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pandalandalopalis · 9 months

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Devil May Cry Wolf - Matt Murdock x Mutant Reader [Chapter Fourteen]

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Story Synopsis: The first time you jumped, it was 2014 and you were nine years old. You were in the back of your parents’ car — then you were in New York, standing on the street … and it was 1992.

The second time you jumped, it was 1998 and you were fifteen years old. You were heading back home to Saint Agnes after school had ended — and then you were knee-deep in snow, in Russia, in 1970. Outside a Red Room facility.

The third time you jumped, you were twenty-five and had spent ten years training as a Red Room agent. Ten years training your body to use your mutation. Jumping in space was easy — jumping in time was not. But you did it. After ten years, you did it. Now you have to live with the trauma.

Five years later, killing is still the only thing you know how to do, and the only thing you do best. In 2016, a vigilante named Daredevil stops you from killing a man who attacked you. He tells you that you can do better. You think maybe he’s right. But in 2017, Matt Murdock is in the darkest place in his life. When you show up to save him, he’s not exactly grateful. And when he finds out that you’re the best friend he grew up with in Saint Agnes that disappeared almost 20 years ago — things get even more complicated.

You’ll have to drag Matt out of the dark while being jaw-deep in it yourself. And you’ll have to try your best to do better — when Matt is trying his best to do worse.

Chapter Synopsis: You attempt to get sober. You say some things you're not quite ready to say.

Part 2 - Chapter Fourteen: Words Said in a Vigilante's Shower

The smell of her blood in that abandoned parking lot.

Hitting. Over. And over. And over. Until he could hear cracking. Until the breathing of these men were as ragged and uneven as hers.

Red was clouding his senses and it had nothing and everything to do with Y/N’s blood. Y/N’s rough breathing. Y/N on the ground, tied to a chair, her cheek pressed to the concrete.

They hurt her.

And Matt took pleasure in every contact he made with these men, every punch and kick, every hit that broke something or made them bleed.

God could not save them from the Devil’s wrath.

It was a fire all-consuming. All-controlling.

The Devil was an angel, once, and an avenging angel would not stop.

Choosing to let them live was not just a line he would not cross — it was a unique kind of revenge. Let them live with their pain. Let them beg the Devil for death and never be answered.

Let them fear ever putting their hands on anyone ever again.

Let them know that the moment they hurt her was the moment they’d been damned forever.

And when God finally decides it’s their time, then Matt would see them in Hell. And remind them. The cost of her suffering.

Matt woke, and he could still smell Y/N’s blood and the blood of those men mixed with the damp smell of that abandoned parking lot.

It had been a month since that happened. A month since Y/N was kidnapped and tortured. A month since Matt failed her.

Y/N herself had been unfazed by the event. But it didn’t make the guilt eat at him any less. She was still physically healing from it.

He should have gotten to her sooner. He should have known she was out there, being tortured, before he happened upon her during patrol, after she had been there for an hour—

Clink clink clink.

Matt turned his head slightly, listening. It sounded like metal scraping against porcelain. When he inhaled, he could smell milk mixed with something sugary.

There was a heart beating in his kitchen, and he knew of only one person who would be blatantly eating in his apartment while he slept.

Matt got up (deciding to forego a shirt for the moment), and he opened the sliding door of his bedroom.

There was a second of pause before Y/N greeted him. “Hey.”

The pause was the moment you took a very generous look at Matt’s bare chest. As per usual, his skin was marked with bruises both new and old, but it did not detract from the aesthetic of his body. There was beauty in imperfection — every scar, every mark of stark purple and fading yellow was just another addition to the canvas. A reminder of what he did and why he did it.

And also, y’know. He was just really fucking hot and you enjoyed looking at hot people.

(What? He was your best friend but you weren’t dead. You could appreciate a good thing.)

Shame that Matt did not have the same luxury. Just thinking about all the things he was missing out when he spent time with you.

It took Matt a moment to put the pieces together —she had a porcelain bowl in one hand and a metal spoon in the other— and he was able to identify what she was eating.

“. . .There’s no cereal in my apartment,” Matt said.

“Mmhm,” Y/N agreed with a hum.

