Strawberry Rhubarb
Summary: You get kidnapped by Fisk.
Pairing: Matt Murdock x fem!reader
Warnings (please read this entire list before proceeding!): Violence, blood, forced nudity, physical assault, torture, feelings of inadequacy, torture with knife, strong profanity, burning, stabbing, concussion.
A/N: This is set sometime in S2 when Fisk doesn't know for certain that Matt is Daredevil, but he is suspicious of him and definitely doesn't like him.
Also, it's a bit long, so I skimmed it for mistakes, but that's it. I'm at the airport because I have to fly home for a family emergency and I'm too tired to bother reading through critically lol
Everything was pitch black, except for a thin band of light, directly in front of your eyes.
You squinted, thinking at first that it was light coming underneath the bedroom door; had you left the kitchen lights on? But it was too high up to be the floor. Your phone, then. Your phone must have lit up with a notification and you could just see the light underneath it.
And then you realized there was a cloth around your head. For one wild moment, you thought Matt had put his black mask on you, and that this was something intimate that he was initiating, but something about it didn't feel right. The cloth was wrapped too tightly, for one, and the slit of light that you could see suggested that it was ripped in the center, and Matt's mask had no tears in it. Vaguely you remembered walking into the post office to mail out a letter, and something hitting you hard in the back of the head, but everything else was blank.
A gruff voice spoke. "Is she awake, Hanson?"
"Vitals suggest she's conscious," a cool voice responded. "Should I proceed?"
"Yes. You got into her phone?"
"I had Underwood hack it within five minutes. Passcode has been disabled."
"Good. We'll send a warning to to him. From what I anticipate, he'll be willing to come here of his own accord."
Fisk. Dazedly, you placed the voice as Fisk, and the cooler voice as some unnamed assistant. Your heart lurched, thrumming so hard that you thought it might burst out from your ribcage. All rational thoughts had abandoned you; never had you and Matt discussed what to do if someone ever kidnapped you. Sure, you'd had conversations about self-defense and fighting techniques; there had been the random nights that Matt tried in vain to teach you had to send a proper roundhouse kick at an assailant. And of course you'd nagged him about what the plan was if he was to ever get kidnapped by someone he was trying to take down.
But this scenario? It had never even crossed your mind, and the panic of having no idea what to do was gnawing at you.
The person on your left, with the cooler voice —Hanson —stepped forward and ripped off the black mask that was wrapped around your head. You blinked at the blinding light, unable to see for a moment until your eyes adjusted.
Hanson, a wiry man with a receding hairline, was appraising you. He held your phone, and a thrill of fear flashed through you at what texts or photos might be incriminating on there. "Should I send a video, sir? Or would a phone call be more effective?" he asked.
"Underwood's search of Mr. Murdock's files suggest that he has no light perception, though we're still uncertain as to whether forged notes and doctor intervention could have fabricated those documents," Fisk said, his face twitching. "Send an audio message instead. A picture may be a worth a thousand words, but hearing, on the other hand... that's exponentially more powerful, is it not? To be on the safe side; we want to ensure that Mr. Murdock receives our message."
"Understood, sir."
You closed your eyes as your brain tried to catch up with what was happening. If Fisk kidnapped you, did that mean he knew Matt was Daredevil? You tried futilely to think of a way that he could have found out, but came up with nothing. Matt had pissed Fisk off recently; he'd told you that things had gone sideways when they spoke together, and it ended with fists flying.
But he couldn't know Matt was Daredevil. You told yourself this over and over again in an attempt to calm yourself down. Besides, you didn't have hardly any texts with Matt that they could read, you realized —you had mercifully cleaned out your phone to get more storage just the other day. That also meant you'd saved your photos to a different drive and deleted them off your phone. Hope burgeoned in your chest.
Matt's identity isn't entirely doomed because I was stupid enough to get kidnapped.
"You may begin, Hanson," Fisk said, folding his hands together, and the same lightning strike of panic went to your core.
"Wait." Your mouth was dry from disuse. Playing dumb had to be the best course of action; at least, it was the only plan you could think of in your muddled state. "I can give you money, I swear, I have cash in my wallet — you can take my credit cards, I don't care, please just let me go." The end of your sentence finished with a sob, and you didn't need to act at all for that to come out naturally.
