oedipisms

Three months, it’s been.

Three months and eleven days since Wade let his guard down. Since he let Matt slip through his fingers.

Since he put a bullet through the skull of the piece of shit who nearly took Matt away.

Three months of innumerable guilt-ridden apologies. Three months of Matt stoically ignoring the massive, ineluctable elephant in the room.

The first of those months was spent in hospitals and rehab institutes. After the initial shock wore off, Matt had been chomping at the bit to get out. To get back to normal. To remove himself from the legions of the sick and the damned that only he could sense around him. For those first couple of weeks, Wade had been forced to keep a constant vigil on whatever room Matt was being housed in lest he make a break for a window or an emergency exit and kill himself in the process.

And then the physical therapy kept getting stalled out because Matt would push himself so far past his limits that he’d end up breaking or straining or tripping over himself.

Fuckin’ pile of med bills higher than Matt’s remaining law school debt. Fuckin’ healthcare system, fuckin’ Red’s inability to deal with his shit, fuckin’ rent on the apartment’s getting harder to pay every month. Wade’s been unable to travel for jobs, and there are only so many hits to be ordered in New York City in a given day. Weasel’s taken to assigning him a “gold card ceiling” so that Wade doesn’t run the rest of the Hell House’s clientele off.

Two months of Matt back at home and pissed at all the world and sunk into a depression deeper than the Mariana Trench. Two months of night terrors and bandage changing and braces hitting Wade in the face at three in the morning. Of Red waking up screaming, sweaty, flinching when Wade tries to touch him. Of shrugging off efforts to console or comfort him in any way.

No, ain’t no comfort allowed to rear its ugly head in the House Of Murdock. Not even when Matt’s caught crying silent, face-streaking, rib-wracking tears in an empty room at the first social event that Wade manages to drag him out to. Or when his nightmares start to bleed into his waking hours. Or when Wade touches his shoulder in a light warning to scoot past him in the hallway and he flinches so hard that he cracks his elbow against a picture frame.

It’s all stoicism and hard lines etched into a face that’s braced, desperate and anxious, against the intrusion of potential displays of vulnerability. As if the mere thought of accepting any kind of help might immediately and irrevocably emasculate him.

Wade’s sick of watching Matt store his trauma inside the opaque walls of a bottle, or nestled in between the orange plastic of pill containers on the bathroom counter.

Talking about feelings may not be Wade’s strong suit, but he knows when to ask for help; he accepts that there are limits to that which one person can bear at once. He’s always understood that, been able to pass his weight off and take some from others as necessary.

Matt’s intuitive, but he’s not open anymore. He’s stopped sharing his load. Whatever unwarranted guilt he’s placing on himself is gonna crush him flatter than that collapsed office building did.

He’s been back at work for a month and a half, but Foggy calls Wade every other goddamn day with some horror story about a panic attack before court or a particularly cruel client making the wrong remark about the fresh scars that peek out around the rims of his glasses and nearly getting pummeled.

The eyes themselves aren’t much of a lifestyle adjustment; Matt’s other senses appear to be largely unaffected by their loss. Most of his trauma seems to be in how he lost them.

Which, yeah. That tracks. Thinking about it makes Wade’s trigger finger itchy. Makes his vision go veiny and red at the edges.

Matt had him pick out the color of the irises for the new eyes. The removable fake ones that the weird eyeball engineer-doctors created to put over the spherical implants after they’d healed.

Like massive, creepy contacts, those things are. But different. ‘Cause it’s the whole eye. And Matt doesn’t have to take the damn things out every night before bed.

Before Wade got to hemming and hawing over what color to pick, Matt had informed him that everything was fair game but red, “‘Cause red’s the Devil’s color.” Whole spectrum of perceptible colors to choose from and the only thing off-limits was red.

Wade went with the same shade of brown as the originals.

Peter saw them for the first time and then turned to look up at Wade with a cocked eyebrow and a jutted hip. Called him, “Conservative and unadventurous.”

Matt thought that Peter was exceptionally funny. Said he would have gone with Irish blue like his daddy’s for shits and giggles, but that he appreciated Wade’s choice.

Not like Matt’ll ever have to look at ‘em, anyway.

Doesn’t matter one way or the other; Red never takes the damn glasses off anymore. Practically sleeps with them on.