“Did you . . . bring cereal to my apartment?”

“Mmhm.”

“Why?”

“Because I was hungry.”

Matt couldn’t stop amusement from filtering through his exasperation, so he just shook his head even as a smile made its way on his face. He went back to his bedroom to grab a shirt. As he was pulling it on, he heard Y/N say,

“I came to ask you something but you were asleep.”

Now with a shirt, Matt padded over to the kitchen. “It’s early, Y/N.”

“Ah.” She turned over her wrist like she was looking at a watch, though no watch was ever there. “Ever since the Avengers put me on leave, time has been, kinda, y’know, wishy-washy. And since you wouldn’t let me work either—” Matt had told her no vigilantism until the Avengers cleared her to go back to work. She may have not thought what happened was a big deal, but the trauma to her body was still significant enough that he didn’t want her going out with him until she was okay. He recognized —and she told him— how hypocritical he was being, but he set the rule, anyway. She was especially pissed about not being able to follow up on the trafficking situation, but Matt kept her updated and there was no new news. That at least (that she wasn’t missing out on taking down the child traffickers) made her less pissed, somewhat. “—I have had to find ways to amuse myself. Been travelling around. Checking in every once in a while to see if that replacement medic will give me the a-okay. But y’know actually looking at a clock has never been my strong suit.”

It’s true he hadn’t seen her much over the past month. He hoped she’d been recuperating, and he supposed she was, in her own way.

It made him think, though. About how Y/N lived her life without something to ground her. Skipping around in time without keeping track. He remembered what she said when he asked her how long it had been since she escaped the Red Room. “Um . . .Five years? Give or take.” Like she couldn’t be sure. How does one keep track of days, months, years when one doesn’t live linearly? How easy would it be to get lost like that, always jumping, no time or place to come back to. . . .

She may have made the effort to check in every once in a while, but maybe he shouldn’t have shut her out of the vigilantism so harshly. Maybe she would’ve had more of a reason to keep track of time and check in on a schedule.

And Matt felt the anxious reminder hit him. Because that was it, wasn’t it?

He was afraid that one day she wouldn’t come back.

But it was that same fear that kept him from confronting her about it.

So instead he said, “You should buy a watch.”

Y/N snorted. “Why, so I can turn those little dials every time I make a jump? It’d be pointless.”

“Do you know yet when you’re allowed to go back to work?”

Y/N shoved a spoonful of cereal into her mouth and nodded as she chewed. “Tomorrow.”

Something like relief washed through him. “That's good.”

“So,” she continued, “I was hanging out with the Avengers yesterday and Tony mentioned he’s going to be throwing a party at the Tower in about two months.”

“Oh, yeah?” It was a little amusing to him, the way she said Tony without the Stark, like he wasn’t the most famous billionaire living in New York.

“Yeah, and I was wondering if you wanted to come with me,” she said. “Meet the Avengers. Have a good time. When’s the last time you went to a party?”

Grief unexpectedly hit him then, as he realized the answer to her question. He cleared his throat. “Uh, with Elektra.” The fancy party he went with her to find confidential information on the bad guys they were chasing at the time. The memory hurt but . . . not as much as he thought it would. It still felt a bit raw, but he was healing from it. He knew it helped that he had his support system back. Foggy and Karen.

And Y/N. He knew he’d never get Elektra back, but he got her back.

Fuck. You didn’t mean to bring that up for him. You put down the bowl of cereal. “Ah,” you said, trying to think of how to continue. “So it’s been a while, then?”

Matt cleared his throat again, but he gave her a smile. “Yeah. It’s been a while.”

You wanted to take his mind off any thoughts of Elektra and her death, so you sidled up to him and slid your hands up his chest, linking your hands together behind his neck. Matt rested his hands on your waist, humouring you. “So you wanna be my date? We could get really, really drunk. It’ll be fun.”

His amused smile dropped and he looked like he was thinking about something. “I’ll go with you—”

“Fantastic.”

“—on one condition.”

You pouted at him. “I hate conditions.”

“I know.”

You sighed. “What is it?”

“You come to the party sober and you stay sober for the night.”

Annoyance mixed with surprise flitted through you, and a similar sound left your mouth. “Ugh, what?”

