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pandalandalopalis · 5 months

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

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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 go through therapy. You go on a date with Steve that gets interrupted.

Warning: Brief mention of Wolf’s suicide attempts. Brief allusions to sexual assault.

Part 2 - Chapter Sixteen: Wolf, Interrupted

A/N: Therapy is important and it can help. I’ve been to therapy many times and I’ve had about four therapists over the years. It can be hard but it does help in the long run. It’s important to remember that healing is not a linear process. Just because you experience set-backs does not mean that you’re not getting better. It also looks different for everyone. Also! Not all therapists are right for everyone. Don’t be afraid to get a new therapist if you feel the one you have is not working for you, they won’t be offended. Sometimes therapists have different styles and you need to find the one that works for you. If you’re having a hard time, I strongly encourage you to seek therapy if that’s something you have available to you (I know it can be expensive which I recognize is something that can make getting therapy difficult). I know it may sound trite because people say it so often, but it will get better. You’ll find your way. I love you all. Anyway. I got DMCW brainrot. This is over 13k words. Enjoy.

You told her everything. You did not hold back.

But telling your story was not like the times you had told it when you weren’t sober. Anytime you tried to say it casually, like it didn’t matter, the words got stuck in your throat and it was an effort to get them out.

It took a long time to get through everything. You thought it would take one session to simply tell her everything that had happened in your life, just the facts and background, not how you felt or what you thought about them — but it wasn’t like that. Each moment in your life that you went over, your eidetic memory brought to the forefront.

For some of them, a fifty-minute session was not enough. Your first weeks in the Red Room. The first time you killed someone. Each of your two suicide attempts. The reason behind those suicide attempts.

You re-lived each of these memories in graphic and vivid detail, with no substance to blur the edges and numb the feeling. To get the words out on what happened took a long time. You knew the Doc saw the moments for herself, so she knew them already, but the point of the therapy was for you to say it out loud. To narrate it yourself. To tell the story in your own words. It was a way to . . . walk through the memories, rather than let yourself be dragged through them.

It was a slow and excruciating process and many times you asked yourself what the point was. How this would help you.

And yet, throughout, the Doc re-lived the memories with you. You felt her in your mind, her telepathy like a warm hand wrapped around yours as you walked through each painful and anguished step. Someone who waited patiently each time you stumbled. Each time you found it difficult to continue. She waited. And sat with you. And let you lean on her when you were ready to stand again.

Fifty minutes, every day, you endured. You wanted this to work and you wanted it to work as fast as possible. But the Doc told you that healing is a process, and it is a non-linear process. She told you that you may get better and then experience set-backs where things get worse again. She told you that’s normal. That healing is not just continuously getting better and staying better until you’re completely healed. She told you that healing takes as long as it takes and that it can’t be rushed. Which was why she encouraged you not to time travel ahead to the next session, as if you could live as many therapy sessions back-to-back as you could in an effort to fix yourself as fast as possible. She told you that part of the healing process involved learning how to live daily life with your trauma.

She gave tips on how to build healthy coping mechanisms. She taught you how to be grateful. To take time out of your day to recognize the things you were grateful for. Not being in the Red Room. Not living with the threat of violence every day. Being able to make your own choices. And little things, too. Coffee. The colour of the sky. The way the outside air smelled on a crisp, clear day.

She encouraged you not to let yourself be alone. That being alone would only induce intrusive, negative thoughts of your past and send you spiraling.

But you couldn’t contact Matt. The two of you still weren’t on speaking terms. You weren’t ready to see him yet. Not after what he had said.

So between the sessions, in the evenings and on the weekends, you contacted Karen. She wasn’t like the Avengers, she knew who you were and what you’d done. You didn’t have to pretend you were someone that you weren’t.

You didn’t talk to her about your trauma, that was saved for the Doc, but you spent time with her. Let yourself not be alone. Talked about things that didn’t matter. Went to coffee shops and walked in the park.

Karen was only happy to oblige you. She kept your mind off things. She had a wealth of things to talk about. She gave you suggestions for books to read, smutty romance stories that could keep your mind busy in the times when you were not in therapy and when you were not with her.

She did ask things, but she did not push. She was always gentle. How are you doing today? How is therapy going? Is there anything you’d like to talk about?

Have you seen Matt lately?

Some questions you answered and some you did not. But you were always honest with her. When she asked you things, she seemed to genuinely want to know the answer. She was easy to talk to. Today is fine. Today is not good. Today is really bad. Today is better. Therapy is good. Therapy is the worst thing invented. Therapy is like putting your heart on a metal pike and watching it bleed. Therapy is helping. No, there isn’t anything I want to talk about, but thank you.

No, I haven’t seen Matt lately. And that was it.

Karen noticed the first day that it looked like Matt hadn’t slept a wink. He was distracted, he was irritable. His mind was clearly elsewhere. He checked his phone messages almost obsessively. He snapped a few times at her and Foggy.

When she tried to ask him what was wrong, he only told her Nothing, I’m fine and wouldn’t give her anything more than that. Then she told him off for being an asshole to her and Foggy when they hadn’t done anything to upset him like this. He apologized, but didn’t explain his behaviour.

This went on for the next week. After his apology he no longer snapped at Karen or Foggy, but his distracted and sleep-deprived mood stayed. He barely got any work done. He was tense, all the time. Karen kept trying to get what was wrong out of him but he refused to say.

It wasn’t until Y/N contacted Karen on the weekend that she finally knew the reason why.

Y/N had never contacted Karen directly before. They always hung out in a group of four, with Matt and Foggy. So when Y/N asked if just the two of them could hang out, she didn’t dislike the idea but she was a bit surprised.

Karen thought, if anyone would know what was wrong with Matt, it would be Y/N. And then all the pieces fell into place when Y/N admitted,

“Actually, um, Matt and I are not on speaking terms right now.”

Suddenly all of it made sense. Karen had seen the way Y/N and Matt were with each other, she knew how close they were and what they meant to each other. The fact that they weren’t talking, that was the reason for Matt’s lack of sleep and bad mood. The obsessive voicemail-checking made sense now, too.

“What happened?”

And then Karen noticed what she hadn’t a moment before: how much Y/N’s demeanour represented Matt’s. Worse, even. The bags under her eyes and the vacant look in her expression. Her faraway stare. And for the first time that Karen had ever seen of her, Y/N’s eyes filled with tears.

“I don’t want to— Fuck, I’m sorry.” Y/N scrubbed at her face, like she was embarrassed by the tears running from her eyes. “I don’t want to talk about that.”

Whatever it was, it was clearly something bad. Karen touched Y/N’s hand and made her voice very, very gentle. “Are you okay?”

And then Y/N’s face broke and her voice was a shattered and wrecked admission, “No.”

The sobs came as if she couldn’t stop them. Karen did not hesitate to wrap her arms around Y/N. She held her and let her cry into her shoulder.

When Y/N was finally able to pull enough of herself together to speak, she gave some explanations. How she got sober recently. How that made it difficult to cope against the things in her past that had happened to her. How she used to use drugs and alcohol to cope against her eidetic memory, which made her re-live things in crystal clear detail. How she started going to therapy. How her therapist suggested she reach out to someone. To not be alone.

She didn’t explain what had happened between her and Matt, but Karen knew that whatever had happened meant that Y/N couldn’t reach out to Matt so she wouldn’t have to be alone. And if Y/N was reaching out to Karen, it probably meant that Matt was not just Y/N’s closest friend — he was her only friend.

On Monday, when Karen saw Matt in the office again, she knew she needed to give him something. For his sanity.

“Y/N’s okay.”

Matt’s head snapped up when Karen spoke. His eyebrows knitted together. “What?”

“She contacted me. We had lunch yesterday.”

“You saw her?” Matt hadn’t known where she was. It weighed in the pit of his stomach, the idea that she had run away again, that she was far away or lost in time. That she wasn’t coming back. And he was so fucking angry with her, for making bad and selfish choices, for the things she had said during their fight, and yet he couldn’t stop himself from being worried out of his mind. He couldn’t sleep. He could barely eat. Because he knew, no matter how angry he was, that losing her would kill him.

But she wasn’t gone. She was still in New York.

And yet a worse thought found him: Did she find a way to get rid of her memories after all? When Karen said she was okay, did she mean she was void of her trauma? Perfectly fine without the truth of her memories haunting her? “She’s . . . okay?” Matt repeated.

“Well, to be honest,” Karen said, “she’s really not okay. She’s working through a lot of things, and I’m not really sure how much of that you know. I still don’t know what happened between the two of you; she wouldn’t say. And I won’t ask you again, because I know you won’t tell me. So, she’s not okay . . . but she’s trying to be.”

She still had her memories. She didn’t get rid of them.

Something very heavy lifted off Matt’s shoulders.

God. He was so tired.

Karen didn’t tell Matt any other details about her meeting with Y/N. She wasn’t sure if Y/N would want her to tell Matt any of that. But she gave him enough to give him peace of mind.

Matt nodded, not saying anything. Then he took off his glasses and put his face in his hands.

Karen walked over to where he was sitting at his desk, and she wrapped her arms around his shoulders. Let them sit in silence like that for as long as Matt needed.

That evening, Matt and Foggy went out for drinks at Josie’s. Karen had plans, so she didn’t join them.

Matt knew that Foggy’s patience had run out before he even spoke.

“Okay, you really gotta tell me what’s going on with you,” Foggy said. “I know you love bottling things up but I was hoping this time around our friendship would be different. You can just keep secrets like you used to. May I remind you that that was the reason our friendship fell apart in the first place.”

Matt sighed. “I know. You’re right. I’m sorry.” He paused, collecting himself. Now that he knew that Y/N at least hadn’t left New York and hadn’t erased her memories, he felt prepared enough to talk about this. “Things between Y/N and I are not good. We’re not talking right now.”

Foggy’s tone was sympathetic. “What happened?”

“I’m not sure how much you’re aware of Y/N’s past, but she’s been through a lot,” Matt began. “I won’t get into it, but there’s a lot of bad there. A lot I’m sure I still don’t know about. Things a person should never have to go through. And she’d been using alcohol and Oxy to cope with that.” He paused again. “She got sober recently. Because I asked her to.” There was a tinge of guilt there though he knew it was ultimately her choice, though he knew that it was ultimately a good thing. She still did it because he asked her to. And she was still suffering because of it. “I didn’t ask her to do it forever — just for a night. But she decided to get clean. I think a part of her wanted an excuse to do it. But she’s not doing well. She’s not coping. And I don’t know how to help her. I don’t know how to protect her from things that have already happened.”