"If Murdock comes on your behalf, then we'll let you go," Hanson said flatly. "You'd better hope that your boyfriend truly cares about you."
"Boyfriend?" You drew in your eyebrows. "I swear, I know of Murdock —friend of a friend, invited a few of us over to his place once or twice —but I have nothing to do with him! If he's involved in something illegal — or, I don't know, something with you folks —I don't know about it, please believe me —just let me go—"
Fisk sat down on the chair in front of you, settling himself in slowly. His eyes bored a hole into your skull and you couldn't help but look down at his shoes. "You think I do things lightly, Miss L/N?"
"I don't know. I don't know who you are or what you do."
"I've always found that those who are methodical will always win. Funny, really, that Aesop could articulate such a fundamental principle with a puerile story. When I was a boy, I wanted the hare to win. I didn't think it was fair that the tortoise should enjoy victory when it was the hare who seemingly had the predisposition, the potential, the skillset to win. But I learned. I discovered, through my own folly and mistakes, that it is not the person with the most resources who gets to the top. It's the one who strategizes, the one who is thorough."
"I don't understand." You were shaking where you sat; you could feel the muscles in your hands jumping as tension stretched taut through you.
"Let me spell it out for you, Miss L/N. When I want to win, I take my time. And I took my time in getting to know you. I've seen your family, your yearbook photos, the first job you had. I've read your college recommendations and seen your SAT scores. I've spoken to your therapist and friends. I know the exact day that you began seeing Matthew Murdock and I have footage of all the dates you've ever been on with him. So, when I suggest that you do not try lying to me, I am recommending it for your own sake, lest you want to lose your tongue."
Never had you felt so cornered in your life. Fisk sat in front of you like the opposite of light at the end of the tunnel —he was a black hole, sucking every bit of hope from the room, and in that moment you were certain you would not leave this room alive, and a silent voice within you begged that at least it wouldn't be messy, for Matt's sake.
"Start recording," Fisk ordered, and Hanson picked up your phone. Dread coiled in your stomach as it rang. Based on where the sun was in the sky, you'd been gone for awhile and it was unlikely that Matt was already wondering where you were. He'd receive and listen to any audio file sent to his phone almost immediately.
The way Fisk's eyes settled, calm and snakelike, on you made your heart freeze. "Y/N, say hello to Mr. Murdock."
You said nothing. Obeying him, putting your voice onto that audio message, felt like a betrayal of sorts. Maybe it was just the headache speaking, from where you'd been knocked out, but it felt all kinds of wrong to open your mouth and follow through with Fisk's intentions.
"Hanson, encourage her to speak," he said.
Hanson did not hesitate. He took out a knife and pressed it to the tip of your thumb. "Speak, or your thumb will be a centimeter shorter."
"Hello, Mr. Murdock," you parroted back, despising yourself with every word and shivering at what Matt would say when he heard the audio file. At what he would think of you. You knew he wouldn't blame you for getting kidnapped, but still, you hated that now you were just another burden for him — another person to save.
"Give me the phone, Hanson," Fisk said. He took your phone (if you made it out of this mess, you would definitely be sanitizing it) and spoke slowly. "I hope that this is enough of an incentive for you to stand down. You see, this is what you brought upon yourself when you decided to bring Vanessa into this. It was a mistake to say her name." He ended the recording and handed the phone back to Hanson. "Send that to Murdock, please."
"Yes, sir."
Once Fisk waved Hanson off, you felt even more apprehensive. You wanted to meet his eyes — to show that you were unafraid, to prove that he was making a mistake in holding you captive — but that was so far from the truth that you didn't dare make eye contact.
"We'll release you in soon," Fisk said, standing up. "I understand that this isn't pleasant for you, and I regret that you must be the way for me to make a point to Murdock."
"You're going to let me go?" you said, stunned.
"This is a long-term game plan, Miss L/N. This isn't like a movie, where we take people and behead them. No, I consider our tactics more mature than that. I intend to keep you long enough to show Murdock what I'm capable of, and to demonstrate to him that he should never again utter Vanessa's name."