It was true that drugs and alcohol didn’t seem to affect Y/N in the same way it affected other people. But the longer he spent with her, the more he began to notice. The way she was different. It never impaired her reasoning or her fighting or any of the things one could usually pick out in a drunk or high person — but there was a numbness there that he learned to pick up on.

He remembered how she was after Father Lantom had died. The horrifying sound that left her mouth and would live in his bones forever — the hours after, when she came back and all of that was gone. When she told him about the Red Room and said it so numbly it was like she wasn’t even there.

He remembered when they were told the leader of the child trafficking ring wore a fox mask. The way she tore apart from the seams, all the confusion and the unknown and the strange coincidences leaving her in shreds — She disappeared from his arms and she came back a different person. The tears were still wet on her face but she wasn’t attached to them anymore. And her calm after she had been screaming and sobbing was terrifying.

She was wrong. It may not affect her the same way it affected humans, but that didn’t mean it didn’t affect her. He knew she took it as a coping mechanism. He didn’t know how to tell her to stop. To find a better way to cope. He didn’t think she would if he did.

But he could ask for one night. Just one. In a situation where she didn’t have to say yes. He didn’t have to go with her to this thing. But he wanted to see.

If maybe for one night she’d let herself feel.

“That’s my condition,” Matt said.

Y/N slid her arms down to rest her hands on his chest. “Why?” she whined.

“Because if we’re going to be dancing, I don’t want to smell alcohol on your breath,” Matt lied. “And the Oxy comes out on your skin.” That was total bullshit, but he felt like he needed to give her some kind of reason. Whether or not she believed it was up to her. Matt brushed the back of his fingers over Y/N’s cheek and rested his hand on her jaw. “I’ll get a contact high.”

Y/N snorted, then was quiet. Thinking. She breathed an annoyed sigh. “Fine, I’ll think about it.”

“Thank you.”

She moved away from his embrace. “I’m rolling my eyes at you, you know.”

“Yeah, I figured.”

When Matt got home from work a few days later, his apartment was filled with the smell of bile. He grimaced as he closed the door and was trying to figure out where it was coming from when he heard retching coming from his bathroom.

“Y/N?”

Matt rushed to the bathroom and knelt next to Y/N on the floor where she was leaning next to the toilet.

“Heyyy Murdock,” she managed in an achy-sounding voice, somehow with a smile on her face. She was soaked in sweat and shaking violently and smelled very strongly of vomit.

“Are you okay?” Matt asked. She never got sick, not even when she was a kid. He figured later that it probably had something to do with her mutation. Whatever this was, it wasn’t the flu.

“I’m pregnant,” she said, then gagged and retched again into the toilet.

He didn’t have to listen to her heartbeat to know that was a joke. The excessive sweating and shaking wasn’t a normal symptom of morning sickness. Matt brushed any loose hairs away from her face and stroked her back. Her body felt like a furnace.

When she was done throwing up, she wiped her mouth with the back of her hand.

“What’s really wrong with you?” Matt asked.

“You should know, you’re the one who asked for this.”

Matt’s eyes narrowed and he tried to go over all of their recent conversations — her symptoms of vomiting, sweating, shaking—

“You’re going through withdrawal,” he realized.

“You’re so smart Matt, you should be a lawyer.” Her chest heaved and she turned to the toilet again.

When she was finished, he said, “The party is still two months away.”

“Yeah, but do you know how long it takes to get over withdrawal? I didn’t want to be shaking and throwing up at the party, that wouldn’t be any fun.”

(It was the truth and it was a lie. Because you’d wanted an excuse. For a long time you’d wanted an excuse. To get sober. To be sober.)

(Alcohol and drugs had its uses and it protected you from your fears and anxieties and memories that never went away. And you needed it. You needed it to live.)

(But that’s just it, wasn’t it? Did you need it to live or did you need it to survive? Because those were different things. For a long time you were just surviving. The alcohol and drugs were helping you do that.)

(But did you know how to live? Did you know how to feel anymore? The trade-off for not feeling fear was not feeling anything. That’s not living. And you wanted to start living. You wanted it since you saved Matt’s life. To live and not just survive.)

