careful in his tone.
“I don’t want anything else happening to you.”
Your nose twitched, but your voice remained cold.
“I’m not your responsibility.”
You tugged your arm out of Matt’s grip. His head twitched at your movement, though something in his frowning lips softened.
No matter.
Priorities.
With not so much as another word, you stormed toward the fire escape, expecting Matt to follow. You lifted your hands to place them on the uppermost metal rails of this top ladder, the steel surface slightly rusted with years of rain and storm and use. Gripping the rail filled your weak-feeling arms with something more purposeful than you’d been able to feel as of late.
But, even with your path free and open before you - you paused.
Your fingers tightened and released on the railing, and after a begrudging sigh, you turned your head.
Matt stood back, a few feet away from you. His stance was just as strong as always, that black suit hugging tightly into his firm body and all its hardiness. The stars above and the city in the distance contrasted with his dark form in the night. His frown had faded, though his breaths came low and controlled.
“What?” you asked shortly. Matt didn’t say anything, remaining still, his thick chest rising and steadily falling. You tried again, one of your hands slipping from the railing.
“I’m sure you understand why I need to do this, Matt,” you continued, turning further toward him. “He can’t think he can hurt me and just… move on.”
Matt shifted his jaw. “He’ll get what’s coming to him.”
“Yeah. Tonight.”
“No,” Matt shook his head. “No. You don’t need to do that. I’ll go out if it’s that important.”
Now that was an offer you hadn’t been prepared to shove off. Your other hand fell from the railing as you stepped toward Matt, the shake of your head something fierce.
“Absolutely not. This is not your fight.”
“Isn’t it? He’s Confed Global, and Confed Global is Fisk. Fisk is mine, too.”
“But you don’t need to be drawn into this specific part. I’m on Cruz’s radar. You’re not.”
Matt set his jaw. “All the more reason for you to go back inside.”
Another breeze shot through your hair as your hands flew up to cup your eyes. Matt didn’t so much as react to your exasperation. He just stood there observing you in all his tall, dark, vigilante righteousness, outrageously calm.
Ridiculous.
I mean, he went out tonight.
And I can handle myself.
He knows that.
You pulled your hands back down to your sides, clenching and unclenching your fists as you shaped your voice into some attempt at unimpeachable reason.
“He needs to know he can’t hurt me.”
“No, he doesn’t,” Matt retorted, not missing a beat. You stood stiff as he took a slow step toward you, boots crunching over gravel. His voice was still low, still cautious. “Hitting back doesn’t always mean you win.”
Your eyes rolled of their own volition.
Really, Matt?
You, of all people - you’re gonna tell me that hitting back doesn’t matter?
The breeze twirled through the back tie of Matt’s mask. It flipped in the wind, light and changeable, in contrast with his stern, unrelenting stance. Your eyes drifted down Matt’s shirt - cleaner than usual, for after being out - and your gaze caught on his hands. They were stiff at his sides, and you were sure he was aching to ice them, wrap their battered skin in gauze - do something to calm the pain you were sure they held.
With a sharp breath, you narrowed your eyes, stepping toward Matt in just as predatory of a manner as you’d stepped toward any target.
“Let me see your hands,” you hummed.
Matt tipped his head, his brow shifting as you approached him slowly.
“One, both, doesn’t matter,” you breathed, each syllable more lilting than the last. You took another step, this one bringing you just inches from Matt, and your gaze fell to those hands, gloved in leather and now twitching with tension. A few streaks over the leather caught your eye, and your lips pursed. “Either way, they’re bloody and bruised, right?”
Matt’s mouth curved out in confusion and a twinge of offense. “What are you getting at?”
A shrug lifted your shoulders as if you simply had no idea whatsoever of what stitches you were picking at.
Not out of cruelty.
I just need him to understand.
