Chapter Text
“It’s not over; they’re still digging right-”
“Karen, it’s been days”
“-maybe he made it out”
“…Maybe” But even as he said it, the word rang hollow. It felt like a lie.
Karen felt it too. She prided herself on being a practical woman, rational, but she clung to it, like one of the candles it was a flickering vestige of hope. Each day it grew a little dimmer.
“Sit with me?”
“Of course”
Foggy rubbed a thumb over her hand and she squeezed back. They sat like that for a long time, pressed closely together, each lost in their own thoughts.
Karen took in the tall beams, the empty wooden pews, and the silence itself felt like a mourning presence. To break it with words would be wrong, disrespectful. She didn’t know what to say anyway - she hadn’t stepped foot in a church since she was a little girl, this was Matt’s world not hers and it felt oddly intrusive to be here now without him. Occasionally the old bench creaked, or cloth bushed against cloth as she shifted and it echoed loudly off the high ceiling, too loud - briefly she wondered if this was how Matt heard everything, if he-
Matt’s not here.
The thought hit her suddenly, the cold hard fact of it settling heavy in her chest.
Matt is not coming back.
She buried her head in Foggy’s chest, her shoulders shaking with each sob. He rubbed comforting circles on her back, his hand warm and familiar. She felt hot tears in her hair and squeezed him even tighter.
Voices. Muffled and distant like he was underwater. He should be able to make out what they were saying but they were so far away and he couldn’t hear past the ringing in his ears. Dust filled his nose, brick, heat, burning-
-warm calloused hands pulled at him and suddenly there was pain, brighter and louder than anything and it was all he could feel. It lit up the black, all-consuming and he let out a strangled yell.
“Careful with him. Gently now…”
Slowly awareness returned. He couldn't begin to try and move, every muscle and joint throbbing with pain and he waited breathlessly as it receded to a dull roar. He could feel darkness pressing in from all sides, numbing the edges and promising relief.
The hands were back, pulling at his suit, the helmet-
-the suit, he was wearing the suit, no no no
He pushed back, and as the darkness withdrew the pain flared once more.
“Easy, you’re safe”
He tried pulling away, lifting his arms but he couldn’t move, couldn’t do anything. His limbs felt heavy and his bones leaden.
Get up, Matty.
The voice sounded an awful lot like Stick. He would be disappointed if he could see him now, he needed to get up to move-
His side exploded, then blissfully the darkness pressed back in. This time he let it.
When he woke it was to gentle voices just on the edge of hearing, clearer than before but still distant. He could reach them, if only he wasn’t so tired…
A different pair of hands pressed something cool and damp against his forehead. He took in a deep breath and the tastes and scents of the room came with it. Copper in the air. Blood. His? Likely. Chlorine, rust. The squeak of metal then the rush of water. Someone was running a tap. The damp cloth returned and pressed circular motions against his temples, his chest, rubbing away the copper smell and he hissed as pain bloomed where it touched – it was his own blood then. He shifted and felt more cloth, dry and coarse this time, rub against his skin. Bandages?
His tongue felt large and dry like he had swallowed sand. He tried to wet his lips and felt the rim of a glass press against his mouth. A hand cradled the back of his head, lifting it slightly off the pillow so he wouldn’t choke and as the woman lent in he caught the smell of soap, ink, wood and linen. It was strangely comforting. He drank deeply, but the glass was pulled away too soon and he missed its absence. The hand behind his head disappeared and he felt a rush of vertigo as he was lowered back down, then a draft of air as whoever it was walked away.
The taste of brick and ash still lingered at the back of his throat but he forced himself to focus elsewhere. Old sheets, cheap and rough from years of washing, but clean. The swish of tunics, several pairs of footsteps on linoleum floors. Hospital?
Bit by bit the pieces slotted together, slowly creating a picture - slower than he would like – but his head felt thick and fuzzy with sleep and the ringing was still there, fainter now but the pounding at the back of his skull was more prominent and he winced at a partially violent throb.
No, not hospital. Too quiet and no bleach smell.
Concentrate. What happened?
He tried to reach back for the memories but found only a gaping blankness. He remembered the fight, the bomb, Elektra… but then nothing. He felt the first stirrings of panic.
Elektra. Did she make it out?
His breathing quickened and he tried to sit up but to his surprise, he felt a hand press against his chest. He thought he was alone - He must be more out of it than he knew.
“Relax, child. You’re badly injured-”
“Where am I?” His voice sounded weak and hoarse with disuse.
“Clinton Mission Shelter. You’re safe here, I promise.” He tried to focus on her heartbeat but his head gave another vicious throb and his attention snapped away like he’d been stung. He was not used to worrying about being lied to, but unable to listen to a heartbeat he felt naked and vulnerable. It did nothing to ease his anxiety.
The nun spoke again, sounding kind but stern “Can you tell me your name?”
He opened his mouth to answer then closed it again quickly. With great effort he lifted his hand up to his face. No mask. His panic doubled, “Did you-”
“Your wounds were… extensive, however given the suit we assumed you would not want authorities or a hospital”
“No, no hospital”
A pause. The mattress creaked and he realized she was sitting on the bed with him.
“I might not agree with your methods… but…” The air above her shoulders swirled as she shook her head and she sighed, her voice taking on a gentler tone, “for the good you have done, I hardly think you deserve the name Devil. Your identity is safe with us, I assure you. Think of it as a seal of confession.”
Matt breathed out, feeling some of the tightness in his chest ease.
“Thank you…” He swallowed thickly.
She straightened up “Is there someone we can call?”
The name came to him before he even had to think of it. “Foggy. My – my friend, Foggy. His number would be under Hogarth, Chao and Benowitz ”
“And who should I say is asking for him?”
He took a deep breath and blew it out in a rush before answering. There was no harm in saying it now. “Matt, Matt Murdock”
Silence. The nun’s chest hitched and she stood abruptly.
Matt frowned, clearing his throat “is everything alright-”
But she had already swept out the room.