(Not that you would admit any of this to yourself.)

(So you took this excuse. To be sober for Tony’s party.)

(And you would see how far you could get with it.)

Sober. She was going to be sober. Not just for a night but for two months.

Maybe for longer.

Y/N’s smile faded and her eyes squeezed shut, as if she was fighting off another wave of nausea. She was still shaking, her teeth beginning to chatter.

You felt Matt’s hands on you and he must have said something but you couldn’t really think straight in this state. All you knew is that you were nauseous and fucking cold but you didn’t have the strength to move or do anything.

Then there was the sound of something like running water. You felt Matt peel off your sweat-soaked shirt and your pants and you didn’t really mind except for the further cold it brought you. Then you felt Matt’s arm around your back and under your knees and a sense of vertigo as you were being picked up and moved.

The hot water brought a strong feeling of relief as it poured over you. You were sitting in Matt’s tub-shower combo with him at your back and the shower spraying down from above. You were still shivering but the hot water was helping.

Matt was getting wet too but he didn’t really care. Slowly, Y/N’s chills were starting to dissipate.

“Hold your breath and close your eyes,” he told her. When she did, he plugged her nose then tilted her head back under the spray. He repeated that a few times to help warm her up.

He gently wiped water out of her eyes. “Have you ever tried to get sober before?” he asked, curious.

There was no point in lying about this, although it felt like you were admitting some secret. “Once. For your funeral. When I found out what happened to you, it had been six months since it happened. I didn’t want to mess up going back. I can’t cross paths with myself so I wouldn’t have a lot of tries. I didn’t want to be too late or . . . too early.” To be left waiting in that darkness and void of grief. It would have been too much.

“Foggy mentioned you being there,” Matt murmured.

“They must have thought it was fucking weird that I was there.” After the impression you’d left as Frank Castle’s military friend and the things Castle told them about you. Only three people showed up to Matt’s funeral and you were one of them. That must have been very strange for them.

Matt remembered then about her visiting Frank Castle. How he passed her briefly in the hallway. And when he encountered her at Josie’s, too, a couple years before.

“Did you recognize me before? When you visited Frank Castle . . . and at Josie’s that time. . . . Do you remember that?”

“I do remember it, but no, I didn’t recognize you either time,” she said. “I’m not gonna lie and say I would have said hi, but I would’ve acted differently.”

“In the bar. . .” you felt Matt’s grip on you increase slightly as he spoke, “You were really scared. Was it the war? Was that right after you left?”

You shook your head. “No. That was right after . . . I escaped the Red Room.”

Matt’s chest became painfully tight and he thought back to that memory. Her in the bar with her heart beating so loud he would have heard it the next street over. The man whose face she slammed into the table. He thought it’d been PTSD from her time in the military but it was much, much worse than that.

“It was the first time in ten years I was able to make a time jump,” she explained slowly. “I couldn’t figure out how to do it again for a long time. The only times I’d been able to do it were accidents so I didn’t know how to. . .” She trailed off and paused for a moment. “And then one day I just did it again. And again. And then I was in New York. And I was—” She paused to interrupt herself. “Well, I don’t know if I’ll ever truly be free of them but I was . . . free from their control, at least.”

Matt had to ask. It was something he thought about for a long time. Something he wanted to know, something he had asked her before but she had refused to give him a proper answer.

“Why didn’t you ever come back to see me?”

You felt so delirious that you could let the truth just pour and pour its way out of your mouth — but there was still a part of you holding that front up, holding up that wall and keeping you from breaking because the real answer to his question was just too painful.

“I did, you just don’t remember,” was what you gave him instead. It was the truth but it wasn’t all of it.

“What?”

Maybe it was tacky to visit your own funeral, but you couldn’t help yourself.

They all thought you were dead. You disappeared a year ago for them and you never came back so they had to accept the only answer. They had to find a way to move on.

In a lot of ways, you were. Dead. In all the ways that mattered. You weren’t coming back to this time. You were grown up and changed and you couldn’t go back. You were dead. And like any dead person, you went to your funeral.

You were freshly out of the Red Room and so you were freshly and highly medicated against all the things you could not escape. So you could not think of a reason for why it might be a bad idea to haunt your own funeral.

