red threads
one—
Matthew Murdock is feeling everything that day. Trying to breathe through bruised ribs underneath his suit. Feeling the sutures threaded across his skin, aching to heal, fresh from a fight. He’s managed to get through the day though, Clinton Church his last stop before he meets Karen & Foggy at Josie’s.
He feels your presence too, sitting at the last row of pews.
There. Always there.
two—
Matt sits closer today. A couple of rows in front of you.
You’re humming a song. An old hymn. It’s broken, unsure — as though you only remember fragments of it, only humming your favorite bits a little more confidently. Like you haven’t done this in a long time.
He listens, until you take your leave.
three —
You come by Clinton Church a little later than usual.
Everything about you seemed to scream haggard and stressed. The light almond perfume he can sense over the cups and cups of coffee you’ve consumed that day. You smell sweet. Like madeleines. Delicious, almost. He pauses his train of thought, afraid where it may lead to. So he focuses on something else. Like every exhausted step you take on your block heels growing closer and closer to him. The pew shifts as you sit in the same row as him, a heavy sigh leaving you.
‘Long day?’ he asks. Matt can’t help it. He can perceive a lot of things. But his heightened senses can’t exactly let him read minds.
‘Shitty day.’ You tell him, not even missing a beat. A strange thrill buzzes over him when he finally hears your voice. One that he wonders sounded like out loud. Your fingers graze your lips, an apology uttered under your breath. ‘I’m in the house of God. I shouldn’t be speaking profanities.’
‘It’s just the two of us.’ Matt says, reassuring. ‘I think God would forgive you.’
‘Do I have to kneel on this little thing and say sorry?’ The square toe of your loafer nudges the folding kneeler. ‘It’s been awhile.’
He hums. ‘You’re here often though, aren’t you?’
‘Aren’t you perceptive?’ you say. ‘No, I meant it’s been awhile… Going to Mass and all of that.’
‘Catholic?’
‘Used to be.’
‘You’re hanging around a church because…?’
He can hear your heartbeats quicken at the question. You shrug, not even looking at him once.
‘It’s a secret.’
four—
He learns your name today.
He repeats it, in his head, as he walks back to his apartment from the church.
Your name, as he steps over the body of an unconscious burglar he just subdued.
Your name, as he stalks off the alley in the middle of the night, the rhythm of his steps and his punches caught with every syllable of your name, as he repeats it over and over and over again.
five—
Your laugh vibrates across the wooden pews, melding with his, when a joke is said. Loud. Precocious. He doesn’t remember who started it. Someone a couple of rows away shushes the two of you, your joy interrupting prayers and meditation of others. But you carry on. Your mirth turns into snorts and Matt laughs even louder at the thought of you making sounds like this.
You unconsciously lean into him through stifled laughter behind the palm of your hand, the curve of your shoulder digging into his very bruised bicep.
Matt doesn’t mind.
six—
‘My gran would’ve loved you.’ you tell him that blistery Thursday afternoon, fanning yourself with your folding wooden fan, the faint breeze carrying over you and Matt. ‘She’d come to Clinton’s every Sunday with her friends, wearing their lacy little veils over their heads. Genuflecting and shit.’
‘Genuflecting?’
‘Oh, you know what it means, altar boy.’ Matt grins at the little nickname, far wider than he should. He bites back the urge to flirt. And fails.
’Are you wearing a lacy little veil now?’
You laugh, fanning even harder at his direction. Matt can almost feel himself melting on the sidewalk from the New York heatwave on the way to church, so your kind gesture is a godsend.
‘Veils? In the summer? Hell no.’
You reach inside your bag, handing an extra fan to him. He takes it and unfolds the fan, fanning you instead of himself. You stifle your laughter at his action.
‘So you just carry little wooden fans with you wherever you go?’
‘My aunties carried it everywhere we’d go. To Mass. To family get-togethers. Gran too. They’re long gone but I have theirs with me. Always.’
’They’re really beautiful.’ he comments, his fingertips running across the narrow bamboo panels, intricate carvings on each slat.
‘Keep it.’ you insist. ‘Gonna save you from this heatwave.’
‘I’ll bring you a veil next time. As thanks.’
’Not on your life.’
‘Your grandmother would probably love to see you wearing a veil.’
Laughter escapes your lips. ’Oh, she would. She’d probably be so proud of me too…’ you go on. ‘Fanning a handsome Catholic boy in church on a summer's day.’
Handsome—
‘Oh God,’ you groan immediately. It looks like he’s too late to hide the apparent amusement in his face. ‘Don’t let that comment go to your head.’
seven—
‘You’re missing a button.’ you say.
You come into Clinton Church together with him this time, after running into Matt while you were on a quick coffee run that morning. The two of you sit on the last row of pews as usual. Closer than usual.