"He's a lawyer," you said, your voice shaking. "And a damn good one. You'll be deep in legal trouble, so—"
Fisk laughed. "Do you know where you are right now, Miss L/N?"
You glanced around the room for the first time. Barren, cement walls, no windows. "A... lair of some kind?"
"As I said before, we are not children, playing out some movie," Fisk said. "No, this is a prison. A prison that I am in control of, as Murdock discovered when he visited to inquire about one Mr. Castle. You can rest assured that the extent of my control goes far beyond the walls of this prison, and the courtrooms are not exempt." He took a step forward and placed his hand on your head. You closed your eyes, trembling, as his palm brushed your hair, as though curious to know what the texture was.
"I apologize, Miss L/N, that you have been caught in this war between your boyfriend and myself." And then, without any warning, he swung a fist so hard into your abdomen that you choked aloud, all of the breath gone from your chest. There was no reprieve before he swung again, and you tried to curl up but the restraints around you made it impossible; you could only heave for breath.
That was only the beginning.
Once Fisk left, you didn't see him for a long time. He had said that you would be released "soon", but you quickly learned that was a subjective term; at least a few days passed with no word of him. You tried to tell time from when you were given food — which was sparing and meagre. Though you were no longer tied to the chair you had woken up in, the room was small enough that you still felt suffocated, and you could do nothing but sit on the corner, back aching, and wait.
At first, it wasn't that bad, as far as kidnappings went (at least, in your imagination). You were hungry, and not nearly enough water was provided, but that was the worst of it, aside from the discomfort of sleeping on a wooden bench. Your bones felt as though they were bruised all over and you were sore from shivering; your shoulders especially were taut from pain of being clenched for so long in the cold. The hunger, while throbbing at first, subsided to a dull feeling that you could attempt to ignore, and the headache gave you something to think about, at least, during the empty hours in the room.
Every thump that you heard, every shout... you couldn't help but hope that it was Matt, there to rescue you. There was a small part of you that began to doubt that he'd be able to make his way to you, let alone find you, as another few hours passed without anything happening.
Or maybe he'd cut his losses and was going to leave you there.
No, don't be dumb. That was ridiculous. Matt loved you. You loved him.
Oh, but what if you're just temporary for him? He could always go back to Elektra. Besides, Elektra at least wouldn't be weak enough to get kidnapped, you thought derisively. It would frankly be justified if Matt went back to her. He deserved someone who could keep up with him.
Maybe it was the dehydration that made your thoughts spiral even more, or maybe it was the exhaustion, because you only convinced yourself further that he wasn't coming, and that he had elected to leave you there.
I'm annoying. I'm always waiting for him, I'm always clinging to him, I'm like a leech that won't go away. He's probably realized how nice it is to have a break from me.
Or maybe he's met another lawyer. Someone really smart, someone who got a 180 on her LSAT and gives him a run for his money.
Karen, maybe. He always liked Karen. She's courageous, and passionate, and literally a model, and so much better for him than I am.
You were so lost in your own self-loathing that you didn't hear Hanson enter and started so violently that you gasped aloud when he spoke.
"Y/N, we're beginning a new recording."
"What?"
"Mr. Fisk would like a new recording to be sent to Mr. Murdock. Say hello."
This time, you kept your jaw firmly shut. It wasn't even out of a refusal to obey Hanson, but more out of your own reluctance to say anything to Matt, because you detested the idea of being even more of a burden on him.
This time, Hanson didn't wait for you to cooperate. He took out his knife and expertly swiped it near your upper arm, so quickly that at first you thought he missed, until a fiery sting flared, followed by the trickle of something warm.
Yet you remained silent.
"I might suggest you speak, Y/N. The quicker you talk, the less pain there will be, and Mr. Murdock won't have to receive quite as lengthy of a recording."
Feeling inspired, you spat at his feet. Hanson was quick to react — he flipped the knife up so that the tip was pressing into the back of your ear. "Did you hear me? Say hello to him."
When you said nothing, he applied pressure to the knife, and it began to cut through your skin; you couldn't help but gasp out loud, panic beginning to set in as red drips started to flow down your neck.
He's going to take off my ear he's going to take off my ear he's going to take off my ear—
"Hello!" you cried out finally, wincing at the stinging residue left where the knife had been.