“With the amount of suffering you witness,” you murmured, breathy and blithe, “does it make you feel better to give them what they deserve?” Matt’s nose twitched as he frowned, but you only narrowed your eyes, cold and calculating. “Does it make you feel better to hurt them back?”
At that, Matt shook his head, his lip curling. You could sense the glare in his eyes, even through the mask.
“Don’t shame me.”
Nerve struck… a little harder than intended.
Oops.
“I am not shaming you,” you insisted, shaking your head. Veins cold, colder in the wind, your words came with rising heat, rising insistence, rising volume and pitch. “I’m explaining why you, of all people, should understand.”
Matt wasn’t convinced.
“I don’t do it because I want them to hurt.”
You tilted your head with narrowed, spitting eyes as you leaned toward him.
“Are you sure about that?”
Tension rippled over Matt’s jaw, straining his neck in a half-beat. You disregarded it.
“If giving them what they deserve isn’t the reason why you put on the mask, then why do you do it?”
He shifted his jaw to speak, and you cut him off harshly.
“And don’t give me that making-the-world-a-better-place bullshit. I want a real answer.”
Another shift of the jaw, and Matt did speak - but without any of the sort of speech you were looking for.
“Trying to go after Cruz tonight will only hurt you more.” He leaned toward you, reaching for your hand. “You’re vulnerable right now, and-“
“You’re avoiding the question, Matt,” you chided, low and controlled as you angled your body to the side to avoid his touch. Matt stiffened and pulled back - and although another pang danced through your chest, you remained stoic. This conversation couldn’t just be solved with an embrace and some sweet words of bullshit reassurance.
Matt sighed, his tongue darting over his lips.
“I want to protect people. Protect the city. You know that.”
You raised your brows, and his nostrils flared, his stiff form twitching in the dark glow of the New York night. His voice, though, gained an edge.
“If evil people end up hurt because the vulnerable ones need protection, then sure. It happens. It’s a consequence, but it’s not the reason,” Matt semi-spat. He took a step toward you, his stance not threatening but not showing any display of restraint or compromise. “Who are you protecting by going after Cruz right now? Because it sure as hell isn’t you, nor could it be anyone else.”
Wow.
The air ran cold, but not as cold as your blood at Matt’s haunting statement. Something in your expression twitched. Your voice fell low, lost its fight in the dark.
“Don’t do that. Don’t- don’t do that.”
Of course, you were protecting people. Who knows who else Cruz could hurt? For all you knew, he was about to hurt someone else tonight, about to throw another unsuspecting victim into the sharp-edged jaws of Wilson Fisk.
This… going after Cruz tonight… would help someone, surely.
And I’m protecting myself by going after him.
You frowned at Matt, your brows drawing together as you twisted your lips.
Right?
“All I’m trying to do is talk to you,” he expressed tensely, “and hopefully get you to talk to me.” Matt’s clenching jaw relaxed, and he breathed out as you seemed to grow more tense - muscles twitching in your neck, your own jaw clenching. His expression softened. “About how you’re really feeling.”
Your expression remained just as harsh.
“Are you looking down on me? For wanting to go after him?”
He frowned, his voice stern, though soft. “You think I think less of you?”
You opened your mouth to respond, but no words really came.
“I… don’t know.”
Matt’s jaw shifted, and he ran his tongue out along his lower lip. The dark sky and its artificially-lit horizon formed a soft backdrop to his mix of tensions toward you - some of it stubbornness and exasperation in the flickers over his jaw, and some of it… concern. His brow furrowed, the shape of their curve showing you that beneath the mask, his eyes were lit up with something hearteningly sympathetic. This sympathy worked its way into his words, their tone quiet, clear, ringing out like some all-too-perceptive bell.
“Do you think less of yourself?”
Caught on a half breath, you stilled in your swirling rage, lips split apart beneath your mask.
These bitter feelings you carried weren’t new. They ebbed and flowed through the different seasons of your life, brought forth by varying triggers and the ever-shifting nature of time. Dealing with them was the hardest part, and you’d found different outlets over the years - but the nature of your shadow life had drawn you toward revenge more times than was necessarily favorable.