Your hand shyly runs through the hem of his ironed shirt, pressing on where one of the button’s supposed to be sewn into.
‘Want me to fix it? It’ll only take awhile.’
Matt smiles, nodding in your direction. Your hand takes his shirt cuff, placing his forearm over your thighs. You dig through your bag, one that contains so many things and surprises for him, pulling a small, weathered pouch and setting it beside you.
‘Your co-workers aren’t going to take you seriously. Not with that missing button on your cuff.’
‘Very unprofessional, I admit, for a lawyer.’
‘Ah, what kind?’ you go on, curious. ‘The soulless kind?’
‘The broke kind.’
‘Explains the missing button.’
‘Can you explain the sewing kit?’
‘Ah, perceptive as usual. Well, you should thank Home Ec at the all girls Catholic school I studied at. Taught us how to sew our own aprons, embroider flowers, darn a sock… Cook basic things. I am—well, was the picture of domesticity. But I like embroidery the most. Couldn’t shake it off, even when I got older. So here we are.’
‘Darn a sock?’ He grins, listening as you zip open the pouch, scattering everything in your sewing kit on the space between you and Matt.
‘Mmhmm. Nuns made me darn the fuck out of a sock.’
Matt laughs, something about you muttering profanities inside the church makes everything lighter. Comfortable, even. He sends a quick prayer, unsure whether to ask forgiveness for you or to thank God that your presence in the space between his life, his job and all the fighting… Being beside you brings him the most comfort.
‘Hey. Mind if I use a red thread? Only one I have with me.’
‘That’s perfect.’
You’re a ball of concentration, quiet and thoughtful, studying his undone cuff, running a finger where the missing button’s supposed to be. And then towards… The bruises on his left hand. Then across the specks of dried blood over his knuckles. Your hands are so soft, so gentle around his wrist as though you’re picking up a fragile baby bird, your thumb going across where the back of his hand and wrist meet. Matt senses something catches at your throat as you look at it.
‘You okay?’ You ask, your voice small but concerned. Matt smiles at your direction, and for some reason, that’s enough.
‘Good. Sit still. Don’t want this needle poking through your arm.’
‘I am a very delicate man.’
‘Oh, hush.’
You push the thread through the eye of the needle, biting the end off with your teeth and making a tiny knot at the tip with your thumb and your index finger. Matt eases into the wooden pew, listening… You’re humming that song again as you make work of his shirt.
‘What is that? It sounds familiar.’
‘My gran’s favourite hymn.’ You whisper. You move his hand closer to your face, inspecting your unfinished project. Matt feels your hot breaths against his skin, suffusing warmth all over his body, melting away whatever walls he’s put up.
’She couldn’t sing her way out of a box, bless her soul. So I do all the singing now. For her. Even if she can’t hear me.’
Even if she's gone.
‘I think it’s lovely.’
‘It is a beautiful song.’ you agree.
‘You have a beautiful voice.’ Matt corrects. And you fall silent. Embarrassed? Nervous at the compliment? He can’t make it out. At least, not right now, when his own heartbeat’s catching up to yours. You’re already done with the button but you’re still sewing away. Quiet, still. Matt’s fingertips hesitantly graze the outline of your wrist, and your hands pause.
‘What are you doing with my shirt?’
‘It’s a secret.’ You say it with so much lightness, that cheeky little laugh of yours filling the air.
Matt’s hand moves softly over yours. ‘Come on. Let me feel it.’
Your breath hitches at his touch, relinquishing your grasp on the cuff of his shirt.
‘Sorry. Got carried away.’ You mumble at him, as he feels your secret embroidery work underneath his fingertips. He runs his index finger across it, once, twice. It’s a—
‘Heart.’ he whispers. It’s tiny and neatly stitched, red threads he assumed, forming a tiny heart just below the button of his shirt cuff.
‘Y-yeah.’ You stammer suddenly, clamming up around him once he realises what you’ve done. The rhythm of your heartbeat changes, just as frantic as his. ‘I thought it would be cute. Your heart… On your sleeve. Nice little assurance to your clients that you’re not a heartless lawyer in the city just out for their money.’
‘Anyway, I’m turning your shirt into an arts & crafts project, when I should really just be mending a button.’
'No, it’s fine.’ He rests his forearm back on your thighs, letting you finish your work. He smiles at the thought, at the small gesture. Of meeting you, and the little things you say and do.
‘I like it.’
He angles his knee in your direction this time, closing the distance between you. You press back, the weight of your knee against his. Your hand hovers over his palm for a couple of moments, hesitating, wondering. Before you let your fingers intertwine with his, hand folding over yours.
‘I like it too.’