Wade doesn’t push that point. Not his battle to fight.

Two weeks back in the suit and Matt seems to be holding his own okay. No major incidents yet. No mental breakdowns, no massive blood loss from stabbings, slashings, bullet wounds. Not even so much as a bad bruise.

He’s being very cautious. Word’s starting to spread that Daredevil’s back on the scene; that he’s going soft.

Matter of time before Wade’s back breaks from the weight of the baggage.

Matt’s digging them a grave so deep that Wade can’t see the sky anymore. Hasn’t been able to for weeks.

The grave collapses during a sparring session with Spidey right before they’re supposed to set out for a job. First big job between the three of them since Matt’s been back.

Matt’s on the offensive, trying to break through Peter’s weaker left defenses. Wade’s going through his arsenal a few yards away. Distracted by his mental checklist: safeties on, bullets counted, blades sharp, holsters and sheaths secure. He glances up in time to watch Peter’s right knee make harsh contact (perfect form, full force of his momentum, leverage expertly utilized) with Matt’s sternum.

Matt goes down. The eyes of Peter’s mask contort into something mortified and guilty.

And then Matt’s back on his feet faster than humanly possible and lashing out at Peter with every combined ounce of his strength and fighting experience. Aiming to hurt, maim, cause irreparable damage. Peter scrambles back, hackles up and trying his best to dodge the onslaught. Matt sweeps a leg out from under him (left side again, kid’s gotta get better about that or it’ll kill him), and he barely manages to catch himself as he falls. He’s on his back. Pleading, begging for Red to stop.

Red kneels, straddling Spidey’s waist. He pulls an arm back, aims for the jaw. Peter raises his forearms on instinct.

Wade’s at Matt’s back in an instant. He grabs him bodily by the hips, avoiding spaces higher up. Where he knows the layered ridges and valleys of scarred chain imprints sit red and furious over planes of freshly-healed ribs. Pulls him harshly away from Peter.

Red fucking loses it. He screams goddamn bloody murder. Headbutts Wade’s nose hard enough to break it. Crushes fingers, claws forearms and draws blood, kicks backwards and middles Wade’s crotch.

Wade grapples him down and pins him to the ground face-down, shoulder twisted in a cruel maneuver in the hope that the pain will force him to calm down.

Red’s voice gives out for a second. When he regains it, he’s babbling, “Please, please, please, ‘m sorry Abe, I remember you, stoppitplease can’t breathe can’tsee please pleasepleaseplea--”

Peter taps on Wade’s shoulder and he releases the arm from his grip. Matt keeps fighting for a second. Slowly, he quiets. Wade sits back to give him room. He flips over and pants harsh, adrenaline-framed breaths into the implacable night sky. Reaches up and tears his mask off, scrubs at the scars on his closed eyelids.

Wade gets up.

Peter’s shaking in his boots, but his arms are crossed in a hard, self-righteous way that makes Wade want to get the fuck out of dodge.

Peter breaks the silence. “Double-D, what the fuck was that?”

Matt sits up. Wade bites back the urge to snarl at him. He shakes his head. “It--I thought… when you hit me, I was back in that barn. And he was--Abe--he was killing me. Over and over again. I couldn’t--I didn’t--I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to, God, I didn’t know…”

He trails off. His arms have found their way up and over his bent knees and his head hangs like it’s a weight his neck can’t stand to bear a second longer. The set of Peter’s shoulders softens, but he keeps his arms crossed over his chest. Protective. On edge.

“Didn’t know you knew the guy’s name,” Peter says.

Harsh laughter. Like the bark of a tree being pulled from its wooden home. Fibrous, reedy, abrasive. “He made sure I knew who he was.”

First time Wade’s hearing anything about an Abe. He rubs at a prominent scar through the suit fabric covering his elbow and asks, “So? Who was he?”

And just like that, the floodgates slam closed. Red’s face hardens to granite and he straightens his spine, irons out all the curves in his posture. He stands, pulls his mask onto his head and over his eyes. “We’re behind schedule.”

Peter uncrosses his arms to hold his palms out in a stopping gesture. He says, “Hold on. We’re not doin’ anything tonight. Not after you just tried to kill me over a knee to the chest.”

“But--”

“Kid’s right. We’re done tonight,” Wade interjects.