Useless. What did he have besides his fists? What was he worth more than that? What did he have that could help her?

“She . . . she tried to have all her bad memories erased,” Matt continued.

“What? You can do that?”

“If you find a telepath, I guess so,” Matt said. “But I guess the telepath she found refused to do it. We fought about that. I didn’t think it was a good idea. I . . . didn’t know what would happen to her if she did. If it went wrong, if it wiped all her memories, if I would lose her forever.” Matt held his beer tightly in his hand, feeling like teeth would break under the pressure of his jaw. “She said . . . she’d rather that happen than keep the bad memories. She said that our memories, everything we’d been through together, weren’t worth keeping. She said that . . . that I wasn’t worth keeping her trauma.”

“Shit,” Foggy swore softly. “That’s harsh.” He was quiet for a moment, taking all this in. “Do you think she meant what she said?

“I don’t know,” Matt answered honestly. “I mean . . . is it fair to ask her to keep all her bad memories? When it’s making her suffer like this? I don’t know. And the thing is I’m really . . . angry with her. That everything we’ve been through together could mean so little to her. But at the same time I’m. . .” he breathed in, hauling the breath into his lungs, “. . .just really, really worried about her.”

Foggy sighed. “What I’m about to say . . . it’s not going to help you. And you probably don’t want to hear it. But it needs to be said.”

He paused, and Matt waited.

“Now you know how it feels.”

Oh.

Right.

How many times had Matt made things difficult for Foggy and Karen when it came to his other life? How many times did he make them worry? Make them angry with what he was doing? Let them down? Make it hard for them to be friends with him? . . .Say awful things?

“Yeah,” Matt breathed. “I know.”

Maybe this was karma. Matt thought of the way he treated Y/N when he was at the lowest place in his life. When she saved him. When she kept coming back, time and time again. How angry he was. How cold.

And for the first time, Matt really considered how hard Y/N tried when he was being so horrible to her. He said so many terrible things to her and she didn’t let it stop her. Both Foggy and Karen had given up on him, both before his near-death and after it, but Y/N refused to. She took every bad thing he threw at her and she kept coming back.

“You should forgive yourself,” she’d said, sick with withdrawal, sitting pressed against him under the warm spray of his shower. “I already have.”

“What do I do?” Matt asked after a time, and he hated the rough sound of his voice when he spoke. “I think I said something she took the wrong way. I told her I was afraid that erasing her bad memories might change her. I think she thought I meant that her trauma is such an integral part of her that getting rid of it would make her unrecognizable. I didn’t mean that. I don’t really know what I was afraid of . . . I just didn’t know what would happen if she went through with erasing her memories. I know I have a lot of memories that I’d rather forget. But I wouldn’t erase them because I don’t know how that would change me. But I don’t believe that everything I am is built on the bad things that I’ve been through.”

Matt paused when he realized that wasn’t quite true. Was he not his father’s bloody knuckles and fighting spirit? Was he not his father’s death? Stick’s weapon? Elektra’s death? Stick’s death? His mother’s abandonment? Y/N’s disappearance? Foggy’s abandonment, Karen’s abandonment, everyone who had ever left him. . . . Every broken bone and bruise and wound and everything that hurt. . . . Wasn’t that everything that made him into who he was now?

Matt exhaled. “Maybe I am. Maybe that is what I meant. I don’t know. Shit.” But did he believe that about Y/N? That she was the Red Room and every person she’d murdered and the things she’d done that terrified Frank Castle and the kids she’d helped traffic into the Red Room and the things the Winter Soldier had done to her and all the things she couldn’t even tell him. . . .

No. Of course not. Of course he didn’t think that. Maybe he was his trauma but she wasn’t. She was friendship and the only good thing he had at Saint Agnes and the person who chased away his loneliness. She was funny in a dry way and incredibly smart. She was the person who had his back, not just before she disappeared but after — The person who pulled him from the darkness and made sure he was okay before she even considered leaving. Who stayed because he asked her to. Who joined him in his vigilantism, who felt the need to get her hands dirty the same way he did. Who felt that same sense of justice that he did, though she wouldn’t admit it. She was those things. Not the Red Room. Not everything she wouldn’t say. Not her trauma.

But God. He was an asshole for making her believe that that’s what he thought about her.

“Is that what you think?” Foggy asked, cutting through Matt’s thoughts.

Matt shook his head. “I don’t really think that she—”

“Not Y/N,�� Foggy interrupted. “You. Do you really believe that who you are is built on the bad things that you’ve been through?”

Matt paused. “Well . . . isn’t it?”

“Matt. That’s not true, and I don’t want you believing that it is,” Foggy said. “You’ve done so much that has nothing to do with the bad things you’ve been through. You’re a lawyer. You help people by defending them in court. And you’re . . . not always a good friend but you’re a good person. If you were really all the bad things that you’ve been through then you’d be a villain and a bad guy. But you didn’t let all that bad stuff change you like that. Which means who you are is not those bad things. Okay?”

Matt gave his friend a tight smile. “Thanks, Foggy.” Maybe he was right. Maybe Matt needed Foggy to be right. Maybe he needed to let himself believe it rather than dig himself into a deeper spiral like he used to do.

And yet.

You are not worth keeping my trauma.

“Now,” Foggy said, “the karmic justice of you having to deal with Y/N’s situation in exactly the same way I had to deal with your situation aside . . . Do you think she’ll find a way to go through with erasing her memories?”

“I thought she might, but now I don’t think so,” Matt answered. “Karen said Y/N reached out to her, and that she’s trying to work through things. Which means she still has all her memories.” He rolled his beer between his hands. “I was afraid she might run away again, but she met with Karen, which means she’s still here. She hasn’t left.”

Foggy nodded, thoughtful. “Okay. Well, maybe she just needs some time, y’know? Maybe find a way to make it clear to her that you’re here when she wants to come back. Doesn’t mean you’re not owed an apology for what she said, but maybe she didn’t mean it. I mean, I don’t think you meant some of the things you’ve said to me in the past.” A beat passed and Foggy continued, “I hope you didn’t mean some of the things you’ve said to me in the past.”

“No, Foggy,” Matt agreed. “I didn’t mean them.”

“Okay, well, give her a chance to apologize and just be there for her when she wants to come back. There isn’t much else you can do. Trying to tell her what to do probably won’t get you very far. I know that never worked on you,” Foggy said.

Matt took a deep breath. He knew Foggy was right. Neither he nor Y/N liked being told what to do very much. Every choice they’ve both made was ultimately their own. Y/N would have to find her own way there — but he’d be there when she needed it. Even if he was still angry with her.

Matt took out his phone and stood from his chair. “Could you give me a few minutes?”

“Sure man. Take as long as you need.”

Matt dialed Y/N’s number and stepped outside. She didn’t answer. He didn’t expect her to.

Instead, he left a message.

A month passed.

When all this started, after your first session with the Doc, you’d called Fury and explained that you thought you were okay to return back to work after your kidnapping, but you needed more time to recover from it — not physically, but mentally. Although the source of the trauma was a lie, the reason for needing more time off wasn’t. Fury understood and gave you the time that you’d needed.

Steve had called not long after. Not only did you take time off from work, but you started staying in your own apartment rather than Avengers Tower. You couldn’t bear to see Bucky, not now, not when you still felt like killing him might bring you some peace. Steve must have wondered where you’d gone. Where you were.

You didn’t answer him. You couldn’t bring yourself to. You weren’t in a place to answer the phone and pretend like you were fine. You knew Steve wouldn’t expect you to be, knew Fury probably told him and the others why you’d taken more time off. . . . But talking to him was still a type of pretending. And you just couldn’t. Especially not when thoughts of killing his best friend, brutally and without mercy, pervaded your thoughts.

You wondered if Steve called Matt at any time to ask about you. You wondered what Matt would say.

(He did. When Y/N didn’t answer Steve’s calls, Steve called Matt. He was just worried about her. She’d left so abruptly the other day when he asked her out, and then by the next day Fury was telling them that she was taking more time off work to recover from what had happened to her. And Steve had waited for her to come home so he could talk to her, but she never did. And then she didn’t answer his calls. He called Matt because he thought that maybe she was staying with him. And if she wasn’t, he’d know where she was.

Matt had told Steve that Y/N was staying at her old apartment. Steve didn’t even realize she’d kept her old apartment. Steve had asked for her address, but Matt refused to give it to him. Told him to give her some time.)

(In truth, Matt had panicked the minute Steve called him asking for Y/N. Because that had meant that she wasn’t going to work and this was before Matt knew that Y/N had remained in town. This was when he still worried about her running away. He thought that maybe she really had.

When Steve had asked him for Y/N’s address, Matt didn’t give it to him. If Y/N really was gone, then she wouldn’t be there when Steve showed up, and Steve would go to Matt again, and Matt wouldn’t have an explanation. If Y/N was there . . . Well, Matt figured that she wouldn’t want Steve bothering her. The fact that she wasn’t answering Steve’s calls should have told him as much.

Matt thought about going to Y/N’s apartment. He thought about it obsessively. But he didn’t. He told himself it was because he knew she didn’t want him there — and not because he didn’t want to confirm if she really was gone. If she really did run away.)

Matt had called you a few times after your fight, but you hadn’t answered any of them, and he stopped calling soon after. But a week later, he called again. You didn’t answer, but unlike the other times, he left a voicemail.

You refused to listen to it.

After a month, you had finally gotten through all the facts and events of your life with the Doc. And now came the analyzing, the dealing with and the dissecting of everything you’d been through. Sometimes you talked about what you wanted to talk about, focused on what you wanted to focus on. Other times the Doc took the wheel, driving you to things you’d maybe rather avoid. Unlike the story of your life, this part was not linear. It went where it needed to go. And sometimes where it needed to go was not where you wanted to go.

“Have you talked to Matt yet?” Doc asked you softly. As much as you’d hated her in the beginning, you had to admit that she had a gentle touch. It didn’t make you like some of the things she had to say any better, but her endless patience and kindness paired well with your stubbornness and aura of violence.