You convinced yourself it was worth it, that it was right, in the grand scheme. This worked in the beginning, and after a certain point, no convincing was necessary anymore. You were in too deep to take back what you’d already done, too far gone to return to a sense of normalcy - whatever normal even was.
But some days, in the throes of work exhaustion and sunrise nightmare recovery, you’d take a harder look at who you were. Some nights, where moonlight and strife of the past weighed heavily on your aching shoulders, you collapsed into yourself and into darkness on the way - not only from the pressure of what was done to you… but the thought that maybe, just maybe, your choices counted for more than just revenge.
Maybe you were exactly the sort of monster your tormentors wanted you to be.
And, worst of all, the thought that plagued you under every light of the sun through that of the moon: maybe being that way was what you wanted.
With your body stilled into silence, your fingers twitched at your sides, and you bit at the inside of your cheek. You could feel deep lines forming at the bridge of your brows, and your nose twitched as if these deep lines were beginning to cut painfully through to your eyes in the hopes of drawing either blood or tears, whichever comes first.
A million flecks of hurt and anger and feelings of weakness sputtered through your head, pounding against your skull from all sides, some ricocheting at just the right angle to catapult straight into your chest. These insecurities stabbed at your heart in the darkness, worse than a bullet wound.
In your spiraling discontent, your eyes had fallen away from Matt’s prying expression. Your sputtering focus drifted down to his knotted boots and the specks of gravel surrounding them on the gray concrete. The line of your sight flitted back to his door, to the edge of his rooftop, and out to the city skyline at Matt’s back.
Maybe I do.
Maybe I do think less of myself.
How could I not?
Finally, warily, you lifted your eyes again to where his would be beneath the mask.
After a subtle clench of his jaw, Matt shook his head slowly, taking one step, then two, then three toward you. He spoke to you with all the insistence he ever had.
“I don’t think less of you for being human.”
Your brows drew up. Something in your heart cracked, and that fiery passion all but flowed out and away from your body. In its wake, it left a wavy, watery emptiness, shaky as though you were hollow all the way through to your bones.
Matt took another wary step, drawing up to stand less than a foot in front of you. Your eyes, glazed in a worthless attempt at stifling your rising tide of emotion, fell to the collar of his shirt. It traced over each stitch as if you were counting the threads in the black fabric. Hyper-focusing on every detail you could process, your gaze flew to those thin lines of crimson on either side of his pecs, the barely-there thread almost imperceptible in its scarlet color amongst all the rest of the dark.
He was warm in front of you and smelled like smoke. You couldn’t draw your eyes away from that collar of his shirt - but your breath hitched as you felt his gloved hands reach yours.
You didn’t protest, didn’t so much as flinch or twitch as Matt slowly, carefully, lifted your hands in front of you. The movement finally drew your eyes away from his shirt, and you watched him move your weak limbs as if they didn’t even belong to you. Matt turned your palms to the sky, holding them out like a tabletop before gingerly placing his palms against yours. Somewhat confused, your gaze finally lifted to his mask. His lips parted, words sure.
“Look at my hands.”
With no real reason not to, you did as you were told. Matt’s gloves somehow matched well with yours, the black of shadows and the color of the midnight sky. His hands lay relaxed, and, for the second time, you noticed those streaks over his knuckles, his fingers. It was blood, no doubt; whether that blood belonged to him or someone else was another question, hardly relevant. Where blood was drawn, it was inevitably given, and vice versa.
Your gaze hardened at the sight of this blood, knowing that beneath the leathery fabric, his knuckles had to be bruised, scabbing, scraped. Glassy-eyed, static in your lungs, you felt tension knot back into your neck. Matt dipped his head slightly, interrupting the feeling and forcing you to look once more toward his eyes beneath the mask.