Matt grimaces. “We’re going to miss a huge opportunity to bag--”

“What we’re gonna miss isn’t worth anything if you’re in a dangerous headspace. You’re not ready.”

Red’s fists curl. Nostrils flair and the grimace widens into a bare-toothed snarl.

Wade watches and stands placid. He invites the growing potential for violence into his home.

Peter sees the teeth and the fists and steps away in an uncharacteristically timid display of surrender. Matt twitches his head away from Wade to focus on Peter. His brows knit under the mask and he quits posturing, confused. Ashamed.

Peter says, “I can’t work with you if I don’t have complete faith that you have my back, man. That trust isn’t there right now.”

He turns away from the conversation and starts in the direction of Queens. Throws over his shoulder, “You need to work on your shit before it eats you alive.”

He skips into a jog and throws out a line of web that carries him far away.

Matt makes a face at the last comment and turns to Wade.

Ugh, so much seriousness tonight. Wade shakes the weight out of his arms and says, “Don’t look at me, man. Spidey’s right. You gotta figure out how to live in your new normal. No goin’ back to where we were until you learn to process that.”

“The fuck is my new normal?”

Wade shrugs. “Dunno. Not for me to answer. C’mon, I’m gettin’ stiff. Race you back to Manhattan.”

That perks Red right up. His head swivels immediately in the direction of the Kitchen and he’s off and into the night like a greyhound chasing a rabbit.

Wade takes a moment of blessed quiet to rein himself in. Then he pulls out his phone to make use of his newly perfected Uber-ordering skills and makes easy peace with the fact that he’s going to lose.

“Where the fuck are we going?”

“Next time you ask that I’m gonna throttle you with one of your fancy court ties, Red. Ruining the ‘surprise’ aspect of ‘surprise road trip’.”

Wade’s in the driver’s seat of a rented Enterprise sedan, which smells like the inside of a used vape cartridge. Matt sits beside him, seat-belted into the shotgun side with his sweatpants tucked into long socks and gangly legs spread out all over the dash.

His head rests boredly against the armrest-console combination, which twists his back into a position that has Wade’s spine tweaking in sympathy. One hand flips through the same ten radio stations; the other antagonizes Wade’s right arm where it’s slung gently over his trapezius and against his collarbone.

He cracks Wade’s knuckles for him and says, “Actually, that might be kind of hot.”

Wade smacks at him and narrowly avoids swerving out of his lane on the highway. “Anyone ever wash your filthy fuckin’ mouth out with a bar of soap? Jesus.”

Matt hums and prods at a hangnail on Wade’s thumb. “Don’ think so. One of the kids at Saint Agnes bet me twenty bucks that I wouldn’t take a double shot of bleach once.”

“What the fuck.”

“Wasn’t so bad; I lived.”

Wade curls his lip. “Why would you agree to do that? How old were you?”

“Probably eleven or twelve. Twenty bucks is twenty bucks at any age, man,” Matt replies, matter-of-fact.

Dude.

“Yeah.”

The gas meter’s less than a gallon from empty, so Wade tracks down an exit with a gas station in the next couple of miles and tells Matt that this is the last chance for a stretch or bathroom break.

Soon as the car rolls to a stop next to the pump, Matt bursts free and beelines for the nearest patch of snow-covered, dead grass like a fucking dog.

Wade turns to tangle with the card reader and get the hose pumping gas, and by the time he glances back over, Matt’s flat on his back and rolling around in the snow-slush and dirt.

Like a fucking dog.

Wade yells, “What the hell are you doing?! Gonna freeze your balls off!!” across the tops of several cars and over the sound of an eighteen-wheeler pulling in. The woman at the pump next to him raises an eyebrow.

Matt sits up, jacket soaked through and stained to hell and back, glasses knocked half off his face. He waves at the hood of the car.

Wade stomps back to the hose to check on the pump and grumbles, “Can’t catch a fuckin’ break,” under his breath.

That earns him an indignant cry from across the parking lot.

Matt falls asleep for the duration of the last leg of the trip, curled up underneath a spare sweatshirt and Wade’s heavyweight winter coat from Canada. The heat’s cranked up, but the dryness of the frigid air outside still manages to squirm through the cracks and into the car.

They pass the sign that welcomes them into New Hampshire as the watery mid-winter sun sinks beneath the silhouetted trees.