You avoided her eyes. “No.”

“Why not?”

“Because of what he said.”

“What did he say?”

You gritted your teeth. You knew she knew what he said, because she’d seen the memory. But you always had to explain these things with your own words. “That if I take my trauma away, I’m not me anymore.”

“That’s not what he said.” Doc’s voice was gentle but firm.

“That’s what he meant.”

“You don’t know that. Do you want to see what he said?” Doc asked.

You didn’t really. You didn’t want to see Matt again, didn’t want to have to re-live that memory again, but you did want to prove the Doc right, and so that need won out.

“Fine. Show me what he said.”

You took a moment to close your eyes, letting the Doc work her magic. You opened them when you could smell Matt’s apartment rather than the citrus smell of the Doc’s therapy room.

It was like the scene was frozen in a tableau and you were waiting for the Doc to press play. Yourself and Matt stood before you. You had tears running down your face, but your expression had morphed into something hard and determined. Matt was gripping your arm, his own expression. . .

The only word you could find to describe it was desperate.

“You can’t just erase what you want,” Matt said when the Doc let the memory play. “You have to learn to live with the memories, like we all do. If you erase a part of yourself you wouldn’t be you anymore.”

Hot shame ran through you, unlike the first time when all you had felt was rage. When Doc paused the memory, you said, “See?”

She looked at you. “See what? What am I seeing?”

“He said if I erased a part of myself, I wouldn’t be me anymore,” you repeated. “If I erased my trauma, I wouldn’t be me anymore. He’s saying that my trauma makes me who I am. Like I said before.”

“But he didn’t say that,” the Doc pointed out. “He said ‘a part of yourself’. He didn’t say ‘your trauma’. As a telepath, I know that there’s a truth to what he’s saying. Memories are weaved and interconnected with each other in delicate ways. It’s not so easy to pick and choose things to be cut out without affecting the whole web. But the idea that your trauma is what makes you who you are is not what bothers you about this. Because part of you already believes that, and has for a long time.”

You stayed quiet. You didn’t deny that’s how you felt.

The Doc took you out of the memory and out of Matt’s apartment and had you sitting in her therapy room again, on that soft couch with many pillows to hold and the calming smell of citrus surrounding you.

“In fact,” the Doc continued, “you believe that so much that you consider the person you used to be before the Red Room to be dead, don’t you?”

She is, you thought. In all the ways that matter, she is. She’s trapped in that Red Room, in that red room, and she won’t ever leave.

The Doc sighed gently through her nose. “Here’s the thing. Trauma does make up parts of who we are. That’s the hard truth. It can change us and shape us. For reasons that I won’t get into . . . something traumatic in my life pushed me to be a pacifist. Would I be a pacifist if that trauma wasn’t there? I don’t know. But being a pacifist is a large part of my identity, now. A large part of what I believe in. But that doesn’t mean my trauma makes me who I am. It has shaped me, for better or for worse — and mostly for worse, don’t ever let someone tell you that trauma is ever a good thing. I think it’s . . . how we choose to respond to that trauma that makes us who we are. Not the trauma itself. Do you choose to do better? Or do you choose to be worse? That’s all. And it’s important to understand that everyone changes over their lifetime, even without trauma. That’s just a part of living. But you have some choice in how things change you. Heroes and villains often have similar backstories, have you ever noticed that? Death, loss, trauma. But they walk very different paths. They start in the same place, but they choose their own path.”

“I’m not a hero,” you mumbled.

“How would you define a hero?”

You thought for a moment. You thought about Steve. “Someone good. Someone with unshakeable morals. Someone who helps people.”

“You help people,” she pointed out. “You don’t think that makes you good? And ‘unshakeable morals’ is a high standard that would be difficult for anyone to uphold. Even Captain America.”

“He seems pretty perfect to me.”

“His best friend was brainwashed by Hydra into being a weapon used to murder,” the Doc said, and your hands gripped onto the bottom of the couch at the mention of Bucky. “You don’t like that the Avengers trust him to be in their group. How do you reconcile that with Steve’s ‘unshakeable morals’?”

You didn’t know how to answer that because you really couldn’t reconcile those things in your head. Steve was Steve. Steve was kind and good and a hero. Bucky was the Winter Soldier, a monster that had beaten you and was a walking reminder of the Red Room and all the trauma you found there. You couldn’t make these things fit together in your mind.

“Does Matt have ‘unshakeable morals’?” the Doc asked.

Your teeth gritted together at the mention of him. “Matt doesn’t kill.”

“You don’t kill,” the Doc pointed out.

“I used to kill,” you reminded her.

“But you don’t anymore.”

You continued to stare at the floor, not looking at her. After a moment, the Doc continued,

“We can pick this back up another time, because this wasn’t my point. I said you’re not upset about the idea that your trauma makes you who you are. You’re upset because you believe that that’s what Matt thinks.”

You shut your eyes.

“You don’t care what you think about yourself,” the Doc went on. “And you don’t care about what other people think of you. In fact, you never really have, not even before the Red Room. But Matt’s opinion of you matters. Do you want to expand on that?”

No, you didn’t, but you knew the Doc wasn’t really asking. You get out of this what you put in, she had told you in the beginning. You could refuse to talk about things all you want, but then you wouldn’t be getting any better.

You opened your eyes. You kept them on the floor, on the plush carpet with its swirls of colour. “What Matt thinks of me makes it real,” you admitted. “I can think whatever about myself, and maybe it’s not true, because I’m too close to understand, or something. And people think what they want to think about me. I’ve been a lot of things. I’ve pretended to be a lot of things. I’ve been bitchy. I’ve been an asshole. I’ve been a monster. I’ve liked it that way. It never mattered what anyone thought because they don’t know me.” You paused. “Matt knows me. I think he’s the only person who does. He’s the only person I’m close with. The only person I trust. Even when I didn’t know it was him, when he was the only person to hold out his hand, when he was the only person who said that my soul was worth saving, I believed him. I believed in that. And when he called me a monster, that became real, too. And it hurt. It hurt that there was someone close enough to me who could rip me apart from the inside. I didn’t like it. But I couldn’t stop myself from feeling that way. When Matt said he wanted me to stay in New York, I stayed. When he told me that when I first came back into his life, when he didn’t believe it was me because he thought he didn’t deserve to have me back, I felt worth something. I felt worth something to him. When for a long time I didn’t think he’d want me, after the Red Room.”

You paused.

“If he looks at me and sees my trauma, it makes it real,” you said, quieter than before. “It’s one thing for me to believe that. But I couldn’t bear it if he saw all of that. Saw all the blood I took in service of the Red Room. Saw the monster they turned me into. Worst of all, even though I haven’t told him, if he saw, if he saw—” You felt bile rise to your throat as you recalled the memories. The memories of the red room. “—saw that I am damaged. In a way that can’t be undone. See the— the—” Hands. The hands. “—Like I’ve been marked—”

You felt like you were going to throw up, and it wasn’t the first time you did so in the Doc’s room, so you reached for the bowl on the table before the panic and trauma could leave your throat—

“But he wouldn’t see those things. He’s blind.”

You froze, your eyes narrowing. You brought your hand back and stared at the Doc, at the slight amused tilt to her lips. A flash of anger ran through you. How could she joke at a time like this? “You’re not funny.”

“I’m a little funny.”

And then you realized what she did. She distracted you. Threw you off so you’d leave the memory you’d latched on to.

You took a breath. Tried to do what the Doc had suggested, to acknowledge the thought, the memory, and then let it pass over you. Like you were a heavy rock in a river. Letting water wash over you without being washed away.

“The truth is, you don’t know what Matt thinks and you don’t know what he meant when he said that,” the Doc said. “I could tell you what I think he meant but there’s no guarantee that I’m right, either. You can only know if you talk to him about it.”

But you still weren’t ready to face Matt again. What the Doc was saying about everything was rational and yet you couldn’t get yourself to believe it. You re-lived that argument again and again in your mind, and each time Matt’s words felt like a burning sear. It felt like he was so against you finding a way to rid yourself of your trauma, and you couldn’t get yourself to believe anything else. You couldn’t bear to be around him again. Not yet.

At the end of your session, the Doc asked if you were okay to start having appointments once a week rather than once a day, and you agreed. It was time to start transitioning back into the real world.

Well. Real-adjacent for you, that is.

You worked on steadying your breathing as you rode the elevator up Avengers Tower. Worked on preparing yourself for acknowledging thoughts of killing Bucky and letting them pass over you, should you see him again.

When the elevator door opened and you walked further onto the floor, you noticed Steve reading on the couch. No one else was there, from what you could tell.

You cleared your throat and prayed your voice would come out steady. “Hey.”

Steve looked up and his eyes widened slightly. “Hey.” He closed his book and stood, coming over to stand in front of you.

“I’m sorry I . . . didn’t answer any of your calls,” you said slowly.

Steve shook his head. “You don’t have to apologize,” he said. “But you know you could have told me if you were still having a hard time.” He didn’t say it like ‘You should have told me’, but rather like he wouldn’t have been offended if you told him you needed space. “I would have understood.”

A part of you felt guilty for not answering his calls, but you didn’t trust yourself to answer them then. “I thought I was okay to come back to work. But I got back here and realized I wasn’t. It had nothing to do with you,” you added hastily. “I know I left kind of abruptly during our last conversation.”

Steve rubbed the back of his neck, and a bit of pink tinged his cheeks. “It’s okay, don’t worry about it.”

“I do want to go out with you.”

Steve’s eyebrows raised.

“That’s what you were asking me, wasn’t it?” you continued.

“Well, I— Yes,” he settled on.

“Okay,” you nodded. “How about dinner Friday night? You pick the place.”

“Yeah. Okay.” He smiled and it was wide.

“Oh, and just for future reference,” you added, “I’m really not a fan of the ballet.”

You’d chosen something much more modest than the dress attire you usually preferred. It was an off the shoulder, ruffley dress that went down to your ankles, in a pattern of pinks and creams that resembled flowers. Gentle. Feminine in a soft way. Everything to represent your good girl persona that you portrayed for the Avengers.

You met Steve in the hallway and had to admit, he looked good in a suit. He complimented you and told you you looked pretty, and offered you his arm before getting into the elevator.