It was a decent turnout, too. You recognized people from Saint Agnes, from your school; classmates and teachers who had come to say goodbye, kids and nuns from the orphanage who came to mourn your loss.

You had hung in the back of the cemetery to watch them bury your empty casket, and now this was the . . . what did they call it? After-party? What is the after-party of a funeral called? Probably not a ‘party’. Whatever it was called, it had free refreshments.

You were lamenting the photo they chose for your funeral when your attention snagged on the corner of the room where a boy was sitting.

He looked exactly the same as he did the last time you saw him. It felt weird: so much time had passed for you when only a year had passed for him. You were an adult now and he was still a teenager. You were almost a decade older than him now when he had always been a year older than you.

And through the haze of the alcohol and pills, it felt bad.

You could not come back.

So it would be best if Matt moved on.

Against all reason, though, you went to sit next to him.

“You want a cookie?” you asked, offering him the kind you knew he liked.

He only shook his head. Then, “We shouldn’t even be having this funeral.”

“Someone died,” you said. “You have a funeral when someone dies.”

“But she’s not dead.”

Something in your chest squeezed and you sipped the juice you’d snuck some alcohol in earlier. “Look I know it’s hard for you to accept, but she’s not coming back. Ever. You have to move on.”

“You’re wrong,” he said. He sniffed and there were tears on his face but his voice was like steel. (He had always been so stubborn.) “She’s out there. I know she is.”

He was the one who was wrong. His friend was dead. She died in the Red Room. She wasn’t ever coming back.

“Do yourself a favour and forget about her. You’ll live a better life that way.”

He shook his head. “I won’t ever stop praying for her to come back. I don’t care what anyone says. I won’t believe she’s dead until she’s dead. I know she’s out there somewhere.”

What a stupid, stubborn boy. He was wrong. He was wrong. He wouldn’t ever see you again. Because you were dead. Because you were gone.

Eventually he’d give up. He would. He would move on with his life and forget about you. Because you were never coming back.

You stood and walked a few steps away. Then you stopped.

“I’m sorry about your friend,” you said tightly.

I’m sorry I left.

I’m sorry I ended up in the Red Room.

I’m sorry I got trapped there.

I’m sorry I couldn’t leave.

I’m sorry I had to kill people.

I’m sorry I spent ten years without you.

I’m sorry I couldn’t get back to you.

I’m sorry I’m not the same.

I’m sorry the Red Room killed the person you knew.

I’m sorry I can’t ever come back.

And in that apology you tried to make peace with never seeing Matt Murdock again.

But when you left, you knew you would fail.

“I offered you a cookie but you refused to believe that I was dead,” Y/N said, like that was an explanation.

Matt searched his memories, until he landed on the strange encounter with that woman at Y/N’s funeral. And then everything about that conversation finally clicked.

“You were at your funeral. That was you I talked to.”

“Yeah.” Maybe before she would have made a comment about needing to see how many people turned up to her own funeral — but now she sounded too exhausted to turn this into a joke.

“You told me to forget about you,” he realized then.

There was something strangled in her voice as she said, “I know.”

“Why didn’t you come see me when I was older?” His tone wasn’t accusatory. He just wanted to know why. He would have waited. He did wait. He never believed that she was dead.

The delirium and exhaustion was pulling at all the strength you had and you didn’t have anything left to keep those walls up any longer. There would be no alcohol or pills to help you now.

“I thought about you every day.” (It was half a lie: there were years in the Red Room when you refused to think about him, when you couldn’t think about him, when keeping him furthest from your mind was a form of survival. When you had accepted you would never get back to him, when you would never leave the Red Room, you couldn’t think of him or you would stay a shattered mess and get yourself killed doing so. But in all the ways that mattered, you did. You thought of him in the early days of the Red Room and you thought of him when you finally escaped. And even in the years when you could not bear to bring him to your thoughts, he sat in the back of your mind. A hope you did not dare reach for but stayed nonetheless. A person you could never let go of.) “I missed you every day.” Your voice shook from the effort of keeping it together but it was getting harder to do so. “But when I finally left . . . I realized how broken I was. Am. I wanted to see you, but I wasn’t me anymore, not really. I couldn’t let you see the person I had become. A monster.” Your voice broke on that word and you were in so much pain, in your body and in your mind and in your soul and you couldn’t stop the tears running tracks down your face and couldn’t stop that pain from sounding clear through your voice and couldn’t stop the truth from coming out. “You were the only person I ever really loved.” A shattered sob. “And I couldn’t bear it. If you saw me that way. I knew you wouldn’t want me anymore.”

