Work Text:
The scene you’re faced with is familiar but no less obnoxious.
Matt, a woman, four walls, blinds drawn, lights dimmed – you’ve half a mind to turn heel and walk into Foggy’s office with a contrived excuse instead. ‘He’s a menace’ you keep telling yourself. Or rather, a devil.
As devils do, he takes the woman’s hand – hands, into his and whispers sweet promises into her ear, speaking of sublime legal absolution. The deal is sealed as the woman envelops him in a chaste hug. The scene unfolds like crinkly wrapping paper in front of you, loud, ornamental, performative. A poison gift hides between the layers. You know he knows you’re here. He knew you were approaching before this whole scene had even been scripted. Asshole, fiend, hellion.
Cough, cough. You hate to rip the woman from her reverie but the reason for your coming was important for once. Flustered, she excuses herself and bids Matt farewell and thank you, passing you in the doorway. Tired, watery eyes bat their lashes at you, full of hope. You feel bad for her. You muster up as polite an expression as you can manage and give her a nod of acknowledgment before she turns to leave. You take her in for a final moment – stilettos, beat face, age range possibly anywhere from twenty to thirty, pin straight hair – and close the door quietly.
“It reeks of Pure Poison.” It comes out more accusatory than you want it to be. You watch the corner of Matt’s mouth twitch ever so slightly.
“I’m sorry?”
“Dior.” You omit the fact she wore six months’ worth of your salary on her left wrist. Details, details.
“Alright.” Matt does that little head tilt and brow furrow, feigning obliviousness in the face of what was a downright intimate encounter. “Is something the matter?” You take it as a sign to drop the topic and move on with what’s actually pressing you.
You unstick yourself from the door and place the freshly xeroxed paper on his desk. “It’s Urich.”
A near imperceptible shadow washes over Matt’s face, still perfectly passive and docile. You’ve known him for long enough to see there’s a storm brewing behind the darkened discs of his shades. He doesn’t frown or sigh and stands perfectly straight in front of his desk, hands tucked into his pockets, staring intently in the general direction of the flimsy piece of writing. Lightning could strike at any moment in the office.
Your voice splits the clouds like thunder. “It’s about the Rosenthal mess, says he might have a lead, but…” something like shame or embarrassment grips you. Arms involuntarily cross themselves and your head turns to avoid the gaze of a blind man. Damn it.
“But?” Head tilt, again. It’s slower this time, almost predatory. His expression does not shift a single bit. If you could read his mind right now, it would be screaming, ‘Answer me, please!‘ at you in big, bold letters. Of course, it’s the other way around – Matt is reading you. Your body and mannerisms are as open as any book to him, blind or not. Similarly to how you can interpret all his subtle tells and micro-expressions that remain unknown to him, he knows by the way you flex your fingers over the fabric of your rollneck sweater (cable knit) or your breathing (forced into a steady rhythm as if you’re trying to maintain composure) – that there’s something you don’t want to tell him. Inversely, your body is screaming, ‘Shut up!’ at him. Something’s eating at you.
“It’s- this whole thing,” you start and flail around hopelessly for words to describe the absurdity of the situation. Matthew Murdock, Attorney-at-law, Daredevil, outted publicly. A nightmare come true. The last threads of restraint snap and you point at him severely. “It’s fucking damaged. The whole thing you’re doing right now. Da-ma-ged.” You dissect the word into its syllabic components in hopes of making him feel your frustration in its minutiae. The floodgates have opened, and you don’t intend to stop. “Go on and scream ‘I deny, I deny, I deny!’ until you’re blue in the face but fact of the matter is- it’s over.”
A beat. “Take up Foggy’s advice- put the spandex and cowl down and try to live a-,”
“Thank you.” He’s taken the paper into his hands, carding his fingertips over the printed letters. “Thank you, for the work. You can leave early today- if you want to.”
In a sentence he’s beaten your worries into submission, reduced it to background chatter. Deny, redirect, ignore – that’s been his mode of operation for as long as you’ve been involved with him and even now, he refuses to back down. Matt treats life like his personal boxing ring and decides himself when the bell will toll. You drop your head and sigh through gritted teeth.
“Urich is in Japan right now. He’ll be back by end of the week,” you turn around, hands locked behind your back, “He’s- we’re all working overtime here to make it work. Don’t blow it Matt, whatever you’re trying to do.”
“I won’t,” he replies and says your name with a familiar tenderness that is frankly intrusive. You’re glad he’s blind and you’re turned away, because your expression can only be described as a cross between emotionally affected and highly disturbed. The slight hitch in breathing and momentary stillness give the reaction away regardless.
Before you leave you remember to ask, “Who was the woman?”
“A client from the Worldwide case. She came personally to give her thanks and,” he needs a moment to think of what to say next, “She came to tell me she believes in me. That I’m not Daredevil.”
“How touching.” You step out of the darkened office into the starkly lit hallway, closing the door behind you.
After the door clicks shut Matt waits one, two, three – ten seconds, until he can hear you sit down at your desk and mumble something into your hands. He knows you won’t take the offer up to leave early. You’ll stay at your desk long after midnight, finishing up whatever you still can for the day-slash-night. You’ll close the office up sometime between one and two and walk home. He knows because he keeps vigil. He knows you know he’s watching. You walk the night with a devil on your shoulder.
He sniffs around in his office, his nose irritated. You were right – it does reek of perfume. He takes the copy in his hand and presses it to his nose, creasing and crinkling the thin paper in the process. It’s fresh – warm cellulose, bitter black printer ink and hidden beneath surface notes he smells it - ethanol. Your disinfectant.
It’s all he needs to chase the memory of the woman away.