The two of you chatted in the car on the way to the restaurant. When you got there and let Steve help you out, you realized how fancy the restaurant was, and you were impressed. Steve clearly put some thought into this date.

He led you inside to the table he had reserved and pulled out your chair so you could sit down. Once sitting himself, Steve reached for the wine list and began looking it over.

Panic sparked in your chest.

If he asked you what kind of wine you wanted, would you say yes? Would you tell him your favourite? Would you drink a glass, two glasses, three glasses, and relish the way it numbed your mind and took you far away from the memories that constantly plagued you?

It would be so easy. It would be so easy to just let him order and drink it like everything was normal. So easy to return yourself to old habits. It would make everything so much easier.

But.

What would Matt think?

You took a sip of the water the waiter had already poured for you and tried not to bite your teeth down around the edge of the glass. You didn’t want to see him and hadn’t seen him for five weeks and yet you still could not escape the truth you’d admitted to the Doc: that what Matt thought of you mattered, it mattered so much.

It’s why you went to the extreme of erasing your memories. Returning to drugs and alcohol would be an easier solution, and one not so permanent and changing. But you knew Matt wouldn’t approve of that. That was it. So you tried to find another solution. But he didn’t approve of that one, either. And so you found yourself unable to seek another telepath who’d probably erase your memories if you paid the right price. No, you went back to the one telepath you knew would still say no.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Every second you continued to let Steve look at that wine list was an internal war with yourself.

God it would be so easy. It would be so easy.

FUCK.

“What kind of wine do you like?” Steve asked, oblivious to your inner turmoil. “Red or white? Or rosé?”

Moment of truth. Which one was your favourite? Red was bold and sexy. White was safe and sweet. Rosé was a unique blend of the two, maybe that one was the best to signal to him that you were a good girl but also fun and adventurous—

“Actually, I have a bit of a headache. Do you mind if I just have water?”

You wondered if that was just about the hardest thing you’ve ever made yourself say. It felt like it, in that moment.

“Of course, I don’t mind,” Steve said. When the waiter came and Steve looked at him to hand him back the wine list, you blew out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding. “I think we’re just going to stick with water, thanks.”

When the waiter left, you said, “You can have a drink if you want to, don’t let me stop you.”

Steve gave you a smile and shrugged. “To be honest, I wasn’t even sure what I was going to order. I’m not really a wine guy.”

This made you smile. It was a thoughtful gesture.

Slowly, you unclenched your hands in your lap and hoped you hadn’t been digging your nails into your flesh hard enough to draw blood.

“So,” Steve began, and took a sip of his water, “how’s Matt?”

Acknowledge the thought. Let it pass over you. Acknowledge the thought. Let it pass over you. Acknowledge the thought, let it pass over you—

“Fine,” you answered, thankfully even. “He’s a busy defence lawyer so I haven’t seen him much lately. But that’s okay. He’s doing important stuff, you know. How’s the team been since I’ve been gone? Any interesting missions?”

Steve took the bait to switch topics and you were grateful. The two of you chatted for a while waiting for your meals and you felt . . . good. Things were going good. You weren’t drinking. You were sober and things were okay. You were getting through this.

Your phone rang in your clutch and you gave Steve a sheepish look. “Sorry,” you said as you reached in to turn your phone off.

A strange feeling spiked in you when you saw the name caller ID was Foggy Nelson.

Foggy never called you. The two of you weren’t really close, you only hung out with each other when Matt was there.

Why was he calling you? Maybe . . . maybe it wasn’t strange, maybe he really was just calling to hang out, maybe Karen mentioned to him that the three of you could hang out without Matt, maybe—

Steve must have seen the hesitation on your face, because he said, “You can answer it if you need to.”

You looked up at him. “I just— It’s Matt’s friend, and he usually doesn’t call me, so I’m just. . . .”

“Answer it,” Steve said, giving you a smile to show he wasn’t mad. “I don’t mind.”

You gave him a tight smile in return. “Sorry. It’ll just be a sec.” You picked up the phone and held it to your ear, fighting back a hiss as you said, “Hey this really isn’t a good—”

“Matt’s not breathing.”

Something shattered in you.

You couldn’t think. You were sure all the blood had left your body.

Not breathing

Matt’s not breathing

“What?!”

Foggy’s voice was urgent and he spoke quickly. “I found Matt unconscious in his apartment and he’s gasping like he can’t breathe— Claire won’t be able to get here in time and I know you can get here right away— Please hurry, Y/N, I don’t know how much longer he has—”

“I’ll be there.” You hung up and felt like your head was spinning. You stood and Steve stood with you.

“Everything ok—”

“Matt’s hurt,” were the words that came out of your mouth. “I have to go. I have to— God, I’m sorry, Steve, but I have to leave.”

“It’s okay, go,” Steve said, nodding. “Do you need me to call the driver—?”

“No, no,” you said. Panic thrummed fast and painful in your chest. “It’s okay. I’m sorry.” That was the last thing you gave him before you turned and ran out of the restaurant.

In the moments between getting outside and teleporting in a discreet place, your mind was racing.

God, why the fuck did you stay away for so long? What was the reason? It seemed to matter so little now.

If Matt died— God, fuck, if Matt died— How could that be the last conversation you had with him? When you said those awful things? Fuck, when you told him he wasn’t worth anything— Is that what you said? You might as well have said that. Did you just give up the last five weeks you might have spent with him? For what? For what?

Oh, God, oh, God—

You teleported into Matt’s apartment, and there he was lying, bruised and bloody and unconscious, his body hidden behind the blurs of your tears—

“What do we do?” came Foggy’s panicked voice. “Do something!”

You snapped into action, leaning down and putting your hands on Matt. You listened to the way he was gasping.

“Help me,” you ordered, and Foggy helped you peel the top part of Matt’s suit down to bare his torso. You felt his body and pressed your ear to his chest.

“He has a collapsed lung, I have to poke a hole in his chest so the trapped air can escape,” you said, and you wondered if saying it out loud was more for you or for Foggy.

You pulled your dress high over your leg and gathered the skirt around your waist, not worried about scandalizing Foggy as you reached for the knife strapped to the inside of your thigh. You grabbed it and all the memories of the textbooks you read and informational videos you watched came back to you, clearer than it ever had before. Your hand might as well have been the hand of the surgeon you watched on the pneumothorax video as you counted his ribs, braced your hand on his torso, then cut a small hole in the right place between his ribs.

The gasping sound ceased as Matt inhaled deeply and exhaled successfully. Inhaled. Exhaled. Inhaled. Exhaled. Began breathing normally.

“Oh thank God,” Foggy breathed in a whoosh.

You stared, frozen, knife still raised.

“Y/N?”

He almost died. He had almost been dead. He almost died and the last thing you said to him was calling him worthless.

You dropped your knife and it clattered to the ground as you hurried to your feet and to the kitchen sink and you vomited.

You took a moment to rinse out the sink when you were done, then wiped your mouth and turned around, sliding down the side of the cabinets.

Then you sobbed.

It was parts relief and parts guilt and you couldn’t stop yourself from crying in loud, messy gasps, tears pouring from your eyes in an unending stream.

Face buried in your hands, you didn’t notice Foggy coming over until he sat next to you. There was a moment of hesitation, then you felt his arms wrap around you and your head rested on his shoulder.

“C’mon, it’s okay,” came Foggy’s voice. “Matt’s okay. He’s breathing. He’s done this a bunch of times, he’ll be fine. I think he even said he dealt with a collapsed lung, once. He’s alright.” Foggy’s hand stroked your arm.

After a moment, your sobs subsided. Foggy said, “C’mon, we should move him onto the couch.”

Pulling yourself together, you helped Foggy move Matt onto the couch, take off his Daredevil suit, and put him in comfortable clothes. It worried you that he stayed unconscious through all of that, but Foggy didn’t seem worried, so you held onto that.

When you were done, the two of you sat in the chairs across from the couch in the living room.

You stared at Matt’s sleeping form, exhausted from the adrenaline leaving you and all the crying you did.

Foggy’s voice broke the silence after a few moments, like he needed to fill it with something else. “So, uh. You look nice. Where were you?”

“Uh.” Your head was still spinning; you were still frazzled and worried about Matt. “I was on a date.”

Foggy was very surprised by her answer, and so he couldn’t stop the word from leaving his mouth, “What?” From everything he’d seen between Matt and Y/N, it was clear to him that the two of them were stupidly in love with each other even if they both didn’t realize that yet. So the fact that she was on a date, with someone who was not Matt— “Why?”

You were still having a hard time processing things right now. You stared at Foggy, your mouth slightly parted. What did he mean ‘why’? Did you need a good reason to go on a date with someone? “. . .I don’t know how to answer that.”

“With who?” Foggy followed up.

“Um. Steve Rogers.”

“Captain America? Damn.”

You continued to stare at him, confused at why he was reacting this way. “. . .Are you in love with me? Because this is a wildly inappropriate time to confess. Your best friend is unconscious.”

Foggy’s eyes narrowed as she came to the wrong conclusion. “No, I’m not in lo— I have a girlfriend! You know that I have a girlfriend!”

She simply continued to look at him, and then looked back at Matt, as if this conversation exhausted her too much. Foggy decided he could save any follow-up questions for another time.

After another little bit, you told Foggy he should go home and rest; you would watch over Matt. It took him some convincing, but he finally conceded. He told you to call him if you needed him, even if it was the midnight of the night, and he left.

You continued to watch Matt. To listen to his breathing, mostly steady if somewhat strained.

You don’t know why you remembered it in that moment. The unopened voicemail sitting in your phone’s inbox. Matt’s voicemail that he sent you a month ago.

You took out your phone and found it, pressing play and holding your phone to your ear.

“Hey.”

It had been a while since you heard his voice. The idea that you might never have heard his voice again cracked something in you.

There was a pause, as if he was figuring out what to say. “I know we aren’t talking right now. I know you don’t want to talk to me. I know we both . . . said some things. But I wanted you to know that . . . I know that the bad things you’ve been through doesn’t make you who you are. That isn’t what I meant. I was just . . . worried. I just want you to be okay. And I want you to know that . . . I’m here. When you want to talk. If you want to talk to me again.” He took a breath. “I care about you. A lot. I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.”