Matt snores ever so lightly.

Wade cranks up the classic rock station that’s been ricochetting around in the tinny speakers since Matt gave up on finding anything else.

Roger Daltrey’s resentful voice and the angry, buzzing guitars fill every gap in the car.

Daltrey screams. Wade opens his mouth in silent imitation.

A light shiver runs down the length of his back and pools in his boots.

It’s always some kind of cold, this far north. All year long.

But they’re not crossing the border, and Wade’s ancestral home remains fucking dormant.

Eyes on the road. Doin’ this for Matt.

Because of Matt. However you want to slice it.

They pull into the cramped parking lot a couple of hours later.

Matt stirs and yawns, arching his back like a cat emerging from a luxurious nap.

The analogy’s ruined when each of Matt’s vertebrae snap, crackle, and pop up his spine and into his neck in quick succession.

Wade waits for him to finish before he says, “‘Kay. So.”

Matt tilts his head in suspicion. “This is a church, no?”

“Yessir.”

“You brought me to the middle of nowhere in New Hampshire for a church?”

“Think bigger! It’s all about atmosphere, Red.”

Matt shrugs his shoulders. “I don’t understand.”

Wade hefts the car door open and leans into the chilly air. “You will. C’mon, let’s get out of this stuffy ass car.”

Matt scoffs and turns to open the door.

The church is ancient and tiny. It’s built with the great neo-gothic cathedrals of western Europe in mind, but its construction falls vastly short of achieving such a look. Old stones and wooden beams have been painted over several times, so that chipped sections reveal the colors of earlier coats. Approaching the door feels like walking directly into the mouth of some terrible and ancient beast.

Matt runs his hand along a stone wall as they wind around banks of old snow. “Why here?” he asks.

“Needed some place holy. This church has been abandoned for a few years. Stumbled across it on the run from a job.”

Wade nudges the door open and they cross the threshold. The wind’s bite immediately loses its edge, but the cold remains pervasive. Matt’s hand feels frostbitten and blue-tinged nestled in the crook of his elbow.

Wade continues, “I died here. Over on the other side of those knocked-over pews, the asshat that had been hunting me down caught up and shot me clean through the head a few times and it killed me.”

Matt’s grip on his elbow turns vice-like and spitefully green.

“It was winter, like it is now, so when I woke up it was snowing. And I was hurting really bad, so I took a seat on a pew and prayed until it stopped.

“And when I walked--more stumbled, I guess--out the door, it felt like I was leaving a God I’d never met. Felt like I was walking away from a place that was good and right and just righteous enough to house me. I think, maybe, this church is the closest I ever got to crossing paths with religion.”

With penance. Or forgiveness.

Wade hopes that Matt can find forgiveness.

Matt leans away from Wade. He removes himself from Wade’s side and ambles down the length of the aisle.

He runs his fingers across the top of the lonely podium, kicking up dust that’s sat undisturbed for years.

He travels to the rear wall to disquiet the looming altar’s peace.

He presses his palms upon the long-forgotten, yellowed tablecloth. Bows his head.

Wade drifts out of the mouth of the great beast to wait alongside the snow sludge carpeting the ashen, muddy ground.

Matt emerges a while later. He takes a seat next to Wade on the battered stone wall and puffs humid clouds of hot breath into the cold air.

He tells the puffs, “I’m ready to absolve myself of some of this guilt.”

Wade squints. “Why not all of it?”

“Because some of it’s mine to keep.”

Fair enough. “Can I see your glasses for a second?” Wade asks.

Matt hands them over. Wade looks at the lenses. He wipes at the dust that they’ve gathered from inside the church and the specks of melted snow and the halfway-there fingerprints littering the bits around the frames.

He double checks his reflection before passing them back.

Matt says, “I think I need something other than the Church to help me with this.”

“Mmmm.”

“I don’t know where to start.”

Wade laughs. “When’s the last time you went to a session of good, old-fashioned therapy?”

Matt frowns with his eyebrows and with the muscles in his jaw. “I hate it when you’re right.”

Yeah, sometimes Wade hates it too.

“Can we go home now? My ass is gonna freeze to this wall.”

Wade risks a last glance at the church as he replies, “That would be mighty unfortunate for our sex life.”

Matt hums in agreement and they rise in unison.