His words, whispery and vulnerable, offered more understanding than you’d ever hoped to hear.
“I’m just as human as you are.”
That only drew more glass into your burning eyes. Matt dipped his head further and shifted his grasp to fully grip your hands. His thumbs and fingers wrapped tight, strength to your weakness, gloves pressing into gloves as his forehead touched yours.
“Come inside with me.”
Your lips twitched, and Matt sighed, his mask pressing hotly against your skin, the flow of his words something warmer in the cold wind.
“Please.”
Everything around you swirled, meaningless and blurred at the edges. With your anger gone, your exhaustion had room to crawl back through you. Any lingering shreds of rage morphed slowly into a pitiful, jarring sense of despair, weakness - sadness. Even standing on this rooftop felt like too much, your knees weak at Matt’s words.
You shut your eyes and slowly nodded against his forehead.
Matt released a long, low breath. Another breeze cut through you as his fingers twisted around to link through yours. He straightened, his forehead parting from yours, but you gripped tight against his hands before he could step back from you. Matt paused as you stood frozen, waving in the cold wind, shrinking beneath a dark sky.
There was only time for you to catch the outline of Matt’s brow raising before you split your hands from his and all but fell forward, wrapping your arms tightly around his neck.
Matt’s chest rose and fell against yours, his arms curling tight around your waist, warm in the wind. You felt stiff, stony, but you needed something to hold onto.
You needed him.
One of his hands slid up your back, drifting up and down all slow and sure. It was all you could do to keep breathing - your breaths being as shaky as they were - and Matt knew this, not pausing the comforting stroke of his hand even for a second. You tugged a trembling lip between your teeth, blinking hard.
“Hey, hey,” Matt coaxed, calm in your ear. “You’re okay. You’re okay.”
You were spiraling in every direction, up and down, left and right, sky and sea, through every possible depth. But Matt - Matt was holding you to the ground, stopping your soul from splintering away.
I do look down on myself.
I hate myself for what I do, for what I want. I hate how little I seem to care about it.
But Matt, he’s… still here.
A rope on its last strands of solid string, your resolve finally snapped -
- and you fell to pieces in his arms.
Matt held you tighter as your knees buckled, your face dipping hard against the crook of his neck and shoulder, wetting his skin and his shirt with hot tears. With how helplessly frail your legs had become, it was Matt holding you up. It was Matt holding you to him as you held him to you, Matt pressing his reassurance into you from every angle - Matt, stoic and compassionate and nothing you deserved.
“I want to hurt him,” you hissed into Matt’s neck, your tears fiery. “I want to hurt him until he knows how much I’m hurting, and then some.”
Matt didn’t so much as react, his hold on you just as tight, just as tender. Your words spilled out over your lips in steaming rage and anguish, a near-thoughtless stream of consciousness that you couldn’t stop.
“I want to hurt Stick, Wesley, Fisk. I want to hurt Scarface. I want to hurt my dad.” Matt didn’t know all the names, all the reasons, but he didn’t ask. He only kept you tucked against him, patient as you sobbed and spat, your heart throbbing in your misery. You sniffed, your eyes narrowing, the wrap of your arms growing tighter around his neck and shoulders.
“I want them to understand what they’ve done to me.” Your breath hitched, voice strong for what you felt were all the wrong reasons. “I want to be just as terrible as them so they know how it feels to be treated so terribly.”
Still no reaction from Matt. Only care and kindness and… and it burned you. It burned you to your core that he wouldn’t call you out, wouldn’t fight you on these feelings, wouldn’t tell you how horrible of a person you were for all of those dark, awful thoughts. You glowered at his neck, shaking in bewilderment at his patience.
“Why are you still holding me?”
Matt only sighed. He somehow gripped you tighter.
“Why would I let go?”