When your voicemail box signalled the end of the message, you put the phone down and cried. And cried.

The first thing Matt noticed when he woke up was that his whole body hurt. But that wasn’t really unusual for him, especially considering the fight he got into that he barely had the strength to drag himself back to his apartment after.

The second thing he noticed was that he was lying on the couch. He tried to remember if he had passed out here or on the floor.

The third thing he noticed was the soft clothes on his body, not his Daredevil suit, so someone must have changed him out of it. Foggy, maybe, or Karen—

And the fourth and final thing Matt noticed, was Y/N.

He recognized her smell, the shape of her body, the sound of her breath. She had moved one of the living room chairs closer to the couch and was now curled up in what must have been an uncomfortable position, sleeping. Her eyes were screwed shut tight, her expression pinched, and her whole body tense.

What was she doing here? Was she okay? So many questions ran through his mind, but the loudest words in his head were,

She’s here. She’s here.

Y/N shifted, and by the small intake of breath Matt could tell that she was awake now. Matt could tell Y/N was staring at him.

He didn’t dare breathe.

“Hi,” she finally whispered, barely more than a breath.

“Hi,” he whispered back.

“How are you feeling?”

Matt tensed. Her voice sounded wrecked. “You know. Hurts but I’m okay.” He wanted to know why she sounded like she had been crying. “What happened?”

And then her face broke and a sob left her mouth, and suddenly she was up and on the couch, wrapping herself around him, holding him so tight it hurt in his injured state but he didn’t worry about that, he just let her press her face into the crook of his neck and cry. She was shaking. He wrapped his arms around her back and braced her against him.

“Foggy called me,” she sobbed. “He said you weren’t breathing.”

Oh.

She was crying because of him. Because he got hurt.

Dimly in the back of your mind you thought you should be holding him more gently, you should be careful of his injuries, but the only thing you could think was that he was okay and he was not dead and you never wanted to let him go again.

“I’m sorry, Matt,” you sobbed. “I’m so fucking sorry. I didn’t mean it. I didn’t mean what I said. You mean everything to me.”

She wailed, and the sound broke his heart and tears sprung to his eyes and his face crumpled. He squeezed her to him and he didn’t care if it pressed on his chest and made it hard to breathe.

“I don’t know what I would do if you were dead,” she cried. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have stayed away for so long. I’m sorry the last thing I said to you was so fucking awful. I was in pain and I didn’t understand what I was saying but that’s not an excuse. If you had died and that was the last thing I said I would’ve never forgiven myself.”

Matt had never been sure. What he meant to her. Since he got her back after she’d been missing for twenty years, it was difficult to say where things stood between them. Besides her withdrawal delirium that prompted the You were the only person I ever really loved, she never said these things out loud.

But maybe he was looking for words when he should have been looking for actions. The way she risked her life to save his. The way she stayed to help him when he was in the darkest place of his life, when he said so many terrible things to her and tried to push her away like he did with everyone else. The way she stayed in New York because he asked her to. The way she got sober because he asked her to.

The way she kept all her horrible, traumatic memories. Because he asked her to.

And he had kept asking himself why when the reason was so very clear. She cared. She cared about him. He was worth something to her. He meant something to her. And she was a broken, sobbing mess at the idea that he could have died.

I don’t know what I would do if you were dead. There was a time where you wanted to say those words out loud but you couldn’t. When you couldn’t let Matt see your heart that way. When you still lived behind walls and you weren’t ready to take them down.

Now you said the words freely, let them pour from your mouth, let the bricks lay scattered at your feet, let your heart be bare and raw. Because you had to say the words. He had to know.

“A lot happened when I was unconscious, huh?” came Matt’s voice, and it brought a foreign sort of relief and amusement to your chest and you couldn’t stop the small laugh that left your mouth.

But it ceased when the guilt returned. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said what I said. I didn’t want to hurt you like that.”

“I accept your apology,” Matt said. “I know you didn’t mean it. I didn’t mean a lot of things I said when I was struggling, too.”

Some weight left your shoulders and your sobbing began to subside, and you breathed in Matt’s smell and felt grateful that he was alive. He stroked your back and you felt comforted by the motion.

And then you pulled back so you could look at him. There were tears running down his face as well and you let yourself wipe some of them away with your hand. Tried not to let yourself overthink the gesture. “I know I’m not . . . good at saying what I feel. I think it’s because I haven’t felt anything for a really long time. Even before the alcohol and the drugs. I didn’t have the luxury of feeling. If I let myself feel I’d fall apart. So I did everything I could not to feel. And when I got the chance, I kept myself numb. I don’t even know if I was good at talking about my feelings when I was a kid. I don’t think I was. I think I’ve been running from myself longer than I even remember.”

A memory graced you briefly. Of being fifteen and realizing something you felt. Something you were afraid of saying out loud. Something you were afraid to tell Matt.

“But I’m going to . . . try,” you continued. “To say what I feel. Not when I’m in withdrawal and sick with delirium and too weak to stop myself. Not when I’m angry or upset and things come out wrong. Something I choose to say.” You paused, collecting yourself. “You’re my family, Matt. You’re the only family I have. You know me. I think you’re the only person who does. If I lost you I’d be alone.”

You’d thought a lot about if anyone really knew and understood you and realized that of course it was Matt. Even though you’d changed so much and only recently come back into his life. He was the only person who knew you from before, the only person capable of seeing you past the monstrous mask you wore. But more than that. When he didn’t even know it was you, he was the only person to reach out his hand and ask you not to kill. To attempt to save your soul. There was still so much he didn’t know and so much you hadn’t told him, but he still knew you. He (metaphorically) looked at you and told you that even though you were different (even though he was different), there were still parts of you that were the same. He saw that. And you were physically incapable of lying to him. You didn’t believe anyone else would be capable of seeing more than what you wanted them to see. You the pretender. You could not hide yourself from him. He was the only person capable of knowing you in the ways you didn’t want. To be truly known. All of it. That made him your family and you didn’t know if anyone else could come close to that.

And that knowledge fucking terrified you but you didn’t know how to say that part out loud.

Family.

You’re my family.

How many times had he thought the same thing? When they were just two orphans in Saint Agnes, when all they had were each other. When she went missing, when they finally pronounced her dead and had her funeral, when he felt like he lost a part of himself, like when he lost his father. When she left a void he didn’t know how to fill anymore. When he considered Foggy his family but it never felt the same.

You know me. I think you’re the only person who does. It was the same for him. Besides Stick, for a long time Y/N was the only person who knew about his abilities. Foggy was his friend and he knew Matt in most of the ways that mattered, but he didn’t know about the Daredevil part of him for the longest time. And when he knew, he didn’t understand it. There was a time in Matt’s life when he thought Elektra was the only person who saw him for what he truly was — but that wasn’t right, either. She saw the violence in him but not the good. She couldn’t understand why he wouldn’t kill. Both Foggy and Elektra saw parts of him but not the whole.

Y/N saw all of it. When she returned to his life, she saw the Daredevil part of him and she understood and accepted it. More than that, though she killed like Elektra killed, she stopped when he asked. She understood the point behind it — maybe not the value of human life but the way killing harms your soul. And when Matt was close to breaking his rule, she pulled him back. She who had killed so many and didn’t see the value in human life. She saw it was important to him and tried to stop him from making a choice that he could not take back.

Elektra had once said to him, “You hide from yourself. You don’t let anyone in.” And it was true. And he’d tried to let Elektra in but there were parts of himself she refused to see. When Y/N came back into his life, he didn’t let her in; she tore her way in. She wouldn’t let him hide from her and she wouldn’t let him hide from himself. She kept reminding him of who he was when he was so broken and she found a way to keep him from losing himself. And though not killing Fisk had ultimately been his own choice, she had never left his side. Would have let him kill Fisk if that was his choice. And would have stayed to remind him of who he was had he done it. She never tried to tell him who he was, like Elektra or Foggy or Karen, who saw him in different and incomplete ways — Y/N just knew. And kept reminding him until he saw it for himself.

If I lost you I’d be alone. That’s what he was so fucking terrified of. And he needed her to know that.

Matt’s jaw worked but he nodded. Then he took a breath. “I was afraid of losing you. I lost you once before. I didn’t want to do that again.” At some point in the hugging and tangling yourself around Matt, his hand found your upper thigh, and he gripped it as he spoke. It was a comforting pressure on your body. He used his other hand to hold yours, and you held it tightly. “I was afraid you’d run away or do something reckless you hadn’t thought through . . . like erasing your memories.” He pressed his lips together, pausing to sharply inhale through his nose. “Maybe it’s selfish to be afraid that you’d lose memories of us when you just want your pain to be gone—”

You pressed your hand to his chest as you interrupted him, “No, you were right. It would hurt me, too, if you did something like that.”

In the hours after Matt did not die, you got some clarity on the whole situation. You tried to see it from his perspective. What you would do if he wanted to erase all his bad memories. If he told you he’d rather . . . rather be a blank slate than deal with the trauma. It would hurt you, if he made it seem like your memories together meant so little.

Your heart seemed to be beating really fast in your chest, a forgotten but not unfamiliar feeling whispering in the back of your mind, with your hand over his heart and his hand on your thigh and holding your hand, with the two of you so close—

The feeling disappeared as soon as it arrived, before you could label it, the moment you remembered that there were other things you wanted to say. You took your hand back and shifted your body so your feet were on the floor. You kept your hand wrapped around Matt’s.

“I need to . . . ask you—”

“I didn’t mean what you thought I meant,” Matt said, anticipating the direction of your question but not quite what you were about to ask. “I don’t think all you are is just the trauma you’ve experienced. I didn’t mean that. I’m sorry if it came off that way.”

“I know,” you said. “I listened to your message. I didn’t listen to it until tonight, but I heard it. I know that’s not what you meant. But I still . . . I have to ask you. . . .”

She swallowed, and she was trembling again. Matt held her hand tighter, held it with both of his hands, and he stroked the back of her hand and her wrist though she was turned away from him.

“I want to know . . . what you see when you look at me.” She said it like it was an effort to get the words out. “If you see . . . the blood . . . of all that I’ve done . . . for the Red Room. . . .” Her voice became a whisper. “The things you don’t know. . . . Can you still see . . . the ways I am. . .” She seemed to choke on the word, unable to get it out for a moment. “. . .ruined?”