The sobbing consumed you.

Matt wrapped his arms around her, tightly, maybe too tightly, like he could hold her together through strength alone, like his embrace could keep himself from falling apart just the same—

Because he was crying, too, unable to stop her words from hitting him deep in his chest— He never really understood before, but now he realized how obvious it should have been to him. Why she couldn’t come back. And hearing her say the words and hearing how much pain she was in, hearing her finally admit to that pain— it was worse than any blow he’d taken, worse than the scars and the near-death experiences and even the gunshot to the head that took away his hearing and made him helpless— And the worst part was that he had proved her fears to be right. When he was in the lowest place in his life, when he was so angry at himself and taking it out on her, he had called her that. Monster. He hadn’t wanted to accept her as Y/N because he didn’t feel he deserved to have her back, but she wouldn’t have seen it that way.

Matt held you so tightly it hurt, and you could hear the tears in his voice when he said, “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

You had no strength left to be angry, and the truth was that you’d forgiven him a long time ago. Because it was him. Because you couldn’t do anything else. Because you needed him.

So you just shook and cried and let the pain pass through you because there was nothing else you could do. And you knew you weren’t at a place to tell him all of this truth but you simply didn’t have the strength to stop yourself, the sickness so thoroughly wrecking your body and mind. And no substances to numb you to any of it.

“I wanted to hurt you to hurt myself,” Matt said, his voice rough. The admission cut though some of your delirium and you used all your remaining strength to pay attention to what he was saying. “There was only anger and violence left in me and I wanted to punish myself for it. I thought God was being cruel by giving me the one thing I wanted the most, but after making you a reflection of myself: angry and violent. When I called you a monster I was talking about myself. When I told you your soul couldn’t be saved I was talking about myself.”

You remembered what he’d been like, then. It was probably part of the reason you’d forgiven him by now. He had been in a dark, dark place. He’d even tried to kill himself. You couldn’t bring yourself to stay mad at him when he hated himself that way.

“It was wrong to take that out on you, and I’m sorry.” Hot tears continued to run down his face and he sniffed. “I’ll never forgive myself for doing that to you. For proving your fears right.”

You were so tired. You rested your head back on his shoulder, careful to avoid the spray from clogging your nose, and closed your eyes. “You should forgive yourself. I already have.”

Matt let her words settle into his chest, needing it but not believing he had earned it after what he had done. “Truthfully I . . . didn’t believe it was you in the beginning not because of how you were different, but because I didn’t think God would be that merciful. I didn’t think I deserved to have you back.”

Your eyes opened and you turned to look at him, your face fracturing again as you did not have the strength to keep yourself together. His words meant the world to you but you weren’t ready to have this conversation. Being vulnerable like this was so new and foreign and strange and it made you want to disappear but you didn’t have the strength to do even that. So you let your head settle on his chest, hiding your face there and closing your eyes against the stream of water. Matt’s bruising hold softened into something more gentle.

“I fucking hate sober me,” you said.

You heard Matt sniff again. “Well, I like you much better right now.”

“I’m sick and delirious. This doesn’t count.” You didn’t choose to be vulnerable; you simply had no strength to stop yourself. You wanted to change the subject. (You wanted some Oxy. You wanted some alcohol. You wanted to be numb. But you also knew you didn’t really want those things. You wanted to feel.) (But you also wanted the pain to stop.) “I’m kind of racking up your water bill over here.”

Matt could tell she was exhausted. Not just in her body but emotionally. It was a lot for her to admit. So he’d let her change the subject if it made her feel better. “It’s fine. You’d be surprised how much money I save on the electricity bill.”

Oh, right. No lighting needed for the blind man.

“Plus, I am a lawyer, remember?”