"Good." Hanson tucked the knife away. "It makes things easier, doesn't it?" His gaze lingered on you for a moment before switching back to the phone. "Mr. Murdock, I'm undressing your girlfriend now. Don't worry, we don't intend to violate her."
"What?" you demanded. "You're not undressing me!"
Hanson ignored you. He took his knife and ripped your shirt open, removing every bit of fabric from you — including undergarments —until you were shivering, goosebumps crawling up your flesh where you made contact with the cold wood of the chair. You tried to cover yourself to no avail; the cuffs made it nearly impossible to give yourself ample cover. With no other choice but to sit in the chair and wait for Hanson to leave, you closed your eyes as tears rose.
Do not cry in front of him. Distract yourself. Ask him a question, get him talking.
"Why undress me?" you asked finally. "What's your endgame here?"
"Mr. Fisk wants you to understand the power he holds," he said smoothly. "And he wants Mr. Murdock to stop interfering. A show of power, especially with humiliation, is apropos for that sort of message, isn't it?"
"f*ck you."
"That's not the kind of diplomacy we're looking for."
"I don't care. f*ck you and your stupid messages. You're torturing someone who's got nothing to do with any of your sh*t, and as far as I'm aware, Matt was only fulfilling a legal obligation to talk to Fisk. You're making a mistake."
"Was it his 'legal obligation' to mention Vanessa to Mr. Fisk? No? Then, I am sorry to say, we are justified in our actions." Hanson twirled the knife and drove it downwards, faster than the blink of an eye, into the top of your hand.
This time, you screamed. And it wasn't the only scream, either —when you glanced down, and saw the blade of the knife gouged straight through the top of your hand, staking your entire arm to the wooden chair, you screamed again, throat so raw that it felt as though it were tearing, because God, the pain, make it stop, there was no way that one little blade could make you feel as though you were being torn apart, atom-by-atom—
"Mr. Murdock, I hope you've made it to the end of this message, because Mr. Fisk has something he'd like to say to you," Hanson said, unconcernedly straightening his tie. "Never bring Vanessa into this again, ever. Good day."
He clicked the end button on your phone and typed a few buttons as he delivered the audio file.
And that was the last thing you saw. Your tunneling vision collapsed altogether and the wooziness of looking at the blood streaming down your fingers took your consciousness.
When you awoke next, everything was pitch black. The light that used to stream in from the hallway was gone. You couldn't see your hand, not that you particularly wanted to, but it felt hot and irritated, though the blood around it had clotted. That was the one good thing, you supposed, though you had a suspicious that the heat around it was not as good. But maybe heat was good. Like a fever —fevers meant that the cells were killing the bad cells, right? Perhaps the same principle applied to knives-in-hands.
Then again, you weren't sure how straight you were thinking at the moment.
Every so often Hanson would enter, leaving you squinting in the jarring yellow light that he brought with him. Best case scenario, he'd add a cut to your collection, taking the tip of a new knife he had to make you bleed. Worst case scenario he tried something new — choking you, grazing your foot with a lighter. Either way, you learned to be obedient, and whenever the recording started, you said hello to Matt, just as he wanted you to.
And then, as time blurred and warped into a funhouse kaleidoscope of nonsense, you were no longer in that room. You didn't even remember being taken out of it. One moment you were lying on the floor, trembling uncontrollably from the cold, and the next... you were being handled roughly, thrown down, and left alone. The roar of a vehicle beside you was loud enough that you opened your eyes.
Water. There was water near you. The Hudson? The wood beneath you was damp, like a dock.
And next to you, sitting silently, was your phone. Hands shaking, you reached out, wincing at the throb of pain and at the gaping dark wound where the knife had apparently been extracted from your hand.
It was your phone. You stared at it, unsure of what to do. Was this a test? Did Fisk leave you here as torture?
Or was this your chance to escape?
Which, at the moment, felt unlikely. Your legs weren't moving. You could hardly lift your head, for whatever reason, and you were so damn cold that it made you want to fall asleep where you were, no matter how damn uncomfortable the dock was.
Or... you could call Matt.
