“I’ll be right back”, she said, and he nodded as she turned around to get his first aid kit.
At first, he used to insist that he would patch himself up because everything would get stained red. Swabs, bandages, needles, rests of thread. There was too much blood and no need to make her see the mess. And there were also those noises he would inevitably make. And his subtle grimaces of pain. And the smell. That strong metallic and sweet smell of blood. He wanted to protect her from all that, from himself.
Back then, once he had finished, he would offer his hand to her and lead her towards their bedroom. But even if she could not see the way he treated his wounds, she could see his body covered in cuts and bruises. And his hands and nails. There was always some persistent dry blood here and there. No matter how conscientiously he washed himself, some stains would stay. Most of the times she would manage to restrain herself from saying anything, but he could always hear what she was thinking.
“I don’t want you to go through this, Karen. Maybe– maybe it’s better if you don’t wait awake when I go out.” He told her one night, hugging her in bed.
“You know I’m not going to do that, Matt. But you need to understand that it is worse for me if I can’t see it. I can’t help but imagine the worst.” She said.
He took a deep breath and pressed a firm kiss on her shoulder before he conceded an ok.
And just like him, she had had to learn to say yes as well. Her "I can take care of myself" soon turned into an "it’s ok if you want to keep an eye on me". Because she would put her life at risk every other day, getting into the darkest places in the city, digging, meeting the scum that could lead her to the most dangerous dealings and schemes. And then, she would expose her stories to the public eye, exposing herself as well.
Maybe she would not come home covered in bruises and cuts, like he did, but her life was put in danger as much as his. He had been named Daredevil but she was well worthy of that same nickname. No wonder her stories soon guided his steps, and in a short time his steps sketched many of the words she wrote.
He knew what she did was dangerous, reckless, but he also knew that that was who she was. And there was no way he would try to change a single trait of her. And she also knew who he was, and why he did the things he did at night. They were not that different. They both felt this pressing need to do the right thing even when it implied doing the wrong one first. Taking risks, not following the rules, ignoring the most sensible advice, that was who they were. And that was what they had to do.
So when he was back home, he would let her examine his body looking for injuries. And if she found any, she would apply cream on his bruises and clean and sew up his wounds. In exchange, he always made sure that there was no need to do the same thing for her.
And even though at first he was impressed at how strong she was because there were no tears or signs of distress, the more he knew her, the more it made sense. She was the most sensitive and the most determined person he had ever met. It is funny how those were also the words she would commonly used to describe him as well.