You laughed, and the feeling was refreshing. “A defence lawyer. You get paid in muffin baskets.”

Matt’s chest rumbled with a chuckle as well. “I know you could pay me back. Bonnie and Clyde?”

“It was on my bucket list.”

You finally relaxed against Matt fully . . . the stress slowly dissipating . . . the chills being relieved by the hot water. . . .

Matt let them stay like that for a while so she could sleep comfortably under the spray. But he knew it would be better for her to sleep in a bed, so he eventually turned off the water and helped her get out of the tub.

She did not protest as it seemed the delirium and exhaustion was preventing her from doing much else besides keeping her body upright.

He wrapped her in a towel and set her sitting on the lid of the toilet while he got her some dry clothes. (He also took a moment in his room to strip himself and change — no use getting her dry clothes if he was going to carry her while soaked.) Matt then got Y/N out of her wet clothes and helped dry her and get her in his soft pajama pants and shirt, as well as a warm sweater and thick wool socks. She’d have to sweat this out.

Once she was dressed in dry, clean clothes, he picked her up and took her to his bed, settling her under the covers. He grabbed a bowl for her and put it by the bed in case she needed to throw up. Then he went to grab her clothes to put in the washing machine — and found her phone ringing in the pocket of her pants.

“Hello?”

“Hello?” the voice on the other end sounded surprised. “Sorry, is this Y/N L/N’s phone?”

“It is. May I ask who’s calling?”

“Steve Rogers. Where is she right now? Is she okay?”

Right. Y/N had a job that she clearly forgot to call in sick for today. “Steve, this is Matt, Y/N’s friend. We met about a month ago, you remember?” On a day that Matt would rather forget.

There was a pause. “Matt, yes. I remember.”

“Y/N’s okay, she’s just sick. She won’t be able to come into work today.”

“She’s sick? Where is she right now?”

That’s right, Y/N lived at Avengers Tower. Steve Rogers must have thought it was strange that she wasn’t there if she woke up sick. “She stayed at my apartment last night, so she’s here with me. She woke up with a fever; I think she has the flu. Probably won’t be able to come in for a few days. Sorry she didn’t call to say she wasn’t coming into work, she was throwing up a lot so it probably slipped her mind.”

“No, no, of course, don’t worry about it. But she was throwing up? Are you sure she’s okay? Maybe I should come over to check on her—”

“It’s okay, I got her.” Matt could hear Y/N throwing up again, and he hurried to end the call. “I’m taking care of her so don’t worry about it. She’ll be fine, she just needs to rest.”

Another pause. “Alright. Thank you, Matt. Tell her I said ‘Get well soon’.”

“I will. Okay, bye.”

Matt hung up the phone and put it in his pocket, throwing her pants into the wash and setting it to run. Then he hurried back to Y/N, who was shaking and sweating a lot again. She held the bowl close to her, her eyes squeezed shut.

Matt wiped her mouth with a tissue. He cupped her face and brushed his thumb over her cheek, feeling her hot skin against his palm.

This was going to be a long few days for her. But he was proud that she was doing this.

Your head swimming, you opened your eyes. Matt’s hand was cool compared to your feverish skin. You gripped his wrist when a wave of nausea hit you, as if you could ride it out if you were holding on to him.

When it passed, you said, “Matt. Am I going to regret doing this?”

He shook his head. “No. I don’t think you will.”

You squeezed his wrist harder. “Matt. I’m scared.”

He nodded, and took a breath that shook on its way in. “I know. Don’t worry.” And Matt gave you a small smile that no substances could stop from making butterflies of your heart. “I’ll protect you.”

Next Chapter

A/N: I know it's been a while since an update but I hope this chapter makes up for it!

Tag List: @stupidiout100 @coff3e-and-biscuits @caswinchester2000 @waywardsister1111 @ummvengers @asongofmarvelanddc @1971marauders @krazy-katt-lady @flowercrowns3438 @takethee @lov3vivian @burn-crash-rqmance @readers-posts

#daredevil #matt murdock #matt murdock x reader #daredevil x reader #matt murdock imagine #daredevil imagine #matt murdock x you #daredevil x you #devil may cry wolf

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