Matt. You wanted to cry at the thought of him. Why hadn't he come for you? He probably was tired of how needy you were, how incapable, how useless compared to Elektra. But you stared at the contacts in your phone, then at the various cuts on your body. There was no one else to call.
You clicked his name, unsure of whether he'd pick up, but on the very first ring his voice was there. It sounded like an ethereal tether, anchoring you back to a reality that you hadn't been to in days, not since before you had been kidnapped.
"Y/N?" Matt said, almost breathless.
God, you missed his voice. And being in his arms. Suddenly you wanted to sob, just at hearing him, because hearing him meant everything would be alright. Matt's voice was comfort, it was home.
"Y/N, are you there?" he said, this time more insistent.
Right. Answering him would be a good idea.
"Matt?" you said weakly, taken aback by the sound of your own voice. It sounded like someone had taken your voice box, air-fried it, left it in the desert, then thrown some shards of glass in for good measure.
"I'm here, I'm here, sweetie. Where are you? Are you okay? What can you see?"
"I..." Something was pulsing behind your eyes, and it was distracting. You closed them to alleviate the pressure. "I... what?"
"Sorry. One question at a time." Matt was speaking slower, now, and you were glad for it. "Are you hurt?"
"Mm. Probably. But I'll be okay." Worrying him seemed like the wrong thing to do. You'd be fine, of course you would be, because it would be embarrassing if you weren't fine. The thought of having to be rescued as well as being incapable of getting up and brushing off your knees was alarming.
"Y/N, I need you to look around and tell me what you see. I'm going to try to find you. Is that water I can hear in the back?"
"I'm... by the Hudson, I think." You tried lifting your head, but it sent electric bolts of pain down your neck. "Ow. I'm having a hard time looking."
"That's okay, sweetheart, you're doing great. What else can you see?"
"Streetlamps. Dock."
"Okay. Anything else?" There was rustling in the background of the call, then the telltale squeaking of Matt's apartment door. Was he headed to work? No, it was dark out, you reminded yourself. It was too late to go to work. He was headed for Josie's, maybe. Or to go see Elektra.
"Y/N, are you there? Don't fall asleep. Stay awake, listen to my voice."
You jolted upright, unaware that you'd been drifting. "Sorry. I'm here."
"The phone isn't picking up much of the audio, but I'm headed in your general direction. Keep talking to me, Y/N. I need you to stay awake."
"I'm not falling asleep," you protested.
Though sleep did sound really nice. You didn't even notice the cold anymore, and you were glad you were in the shadows of night, because if anyone found you, naked and laying there on the dock, you'd surely get arrested. Was it a felony to be naked in public? You couldn't remember.
And your hand, it hurt so much, it felt as though it were numb and on fire at the same time. You scratched at it, but it only made it throb more, and then you could feel the warm stickiness that suggested it was bleeding again, so you let it fall back down onto the wood and stared up at the few stars bright enough to penetrate the haze of New York City.
And then your eyes were shut, and you were reluctantly opening them as a sharp voice commanded something of you in the background.
"What?" you asked, trying to remember where you were. Right. The dock. Waiting for Matt, presumably. Was he coming? That didn't seem certain.
"Y/N, talk to me. You've got to stay awake. I think you've lost a lot of blood."
"Talk... 'bout what?"
"Tell me about the nearest building to you."
"Mm. Okay." You swung your gaze to the right. "Um, there's a bottle." And it was a big bottle. At first you weren't sure if you were hallucinating, but it was definitely there, and bottle-shaped. Art, you realized. A sculpture of some sort. "Big bottle. Big, big bottle."
"You're amazing, sweetheart. I know exactly where you are. I'll be there in five minutes, alright?" He didn't wait for your thoughts to drift. "Talk to me about your plans for Thanksgiving. You had plans for us, right?"
"Right." You struggled to think of Thanksgiving. It felt like eons ago that you'd been mapping out the holiday, like you were a different person entirely last you'd thought of it. "I want... homemade cranberry sauce. Not the jar stuff."
"Right. What's wrong with the jar stuff?"
You were exhausted; it was too tough of a question to answer coherently. You opted to ignore the question and moved on. "Mashed potatoes. With toppings."
"What kinds of toppings?"