The things you don’t know.

He always suspected that there were lots she had not told him yet. He wanted to ask, but he knew that this wasn’t the time for it. Knew that that wasn’t what she was asking of him.

She seemed very far away from him now, and he didn’t want her there, didn’t want her to live in memories, wanted her here with him, and so he said,

“Well, first of all, I don’t see those things because I’m blind.”

Laughter bubbled up sharply and unexpectedly and pulled you from the memory that had grabbed hold of you. “Fuck off,” you breathed through the laugh, and you leaned back onto the couch and let yourself look at Matt again. There was a small smile on his face, like he was glad he was successful in pulling you from that dark place. He still held your hand and your wrist with both of his hands.

“I don’t see those things,” he finally said in a serious voice. “I just see my oldest friend, trying hard to make things better for herself.”

Something heavy left you, and the relief attached brought tears to your eyes again. You nodded, not trusting yourself to speak.

“And what about me?” Matt asked. “Do you see . . . bloody knuckles and . . . someone who doesn’t know when to quit fighting?” His tone was light but you knew his question was not.

“I told you what I see,” you said. “You’re my family. That’s all.” You didn’t have the words to explain all that you saw of him. You were always a woman of action, not words. But you hoped that he would understand. That him being your family meant that he meant everything to you.

Matt nodded. Her admission meant something to him, but he still wasn’t sure if . . . he believed it about himself. If he was more than what he said.

But that didn’t matter right now. Y/N was here, and she was okay, for the most part, and that’s all that mattered.

“I started going to therapy,” she said, and his eyebrows raised.

“Really?”

She nodded. “The telepath that I went to . . . she’s a therapist. She uses her telepathy to help people. It’s why she refused to erase my memories.”

Matt absentmindedly stroked her wrist and hand. “Is it helping?”

She thought for a moment. “I think so. It’s not easy. It’s so fucking far from easy. Sometimes I think it’s just about the worst thing I’ve been through. But it is. Helping. Things feel better now than before.”

“That’s good.” He squeezed her hand. “I’m proud of you, Y/N.”

You smiled at him, and the feeling of lightness that rushed through you was almost overwhelming.

Fuck, what a concept it was to truly feel again. You were so used to numbing the pain and the grief and the trauma that you forgot you numbed yourself to joy, too. To all other good emotions. It had been a long, long time since you felt this way. You’d forgotten what it felt like. And the intensity of it brought tears to your eyes again but you didn’t mind.

You leaned forward and you hugged Matt again for a second, just needing it for a moment, just needing to remind yourself that he was here. With you.

And you were not in the Red Room.

(Not physically.)

When you pulled back this time, you noticed Matt grasping some of your skirt in his hand. His eyebrows knitted together.

“What are you wearing?”

“Oh, y’know,” you let yourself joke for the first time in a while, “I like dressing up when I go save my friend’s life.”

“Sure.”

“I had a date tonight,” you explained.

“With Steve?”

“Yes. Had to leave before dinner. You owe me a meal.”

Matt looked like he was considering this. “How nice was the restaurant?”

“Pretty nice.”

“You know I’m a defence lawyer that gets paid in muffin baskets, right?”

“Tough. I’m taking you for all you’re worth, Murdock.”

Your stomach growled in a moment of great comedic timing, and Matt chuckled.

“C’mon, let’s get you something to eat.”

You looked at the non-existent watch on your wrist. “It’s like, three AM.” That was a guess, but you couldn’t be that fair off, right?

“It’s the city that never sleeps, we’ll find something. Just give me a minute to change.” Matt stood.

And made a noise like it pained him.

You were up immediately, putting his arm around your shoulders and wrapping your arm around his waist to brace his weight against you. “Maybe we should just stay here.”

He breathed out in a sound that might have been a scoff. “You’re so motherly when you’re sober.”

You rolled your eyes and fought down an amused smile. “I will leave you here and take your wallet.”

“Stealing from a blind man, that’s not very nice.”

You breathed a laugh through your nose, then looked to his kitchen. “We could eat here.”

“I don’t really have much in my fridge.” Matt knew he should eat better, but between how busy he was being a lawyer and being Daredevil it didn’t give him a lot of time to make proper meals.

“Okay, we’ll go to my place, then.”

She gave him a moment, like giving him a chance to prepare himself,

and then he felt his surroundings change from his apartment to a different one.

She set him down at what he could tell was the table in her kitchen. She went to the fridge and started pulling out things while Matt took a moment to take in her place.

It smelled like her.

“So this is it, huh?” Matt said.

You looked up at him, leaving your thoughts of what you should make for the two of you for a moment. “Hm?”

“Your apartment.”

Your eyes narrowed as realization hit you. “Have you never been here before?”

“No.”

“Huh. I guess not.” There wasn’t any particular reason you had never brought him to your apartment. For the longest time, it just wasn’t home to you. It was just a place you slept. A place you kept your alcohol and drugs. Just a roof over your head and nothing more.

The Doc encouraged you to change that. Decorate. Make it a safe place. Make it a place that felt like a home. So you did. You painted the walls with colour and you bought things to fill the space. In the places between your visits with the Doc and your outings with Karen, when you had nothing to do but sit in your apartment, it did make it better somewhat. You bought pillows and blankets and little lights to hang up in your bay window and it became a place you liked to read whatever smutty romance book Karen had recommended.

You fought down a smirk at the explicit nature of the last book you’d read and began chopping some ingredients for omelettes.

“Wait, you’re making us something? You can cook?” Matt teased.

You snorted. “I am an adult.” You shredded some cheese. You paused before saying, “. . .My therapist told me it would help if I ate better. If I put effort into making things and figuring out what kinds of things I like.” Food never really mattered to you before, not like that. It was just something that kept you alive. In the Red Room, it didn’t matter what you ate so long as you ate something. And somewhere along the way, after you got out, you kind of forgot that enjoying food was something you could do. That it was more than just sustenance.

It was like your coffee. The way you took it black for so many years because you didn’t have access to milk or cream or sugar. Until you were reminded that you could have those things now.

Food didn’t seem to matter as much as keeping a good stock of alcohol and Oxycodone. Food was always secondary. What did food do more than keep you from starving to death? The alcohol and Oxy actually served a purpose — so it took priority.

But the Doc pointed out how food could be so much more than that. And how good it could feel to spend time on something, to make something, and be rewarded with something that was enjoyable to eat.

You got the chance to figure out what you liked, too. That never really seemed important before. But it felt like something significant, now.

“I mean I’m not a professional,” you continued. “But I can do more than boil eggs or make toast.” You gave him a smile.

Matt didn’t want to bring up anything heavy again, not when she was smiling and speaking lightly and making them food though tears were drying on her face. On his face. But there was something he needed to say and he felt like he needed to say it now.

“I didn’t know where we stood.”

He heard her food prepping cease and felt her attention on him.

He continued, “When you found me again. Even after Fisk. I didn’t know where we stood with each other. So many things had changed since Saint Agnes. You decided to stay but you . . . were distant. I didn’t know how you felt about our relationship. I didn’t know what you thought about who I was to you. We never talked about it. You never talked about it.”

She didn’t say anything. Just listened.

“But the more I think about it, the more I think I should have realized,” Matt said. “You went out of your way to save my life. You kept coming back, even when I think you didn’t want to. Even when I pushed you away and said awful things. Foggy and Karen had given up on me, but you never did. You didn’t consider leaving until you made sure I was okay. And when I asked you to stay, you stayed. You did things to show me what I meant to you. That our relationship still mattered to you, even after all this time. And I’m sorry I couldn’t see that for so long.”

You nodded slowly, taking this in. And you had something you wanted to say as well. You took a moment to stare at the bricks that were once the walls you kept up and you refused to build them again, though it felt difficult not to. “. . .Your opinion of me matters to me,” you said. “I think it’s the only one that does. Sometimes I don’t care what I even think about myself. But you. . . . It makes it real. What you think about me makes it what I am.”

His eyebrows were pulled together and his jaw worked and he opened his mouth but you beat him to it.

“Don’t apologize again,” you said, knowing what he was thinking, about the awful things he had called you that he didn’t mean. “You don’t have to apologize again. I just wanted you to know. That what you think matters to me.”

And Matt knew what he had to say next. “You’re my family, Y/N. Okay?”

She nodded, and he could tell there were tears in her eyes as she smiled. “Okay.”

You made omelettes and you both talked about things that didn’t matter and reminisced about your past and laughed and for the first time in the fifteen years you were gone and the twenty it was for Matt, just like when you were kids, you stayed up all night and talked until sunrise.

A/N: Fucking hell this was long and a bitch to edit. There were a lot of parts I went over a bunch of times wondering if I should change it or keep it the same. Some feedback would be really really nice for this one.

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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pandalandalopalis · 5 months

Text

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

Masterlist Previous Chapter

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: Being sober is not easy when you have as much trauma as you do. You attempt to find a solution that Matt doesn't agree with.

Warning: Wolf is in a really dark place in this chapter so please take care of yourself while reading this. Mentions of suicidal ideation. Violent imagery. Allusions to sexual assault.

Part 2 - Chapter Fifteen: The Telepath

You lived in the Red Room again.

You thought it would be okay, going back to work after the withdrawal symptoms settled.

It wasn’t.

Every time you saw Bucky Barnes, his face shifted into one with a mask and you could feel bruises on your skin and taste blood in your mouth and feel the anxiety of waiting, watching, seeing if the Red Room would bring out its attack dog to come play with the girls—

He was the only person you never beat in combat; the only person who could anticipate your every move; the only person who could anticipate your teleporting—

The only person who could make sure you were dead if he wanted it.

The only person you were afraid of.

Why did they trust a monster to help them

Couldn’t they see? Didn’t they know? Hadn’t they experienced it for themselves? The pain; the violence; the destruction.

They brought a monster into their home

And not just a monster.

A reminder.

The smack of a mat in training; the feel of a gun in your hand; knives slicing into your skin; the sound of a bullet tearing through someone’s head; knife in your hand; blood on your hands; bruises on your body; hands on your body; mouth on your body; hands on your—

They killed the little girl in that Red Room

They killed the little girl in that red room

You were trapped in the Red Room

But you wanted to die in the red room

If you killed him you could be free

If you killed him there would be no fear

If you killed him there would be no reminders

Of blood and hands and death and murder and taking little girls from their beds and killing little girls in bedrooms—

If you killed him then you would not have to look into the face of the Red Room every day

Killing him would be killing everyone who had every hurt you

Ever touched you

Madame Ilyukhina

The Winter Soldier

The men—

The monster they had created

Killing him would be killing the Red Room.