Now that just sent another racking sob through you. You hiccuped, and Matt held to you still, all your weight pretty much in his arms at this point. Gently, softly, Matt slid his arms up to your shoulders and gripped them, pressing you back just an inch so you’d look at his face. And you did, blinking at him through tear-covered lashes.
“I said I wanted to know you, didn’t I?” He whispered. “All of you. And what was it you said about me taking you for all that you are?”
You scoured your mind, your memory diving back to that night in the tunneling underground of the city where you’d held each other in golden emergency lighting, injured and bleeding and heart-wrenchingly honest.
“I said,” you sniffed, licking your lips. “I said… you have to be able to do it at all times. No exceptions.”
Matt nodded. His sincerity almost stung you with how powerfully genuine it was.
“No exceptions.”
You eyed him in disbelief for a moment - the certain shape of his lips, the slight raise of his brows beneath the mask, earnestness painted through every inch of his skin. A half-laugh escaped you, marred slightly by your hoarse voice and stuffy nose. “This doesn’t count as a worthy exception?”
Matt smiled, drifting his thumbs over your shoulders before placing one at the side of your cheek, wiping away the line of your tears. “Not even a little.”
Smiling against his hand, you shook your head. “You’re crazy.”
“Well, dressed like this, I probably look like it,” Matt shrugged, his hands on you relaxing. You shrugged back.
“Maybe just a bit.”
Matt gasped jokingly. Pulling his hand off your face, he placed the other on the small of your back to lead you toward the door. It sent electric calm through your body, just as his light, teasing words did. “You’re not supposed to say that.”
“Crazy can still look good, you know.”
“Nope,” Matt countered as the two of you walked back toward his door. With your steps, you lifted your hand to rest it against Matt’s back, and you could hear the smile in his voice. “No backtracking. My heart is already shattered.”
“Is it, really?”
“In pieces. On the ground.”
“Well, then, I am deeply sorry,” you joked back. “You look fantastic. And totally not crazy. Is that better?”
Matt turned to you, his grin lazy as he held the door open. “You think I look fantastic?”
Rolling your eyes, you swatted at his chest and stepped inside. Matt followed, still grinning as he shut the door behind you.
Two half-empty bottles of beer sat to your left as Matt’s kitchen tap flowed out warm water before you. Matt stood on your right, and all four black and blue gloves lay strewn over the countertop - along with a clean white towel, a small jar of antibiotic ointment, and both of your masks.
Taking Matt’s hands, you examined the scabbing of his knuckles, the dried streaks of blood down his fingers. You set your jaw and placed his right hand under the slow stream of clear water, stroking gently over his injuries as blood faded away and down the drain.
“What was tonight?” You asked, keeping your focus on his hand to look for any noticeable breakage of the skin. It helped your weary heart, having something to take care of.
Something, or someone?
“Seemed like every last mugger was out on the town,” Matt remarked, relaxing his hand as you rinsed off the blood. “Caught up with four.”
“Jesus.”
“Yeah,” he nodded grimly, wincing slightly where your thumb nicked over a fresh slit in one of his knuckles. “Least they won’t be mugging anyone else for a while.”
You nodded, brows raised. “And you made sure everyone was safe?”
“Of course. Always my last check before I come back.”
Pulling Matt’s hand out of the stream of water, you grabbed the towel and dabbed it over his skin. You paid careful attention to that new slice, a result of leftover scabbing that had just been knocked a bit too hard.
“Honorable as always.”
Your gaze flicked up to Matt, who smiled.
“I try.”
With his right hand dry, you grabbed the ointment and dabbed it across the scabbing, over the fresh slice in his knuckle. Matt flexed and released his hand as you reached for the left one. Tugging it toward the sink turned Matt’s body to face yours head-on, and you felt yourself blush as you pulled his fingers beneath the water, suddenly hyperaware of the size of his hands.
Cleaning the red off his skin proved to be relatively easy. You still took your time, drifting your fingertips over the rough and delicate patches of his hand with careful examination. This one had less blood but more bruising, and you tried your best not to press too hard at those areas which seemed brighter in their injured coloring.