"Um." Thinking was making your head hurt even more. "Butter? I don't know. Matt, it hurts." The admission slipped from your mouth before you could check it.
Stupid, you've got to keep him from worrying, he needs to think that you're alright, he can't know that it hurts.
"I know, I know it does, I'm going as fast as I can go," Matt said, and you assumed he must have been telling the truth — he sounded out of breath and his speech was punctuated with running footsteps.
It began to rain. It was a cold rain, the kind that felt as though it should be snow but the temperature wasn't quite low enough. It splattered across your skin and reminded you of the fact that you were naked. "Matt, I'm naked," you informed him, blinking as you looked down at your body. Blood was all over you; it was difficult to see where Hanson had targeted you. The burn on your foot was making itself known as it got wet in the rain, and you bit your tongue to keep from crying out.
But he didn't sound surprised. "I heard. In the audio file. I've got clothing for you."
Oh, yes. The audio files. How much of your kidnapping had Matt been privy to hear? You weren't sure if you wanted to know.
"What vegetable were you thinking?" he prompted.
Your eyes drifted open. "Well... that depends. What d'you want?"
"Whatever you want to have."
"Not fair," you objected, voice slurring slightly. It was annoying, trying to keep up with the conversation; you wanted nothing more than to sleep, even with the rain now pattering hard on your face. "I guess... peas are nice. Peas are Thanksgiving-y."
"I like peas. My dad used to make them all the time — he'd buy them frozen, heat the whole bag up at once, and melt butter in it. Then we'd keep it in the fridge for a week and it would be our sole source of a vegetable."
"Mm. Butter peas," you repeated. "I'll do that. What... what's your..." The word wouldn't come to your lips, and you paused for a few seconds. "Favorite pie?"
"Strawberry rhubarb," he said, but this time, the voice wasn't coming from the phone, but above you. Everything felt foggy, though, and for a moment all you could think was that there was a man above you, and that it had to be Hanson — Fisk must have wanted to take you back, and they were here to take you again, and please, you couldn't do this again—
"Hey, hey, it's me. It's me." The voice above you was Matt's, and his face came into focus as he kneeled next to you with a wavering smile. You drew in a breath, ignoring the stab of pain in your chest.
"Matt?"
"I've got you," he said, pulling you up into his arms. "I have you."
You couldn't help it; tears began to flow, because Matt's arms were so strong and safe, the exact thing you had longed for all that time in the cell. You could still feel your heart racing wildly and you tried to draw another breath to calm down.
Matt's head was tilted as he surveyed you. He must have left the apartment in a hurry, because he hadn't bothered to put on the red suit, or even the black outfit. He was still in his work pants, with an untucked collared button-down and a tie that was loose enough that it looked ready to fall off him. The only part of his ensemble that he'd put on was the black mask.
And, dammit, even lying in the rain naked and injured, you were still able to appreciate how good he looked.
"Okay." Matt's head was still tilted, and you realized he was appraising you. "Okay. We're going to be okay, sweetheart."
We. You felt a rush of affection for him, and reached outwards weakly with your uninjured hand. He took it, squeezing hard. "I'm here, Y/N." He took off a backpack that you hadn't noticed yet and helped you to sit up, slipping one of his larger tee shirts over your head as though you were a lifeless doll. You didn't mind the help; you wouldn't have had the energy to do it on your own.
He was exceedingly careful. His hands skated over the parts of your body that hurt the most, precisely aware of where he should and shouldn't touch in order to not aggravate the wounds. When it came time to putting on the pants, he practically lifted you up before putting your arm around his neck so that you wouldn't topple over as he pulled your pajama pants on you.
"Thanks," you murmured. "Sorry... sorry I'm useless."
He kissed your cheek gently, and then picked you up, carrying you away from the dock. "You're never useless. Never. I was..." He drew in a breath. "This past week has been hell. I tried to get into that prison dozens of times, but Fisk had it guarded so well that I couldn't —I'm sorry, sweetheart, I did everything I could —but it was a fortress. And the law couldn't help, the police couldn't help, because they've all been corrupted, and — well, I'll tell you when you're better."
