Work Text:
Wrath.
Dictionary definition: Intense anger.
Biblical definition: "If anger reaches the point of a deliberate desire to kill or seriously wound a neighbor, it is gravely against charity; it is a mortal sin."
Matt Murdock’s definition: A trinity of anger, violence and the Devil wearing his face all carefully kept under the deceitful veneer of a charming,
“Ye of little faith…”
mild-mannered
“I'm Catholic, I have so much faith. Just not in you.”
lawyer.
‘Foggy, I can sense a lot of things and right now I sense bullshit.’
The Devil's in the details and no one looks hard enough.
Lies upon lies blooming like bruises on his skin, so much that it feels like a sin to just be himself- selves- him and that something lurking, writhing, howling in his heart. Something that he feeds every night with an insatiable hunger till his knuckles tear open, blood drips from his fingers and his almost manic smile finally calms in the catharsis. A wild thing kept caged for far too long.
It feels like sin to omit this part of himself.
It feels like sin to accept it.
This self that's all snarling fury and roaring fire with the intent to hurt and tear and break, tasting copper in the air and grinning too wide with too many teeth, wolfish and brutal and completely unrepentant as it slinks back into the shadows. This self that's at odds with the public image of an innocent and harmless citizen, following the law as if his life depended on it, with his ever-bleeding heart.
“Who does he think he is? Dread Pirate Roberts?”
‘Foggy, what?’
“I dunno, I'm kind of getting Zorro vibes.”
‘Karen, what?’
“Eh, he's missing the hat and sword and kickass cape.”
‘Please? Elaborate? I don't understand???’
“Whatever.”
‘No no no, wait, go back, what the fuck do you mean-’
No one notices the Devil wears a suit and tie.
Not when half of him hides away in the shadows of the night and half of him is left scorched and aching in the aftermath of its flames.
He toes the line like a man split in two each day and night anyway, in this habit that borders on addiction, no matter how much it hurts. A slave to his own bloody desires, revenge and spite borne in the path of his love of twisted justice.
(He lets it hurt and it feels like penance. It'll feel like penance until the next night and it'll never be enough. It'll feel like penance until the next night, knowing he doesn't feel guilty at all.)
It's never enough to make him stop. (Not even when it's tearing him apart.)
He can't. (He doesn't want to.)
The city needs him. (And he needs to indulge it.)
Indulging this dangerous addiction, this beautiful crime, even when it burns him from inside out. Boiling, boiling, boiling with rage until he can't tell the difference between himself- selves- and if there was ever a line drawn between them at all. Until he's not sure his soul can be saved, no matter the costs he's willing to pay.
He'll give anything to the city, even his salvation.
There's a discussion to be had (Not now, keep pushing it later later later-) about morals and vigilantism and the questionable ethics of how he brings down blind justice like the finality of a judge's gavel. Because if he were a better man, he would stop.
(It's too bad he's not.)
Maybe someday. Not today, not tomorrow. Maybe someday…
Matt’s finger doesn't stop feeling across a line of braille until it reaches the edge of the page, only for him to start again on the next line.
He smirks weakly to himself, like he's just heard a joke so sad that he can't even laugh.
(Because he knows it's a hopeless thought.)
We fight every night for something
When the sun sets, we're both the same
Half in the shadows
Half burned in flames
(And it's a beautiful crime.)