Your urge to look up at Matt was strong, but you denied it. Your mind was in another place, mulling over discussions past and present between you, morality and all. Shifting your jaw, you made the questioning statement matter-of-factly, your brows having knit together.
“You’ve never killed anyone.”
Matt’s head tilted at the unexpected turn of the conversation. A beat, and he spoke.
“No.”
“Do you have a reason why?”
You could feel Matt frowning in confusion and quickly clarified.
“I mean, not that it isn’t wrong, obviously. I’m just curious.” You rubbed your thumb against a stubborn streak of blood atop the knuckle of his index finger. “Sometimes people have deeper reasoning for this stuff.”
Matt’s arm shifted against yours as he spoke.
“I believe in justice. I also believe in redemption.” He took a breath. “I’m not in this to cross that line.”
“Right,” you nodded, turning off the tap and reaching for the towel. “The whole ‘second-chances’ thing, I remember. Also very honorable of you.”
As you dabbed Matt’s left hand dry, your eyes flicked back up to his, which smiled in something entertained, lighter. He tilted his head to the side, eyes crinkling. “It’s the Catholicism.”
“You’re Catholic?”
“Born and raised.”
You pursed your lips, giving a pointed stare toward Matt’s hand as you slicked a thin layer of ointment over the spots that needed it. “Well, you better ask your big guy in the sky for a week off. Or a month off. You need it.”
As you turned to place the towel and the now-closed jar of ointment back on the counter, Matt shrugged. “I’m content with trusting the old plan for now.”
You eyed Matt’s subtle grin as you lifted your beers, handing him his. His fingers brushed yours as he took the bottle.
“And why’s that?”
“Well, if God gave me a week off, I wouldn’t get to end up in these situations with you.”
A moment of warmth knocked your conscious mind back a few steps before you snorted.
“Sure, you would. You’d be rested enough to give me all the stitches in the world.” You rolled your shoulders back, wincing at how tight they felt. “And a massage, while you’re at it.”
Matt shrugged and tilted his head, mischief in his sparkling eyes.
“Just shoulders, or full body?”
“Matt.”
“What?” He laughed, falsely offended, as you stepped around him with an equally false glare. “It’s true. I’d have time.”
Striding around Matt and over to his couch, you shook your head, swirling your beer. “You’re ridiculous.” Matt’s footsteps were quick to follow you.
“You know, most people use the term ‘charming.’”
Another shake graced your head as you sat down. Matt took the other end of the couch, relaxing into it with a long, smirking swig of his drink. You narrowed your eyes.
“You’re right. I shouldn’t say ridiculous. I should say you’re insufferable.”
“Uh-huh,” Matt licked his lips, unconvinced. “Didn’t seem like you felt that way this morning.”
Your face grew flushed, but you pasted on an unknowing, innocent smile. “I was just using the body heat to my advantage. You’re warm. I was probably cold.”
“You didn’t feel cold, curled into my chest like that.”
Another wave of blush over your cheeks, another roll of your eyes, another unsuccessfully-stifled smile.
“That’s the thing about heat, Matt. It transfers.” You lifted your beer to take a sip but paused before it hit your lips, whispering to Matt in a teasing, chiding tone. “This is why you’re a lawyer and not a scientist.”
“Ouch,” Matt gasped. You smiled into the mouth of the beer bottle, but Matt wasn’t fazed, only shifting slightly in his seat as he swirled his drink - his words just as light as yours.
“You know, trying to sneak out of my apartment when you know I can hear you wasn’t too smart, either. Especially since it’s happened twice now.” You shot your gaze to Matt, whose nose wrinkled up, lip curling lightly. “Not very FBI of you.”
“Hey. That’s usually my best skill.”
“Emphasis on usually.”