You wanted to make the Red Room bleed and bleed and bleed you wanted to slice and cut and make it feel the pain that you felt you wanted it to suffer and die—

If you killed him you would be free

Free from the fear and the torment and the blood and the hands. Free from the Red Room.

That was a single moment. That was seeing him before he left on a mission with Natasha.

It took everything you had to stay very still. And when he was gone, you told the Avengers you still felt under the weather and you needed to go lie down.

You sat in your room in the void and memories and tried desperately to find a reason not to kill him.

And found it more and more difficult to come up with one.

He was gone on the mission and for a time there were no more reminders. You could live like you did before. Pretending that nothing was wrong. Living in reality (at the very least, the one you had manufactured for yourself to live with the Avengers). Spending time with Steve. Liking spending time with Steve.

He was kind. He was calm. He had no blood on his hands and they did not wander. He was safe.

“Are you doing anything Friday night?” Steve asked.

You gave him a smile. “No, why?”

“Well, I got tickets for the ballet and I was wondering if you wanted to—” He kept talking but you had stopped listening.

Ballet.

They trained you in ballet, too. That was the cover. Girls training for the Bolshoi Theatre. Perfect little girls trapped in a music box.

And suddenly you were back to the blood and the hands and the monster and the little girl sobbing in the Red Room and the red room—

You could feel your panic rising and your breath quickening— You couldn’t let Steve see you like this—

You weren’t sure what excuse you made but you made one, and you hurried your way to the elevator and inside and down down down until you were at the bottom and out of the building and away from any security cameras—

—You teleported perfectly into Matt’s bathroom, just in time to vomit your guts into the toilet.

Your breath was coming in too fast. You couldn’t breathe, you couldn’t get enough air into your lungs, you couldn’t stop this feeling, memories coming back all at once in crystal clear eidetic clarity—

“Hey, hey, hey.” Familiar voice. Matt’s voice. You blindly reached out and gripped onto him when you found him in front of you. “What happened, what’s wrong?”

Blood, hands, monster, little girl, little girl trapped, little girl dead, little girl wanting to die—

Red Room red room Red Room red room—

You vomited again until you were gagging with nothing left to come out. Sharp breaths hurt your lungs and you couldn’t grip anything hard enough to root yourself in reality, to the here and now— You lived in the Red Room and you could not leave—

“Breathe, Y/N.”

“I can’t.”

You felt Matt’s hand cup your cheek and you opened your eyes. You hadn’t even realized you’d closed them.

“Listen to my voice. Breathe in for four counts. One . . . two . . . three . . . four.”

You heaved breath in your lungs, forcing it in.

“Now hold it for seven.”

You closed your mouth and focused on Matt.

You had other memories than just the Red Room. Other memories that could be brought to the front of your mind, too.

“One.”

“I don’t know—” a sob “—where my mom and dad are. I don’t know—” another sob “—where I am.”

“I know someone who can help.” The boy took you by the hand. “Come on.”

“. . .two. . .”

“You’re a thousand times better than that guy. You shouldn’t let an asshole like him get to you. If you do, then he wins.”

You did hate losing. “You’re right,” you murmured.

You wrapped your arms tighter around him, and pressed your cheek to his shoulder. You felt his grip on you tighten a bit in response.

“. . .three. . .”

“I know that whatever . . . this is,” he gestured between the two of you, “is complicated. I still don’t . . . really know how to feel about it.”

Neither did you. In a lot of ways.

“But I know,” Matt continued, “that I don’t want to see you get hurt.”

“. . .four. . .”

“You are the person that I. . . .” Matt seemed to trail off, as if he was searching for the words.

“I cared about you,” Matt finally continued. “And I know a lot of things have changed but that doesn’t change what you meant to me, once. I want you to stay. I want the chance to get to know you again.”

He smiled at you and you didn’t know how to describe the feeling in your chest but it felt warm and light and different from anything you had felt in a long, long time.

“. . .five. . .”

Matt smiled at you, then. “I think it’s cute that you care about my coffee tastes.”

“Shut up,” you said, but there was laughter in your voice and a smile on your face. “Drink your damn coffee.”

“. . .six. . .”

“It’s not your fault,” he repeated a third time.

You hadn’t realized how close he had gotten to you. His hand was placed on the edge of the table next to yours, but on the inside, so your arms were crossed and his shoulder was brushing yours.

And for the first time, you . . . felt . . . better about something traumatic that had happened to you.

Not . . . numb.

Comforted.

“. . .seven. Now breathe out for eight.”

You loosed the breath you had been holding, pushing it out, letting yourself live in different memories, now. Memories of comfort and laughter and a lightness in your chest you thought the Red Room had snuffed out.

“. . . seven . . . eight. Breathe in for four again. One . . . two . . .”

Matt had you continue the cycle a few more times. You felt dizzy but calmer than you were before. You weren’t here. You were sleeping on Matt’s couch and sitting on a rooftop with Daredevil and standing in a hallway being told not to go and fighting next to him and being stitched up in a church basement and drinking coffee in Matt’s kitchen and sitting in Matt’s shower, with Matt’s arms wrapped around you.

“What happened?”

But you couldn’t live in memories. You had to be here again. You had to face reality again.

“Steve asked me if I wanted to go see the ballet with him.” Already, fresh bile threatened to come up again.

Matt’s eyebrows knitted together. “Okay,” he said slowly, not understanding.

“They taught us ballet in the Red Room,” you explained, and the realization spread across Matt’s face. “That was the cover. That the girls were being taught ballet and nothing more.”

Matt sighed. “He reminded you of the Red Room.”

You felt the exhaustion of the panic attack in your bones, all the adrenaline tapped out of you. “You know, I used to be better at this.”

“At what?”

“Coping.”

Matt shook his head. “You weren’t coping. You were drunk, or high. That’s not coping, that’s just . . . not dealing.”

You closed your eyes. You were so tired. You wanted a drink. You wanted some Oxy. You wanted to feel numb again.

“I’ll call Foggy, tell him I can’t come in today.”

You opened your eyes. “No. You already took time off work to take care of me when I was sick. You shouldn’t take any more days off.”

He looked worried. You bit down the instinct to tell him that you would be fine. He’d know it was a lie.

“Come to work with me,” Matt said. “There’s free coffee.”

He couldn’t leave her alone like this. She was spiraling, the way he had been spiraling last year. She’d only ever developed bad coping mechanisms and now that those were gone, she had none left to lean on. He was afraid of what she might do.

But Y/N shook her head. “I’ll only distract you. I don’t need you to take care of me. I did this shit without drugs or alcohol for ten years in the Red Room and I can do it again.”

“Y/N. . .”

“Please go. It’s not going to help me if I’m disrupting your life.” She stood and he stood with her, monitoring her carefully. “I’ll leave first.”

“Y/N, please just—” But she was gone by the middle of his sentence.

Blood and hands and the monster and the dead little girl—

You didn’t know which would consume you first: the void or the rage or the grief— You just wanted it done, you wanted it gone, you wanted the memories to stop stop stop stop stop—

Until another came to the forefront. Of a flier you saw pinned up in Matt’s office a few weeks ago, where some of his clients like to advertise helpful services to others.

Mutant Therapy: Telepath Psychiatry

That’s it. Of course that was it. A telepath.

Someone who could erase your memories.

You had to sit in a waiting room for a little while.

(What you didn’t know was that the telepath had to vet you first, look inside your mind and make sure that you were legitimate. With parts of the government trying to pass Mutant Registration, the telepath had to be more careful with her services.)

Eventually, your name was called and you entered the room. It looked exactly how you expected a therapist’s room to look. Comfy couch on one side with lots of pillows and a single chair on the other. There were calming photos of nature pinned on the wall and lots of windows to let in natural light.

The telepath told you her name and asked you to take a seat. You got a chance to get a good look at her as you sat down.

She didn’t exactly look threatening, but you supposed a telepath’s strength wouldn’t be in their physicality. She had kind eyes. For all accounts, she seemed like the type of person that actually wanted to help people.

She had her sleeves rolled up to her elbows and your eyes snagged on some orange-ish ink spreading up her arms. Black double bands circling her wrists. “Nice tattoos,” you commented.

The smile she gave you didn’t reach her eyes. “Why don’t you tell me why you’re here today, Y/N?”

“Don’t you already know?” Maybe you were wrong. Maybe this was a scam and she really wasn’t a telepath.

“Clients usually like to say it in their own words first before I start poking around in there,” she replied, the sympathy reaching her eyes this time.

You took a deep breath. Then, “I want you to erase my memories. Not all of them, just the traumatic ones.”

She didn’t look surprised. Just simply looked at you for a moment before saying,

“No.”

You couldn’t stop the involuntary bristle. “No? You are a telepath, aren’t you?”

“I am.”

“And you can erase memories, can’t you?”

“I can.”

“So what’s the fucking problem?” you asked. “I thought you use your powers to help people.”

“I do.”

“So fucking help me then.”

She shook her head. “Not like this.”

You gritted your teeth together. “Why the fuck not?”

“Erasing your memory won’t help you. The more you want to erase something, the more you’ll try to get that memory back once it’s gone,” she explained.

“Why the fuck would I want it back?”

“Because you won’t know what you’ve lost,” she continued. “You’ll only know it was something significant. It’s human nature — or mutant nature, rather. Nobody wants to be told, ‘It’s better if you don’t know’. If I erase your memories now, you’ll come back. In a month. In six months. In a year. Looking for the memories that you lost.”

You felt like you were grasping at something slipping from your fingertips. “Then I’ll promise not to come back, okay? C’mon, Doc.”

The Doc sighed gently through her nose. “I don’t erase memories here. You won’t heal that way.”

“God, fuck healing.” You stood. You wanted to shake her. Get her to understand. “I just want them gone.”

“It won’t help you, not really.”

“I disagree.”

She sighed again. “Why don’t you sit down and we can talk.” She paused. “Why don’t we talk about the Red Room?”