Raising your eyebrows, you tugged your legs up onto the couch, shifting to face Matt fully. His brows raised back before relaxing, the tone of his voice lower than before.
“Hey, it’s okay. I don’t mind catching you.” You tilted your head, and Matt smiled. “Especially when it means I can get you to stay.”
Lips closed, you ran your tongue along your teeth, cheeks dimpling.
“Hm.”
“Hm.”
The two of you each took another swig of the beer. You pulled a face as you drew the bottle from your lips.
“Ever thought of spending all your lawyer money on better beer?”
Matt half-scoffed, half-laughed.
“Yeah, all my lawyer money from either inadvertently working for Fisk or working for his victims. I would also argue that it’s more of a ‘lack thereof’ than anything else.”
“At the very least,” you hummed, “that Fisk case could pay for something that doesn’t taste like piss.”
Matt’s jaw dropped. “Why does everyone say that about my beer?”
“Probably because it’s true.”
He shook his head, taking a pointed gulp of his drink as you raised your brows, smiling. “Must be my tastebuds. More refined than yours - that would explain it.”
“Or it’s just bad beer, and you’re too stubborn to admit it.”
Matt hung his head, the movement exaggerated. You giggled in your seat, and he lifted his head to face you with a grin. He ran his tongue along the inside of his cheek, eyes drifting up toward your face, vibrant and relaxed.
“I’m gonna grab a shower. Promise you won’t disappear on me?”
Your eyes flashed, then twinkled, your river of heartache steadied toward a different course by way of Matt’s kindness.
“Even if I tried, you’d hear me leave and come running.”
Matt nodded his head to the side, lips pursing downward. “And then I’d bring you right back, you’re right. So try, or don’t. Either way, you’ll end up back here.”
You laughed. “Is that a challenge?”
“God, I hope not. Don’t need any more challenges tonight,” Matt breathed, the sound of it closer to a groan as he lifted himself off the couch, placing his bottle on the floor - since he no longer had a coffee table. As he stepped away from the couch, he gestured to the drink. “Feel free to finish my beer. I know how much you like it.”
Again, you laughed, shaking your head.
How does he make me laugh so easily?
“Making me sound ungrateful.”
“Because you are,” Matt called out jokingly as he grabbed a change of clothes from his room. “Best beer on the market, Miss Instant Coffee.”
“That was uncalled for,” you called back, eyeing Matt’s grin as he stepped toward the bathroom.
“Yeah, yeah.” He waved a hand dismissively in your direction, placing his clothes on the bathroom counter. “You like bad coffee, I like shitty alcohol. I’d say we’re even.”
You twisted your lips, your eyes sparkling with mischief, the perfect response bubbling to the surface.
“Maybe I’ll just have to buy you a real drink sometime.”
At that, Matt paused. He turned to you, lifting an arm to rest it against the doorframe. Still in that tight black shirt, his bicep strained out thicker than you’d seen it before, and your mind fell all fizzy as the lift of his arm stretched his torso in a way that perfectly showcased the dips of every inch of his muscled front. Matt’s brows raised nearly all the way up into his boyishly mussed hair, and you tilted your head, fighting the urge to clear your throat.
“It’s only fair, after the coffee.”
Your breaths were shallow at the sight of Matt standing like that. There was a hitch in the air around and between you, all frozen and still and waiting, before Matt’s lips quirked up, his grin strong and bright.
“I’ll hold you to that.”
Nothing else came to you but a grin wider than Matt’s as you felt a blush run over your cheeks. With a final shine of his smile toward you, he shut the door, leaving you alone in his living room with nothing but your smile and his drink.
It was a peaceful feeling, this sense overcoming you on the couch.
Despite its bitter, unpleasant flavor, you took another sip of your beer, smiling into the bottle. You couldn’t help but buzz with how glad you were that Matt hadn’t let you go - and that, despite your fears and your repressed difficulty accepting yourself, his promise of no exceptions rang - so far - perfectly true.