You recoiled, something shattering and splintering within you. Blood and hands and the monster and the dead little girl. You surged forward, anger spilling out of your eyes and ears and nose and mouth. “Erase my memories or I will kill you.”

The Doc didn’t so much as flinch. “No, you won’t,” she simply said. “You made a promise.”

You felt violated — open and spread out on a table where she could see everything. Every part of you that you tried to hide. This was a mistake. Coming here was a mistake. “Stay out of my fucking head.”

“I can’t erase your memories, Y/N, but I can help you,” the Doc said. “Do you want to talk about him?”

She wasn’t talking about Matt. “I don’t want to talk about anything,” you seethed. “I want you to erase my memories!”

“You still want to kill him. The Winter Soldier.”

“SO WHAT IF I DO?” you finally admitted. Your breath heaved in your chest. Something had to give. It was him or you. And you couldn’t continue to live like this, with him alive, a constant reminder of what he had done to you. What the Red Room had done to you. If he was dead, you wouldn’t have to feel this way anymore. You could breathe. You wouldn’t have to be afraid, and you wouldn’t have to live in memories. “What if I did kill him? Matt would forgive me. That’s what God is all about. Forgiveness. Repenting. And I will spend the rest of my life repenting, to kill him. Just him. And then I’ll never kill another living soul.”

“Matt would forgive you,” the Doc agreed. “But would you forgive yourself?”

You had had enough of this. Enough of her looking into your head and saying things you would never say out loud. “Fuck you.”

Then the Doc said, very gently, “I’m not going to erase your memories.”

You saw the rest of your life ahead of you: pain and anguish and guilt and rage and grief and void and blood and hands and a dead little girl trapped in the Red Room and an alive little girl in a red room wishing she were dead.

Your voice was quiet and broken. “Please.”

The Doc’s voice was not mean or cruel. “No.”

You shut down again. Clawed that vulnerability back into your chest and bared your sharp teeth. “You will regret this.”

The Doc’s eyes did not leave yours. “You won’t.”

You finally ripped your eyes away from hers and stormed out of her office, disappearing on the way out.

When Matt got home late from the office, he found Y/N tearing through his apartment. Opening drawers, opening cupboards — frantic.

“Y/N,” he said, hurrying to her and putting his hands on her shoulders. “What’s wrong, what are you looking for?”

“I don’t— know— I— I—” Her breathing was coming in sharply and she was shaking. “I don’t know—”

Truthfully, you didn’t. You were just trying to find anything to make yourself feel better. You didn’t know if you were trying to look for drugs and alcohol. You knew Matt didn’t keep any in his apartment anymore. You didn’t know why you were here and not in your own apartment, looking for any stray substance you might have missed, a bottle of booze or a bottle of pills left behind. You didn’t know what you were trying to find. But you were grasping on the edges of things and you were trying to find something.

“I don’t know— I don’t— I went— I went to the telepath but she wouldn’t help me, she wouldn’t erase my memories, she wouldn’t— and I—”

“What?” Panic spiked sharply in Matt’s chest. “She what— You— What did you do?”

“Nothing because she refused to erase my memories.”

“You tried to—” Confusion and panic and worry were swirling all around in Matt’s mind. He was breathing just as hard as she was now. “You tried to erase your memories?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Why?” she repeated. “Why?” She breathed hard and the sound that left her mouth then could have been a laugh and could have been a sob. “Why the fuck do you think?”

He tightened his grip on her shoulders. “You can’t just erase your memories, Y/N.”

“Yes, I can!” she pushed back. “I can do whatever I want with my own memories and if I want to erase all the bad ones then I can and I will, and I am sick of people telling me that I can’t.” She shoved his hands off her and walked away from him.

He followed her. “How could you try to do this?” The idea of her going off to have her memories erased, it terrified him. It terrified him that if something had gone wrong, he could have lost her. Again. “How could you be so reckless with your own mind?”

She turned sharply to face him. “Well it’s my mind to be reckless with and I can do whatever I want with it and it’s not really any of your business, now is it!”

“Yes, it is!” he maintained, voice rising. “You are my friend and I care about you.” Matt had been keeping his mouth shut about so many things, so afraid of scaring her off — but this was the last straw. Her trying to erase her own memories was the last straw. “And I have kept quiet for a long time about a lot of things because I was terrified of you running off if I pushed you too hard, but I can’t keep quiet anymore. I need to help you,” he begged. “Let me help you.”

“What are you gonna do, huh?!” she yelled. “How are you going to help me? How are you going to make it better? It’s not going to be better— It will never be better— That’s why I have to do this!”

“Have you even thought this through?!” Matt yelled back. “What if it went wrong? What if you lost all your memories and not just the bad ones?”

“Well I’d rather be a blank slate than deal with the trauma.”

The words scored over his heart, angry and raw and grieving. He felt tears fill his eyes, and he tried to temper his anger but he was losing her and he didn’t know how to stop it. “You’d give up all your memories? You’d give up this? Give up us?”

“YES!” you sobbed, hot tears spilling out of your eyes now. You were dealing with so much unfiltered trauma that you hadn’t had to deal with for years and it was chipping away at you and eating away at your heart and your mind, ripping and tearing and consuming the flesh in bloody messy bites and you weren’t thinking about what you were saying, only that you wanted it to stop. That you wanted it to end.

Something in Matt guttered at her admission. He was sixteen again and standing at her funeral refusing to believe she was dead, refusing to give up on her, spending the next twenty years holding on to some bit of hope, never letting go, never letting her go—

He had given a piece of his heart to another person who would leave him, and Matt was almost certain that she had the last piece, that there was nothing left to give, that she had all that was left—

There was a cavernous, empty void where his heart should be, a place that pulled in anger and grief to fill it, and Matt wasn’t sure which one fueled his voice more when he said, “How could you say that?” After everything. Everything they meant to each other. “Doesn’t this mean anything to you?”

Matt was not Matt to you right now. He was not the person you grew up with, the one person you trusted, the one person you cared about, your safe place, your closest friend.

Right now, he was simply another person keeping you from finding a way to survive. From finding a way to keep the trauma at bay. Another person telling you to drown in blood and hands and death; to live always wanting to die. To suffocate under bodies, and not just the lifeless ones.

You knew you would not let yourself make the same fatal choice a third time, and so there was no permanent escape from this now. And yet this person in front of you had the audacity to ask you to choose?

Anger bubbled up from your chest and you could not recognize the person before you for who he truly was. You felt as if you were snarling with foam and spit dripping from your maw, like a rabid wolf who had lost her mind. With no concept of friends anymore. “You are not worth keeping my trauma.”

It hurt more knowing that she was right.

Why should Matt stand in the way of her purging her memories? Purging everything, if it meant she could be free of everything that hurt her? How could Matt stand here and tell her that he was worth her keeping all that?

Because he wasn’t. He didn’t like to think about it, but he knew that. That he was only bloody knuckles and Devil-red rage and even God had left him for a time because of it. So many people had left him because of it. Because he wasn’t worth anything.

And yet. He couldn’t bring himself to let go. Maybe that made him pathetic. Or maybe it was because anger was the only thing left in him.

Matt’s hands gripped Y/N’s shoulders again, tighter than he should have. With something that would leave bruises, but he couldn’t get himself to hold her any gentler. If he had anything, if he was worth anything, it was that he would not go down without a fight. “You said to me once that you owe it to the person I used to be and the person you used to be not to destroy yourself like this.”

She shook her head. “And none of those words were said sober. If she was alive to see me now, she would understand.”

“You are alive, Y/N!” Matt shouted.

“NO I’M NOT!” you screamed back.

You were living through so many flashbacks you didn’t even feel like you were present in front of him.

Were you really here in front of him right now?

Did you live in memories instead?

Were you in the Red Room?

Were you with the Winter Soldier?

Were you with Madame Ilyukhina?

Being trained?

Being beaten?

Being . . . being . . .

Suffocated, used, touched—

“You can’t erase your memories, Y/N,” Matt said. (You couldn’t hear his voice breaking — you couldn’t hear anything but the sound of your own thoughts. Your own memories.) “You can’t do that!”

“I can’t. Do this,” you said, tears running down your face. You steeled your voice. “I’ll find another telepath if I have to.”

Y/N turned away from him and Matt grabbed her arm, desperate. He was so, so incredibly angry with her and yet he couldn’t bear to lose her. He didn’t know what would happen if she did this. Even if she only erased parts of her memory. He didn’t know how that would affect a person. “You can’t just erase what you want. You have to learn to live with the memories, like we all do. If you erase a part of yourself you wouldn’t be you anymore.”

He was terrified of losing her.

Rage rose suddenly and overwhelmingly and you ripped your arm away. Some clarity returned in who the person was before you— Matt, your Matt— How could he believe that? How could he believe erasing the trauma would change you so fundamentally he wouldn’t recognize you anymore? How could he believe that that’s all you were? A person with so much pain and trauma that you couldn’t take it away? The person that you cared so much about — how could he see you that way? “Fuck you,” you spat. “The fucked up stuff I’ve been through doesn’t make me who I am.”

Blood on your hands and hands on your body and a monster made of parts that were left and a dead little girl trapped in the Red Room and an alive little girl in a red room wishing she were dead.

Blood and hands and monsters and the Red Room

Blood and hands and monsters and the red room

Even Matt sees it

The blood and hands that will never go away.

Matt realized his mistake too late. “That’s not what I meant—”

But she was gone already.

You teleported into the telepath’s office. You pressed your gun to her head.

The Doc didn’t flinch. Didn’t blink. Didn’t look scared.

“Erase my memories or I will fucking. Kill you,” you said, evenly, though rage and pain and grief and void bubbled in your chest.

“We both know that you won’t,” she said calmly. “And you know that I know that you won’t.”

Tears were streaming down your face and all that pain bubbled over and spilled and spilled and spilled and spilled— “THEN WHAT THE FUCK AM I SUPPOSED TO DO?”

Very gently, the Doc took the gun from your hand. You let her. “You start by sitting down. Then you begin wherever you wish.”

So you sat down. And you started at the beginning.

Next Chapter

A/N: I know it's been a while since I updated but this chapter was pretty emotionally volatile so I was hard to get into that space to write it. Hope you guys like this one!

#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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