You wiped roughly at your face with your good hand. "Can we go home? I'm... I'm scared he'll come back, that they'll try to take me again —I don't want to go back there. He knows I'm here, Matt, they dropped me off here, they know."
"We're going home," he promised, and then his face darkened. "If they ever even try to talk to you again, let alone touch you..." He broke off. "The point is, they won't. I will never let this happen again, do you hear me?" He cupped your face in his hands and kissed you, a bit more roughly, as the anger broiling beneath the surface for Fisk crested slightly. "How are you feeling right now? Are you able to walk?"
"I'm fine." You shifted slightly. "I can walk." It was an ambitious offer, though. You were struggling to keep your head up and you weren't sure how long you could stay upright.
Matt exhaled. "I've already texted Claire. She's going to come to the apartment. You... you've been through a lot, sweetie. You've lost a lot of blood." He helped you to your feet, and you clutched at him, swaying uncertainly. It only took one step forward for you to yelp, as your burned foot seared in protest, and without another word Matt took you up in his arms.
"I'm fine," you insisted. "You don't have to carry me, really. I can walk."
Matt's face twisted. "No. You're... you're not in good shape, sweetheart. I can take it from here."
You didn't answer. His tone was more serious than you were anticipating, which suggested you'd underestimated your own injuries. The exhaustion that followed seemed to corroborate that. It was hard enough staying awake on the dock, but now, in the warmth of Matt's arms, and with the rhythmic jostling as he walked you away from the Hudson, it was enough to make the black start to descend on your vision again.
"Y/N, hey, stay awake. Don't fall asleep," Matt was saying, but as much as you wanted to listen to him, the heaviness won out, and you passed out, into a heavy blackness lined with the velvet curtains of dreamlessness.
Moments flickered in and out.
Claire's face. Determined, stoic, and at times, anxious. You wanted to say hello, or to say that you were fine, but your lips were lead and no sound emerged.
Then Foggy. Attempted smiles, cracked jokes that you couldn't hear or retain. Doughnuts, you noticed once, hazily drifting in and out.
Karen was there. Beautiful Karen, who you couldn't help but envy. Sitting beside you, reading beside you silently, glancing up at you.
And, of course, Matt's face. Constantly worried, constantly seeking out the sounds of your heart or wounds, fingers dancing over you to check for invisible damage. Sometimes he was sleeping in the chair next to you. Or he'd be pacing in the living room. Sometimes he had his work out with him, his fingers running over the braille keys as they popped up, but still his head was always slightly tilted towards you, keeping watch.
And then...
Hanson's voice.
You jolted upright, heart leaping into your chest as you glanced around wildly, certain that you'd see Hanson's polished shoes crossing the floor towards you.
"sh*t, sh*t, sorry!" someone was saying, and you jarred your neck as you turned to face Foggy, who was guiltily setting down your phone. "I'm so sorry, Y/N!"
"Y/N?" Matt was next to you; how long had he been there? His face was anxious and he was holding your hand. "I'm sorry. Foggy and I were listening back through the audio files, trying to find clues as to where Hanson might be —if there's a chance we can go after him legally, Foggy thinks we should take it."
"He's... he's not here?" you said, uncertain, still feeling shaky from the adrenaline.
"No. No, he's not." Matt was looking at you sadly, his eyes almost locked onto your gaze but just a bit high on your forehead, and the near guise of eye contact made a rush of embarrassment flow through you.
"My bad," you said, struggling to sit up. "It just... took me by surprise, I guess, hearing his voice again."
"No one blames you," Foggy said automatically. "Jesus, slow down, Y/N — you nearly died of hypovolemia."
"Foggy's right." Matt settled onto the bed next to you. "Rest, stay laying down. You've been out for awhile."
"How long is awhile?"
"Awhile," was all he said.
"Did I... did I miss Thanksgiving?"
Matt's expression told you all that you needed to know. You groaned and flopped back onto your pillow, which was a mistake; your skull resounded with the impact and stars floated above you.
"You need to take it easy," Matt was saying, concern in his eyes. "You're not unbreakable, Y/N."
"Think I figured that out on my own," you muttered, shielding your eyes as the sun glinted off of the window. "sh*t. I missed Thanksgiving."
"Not really," Foggy said. "We're postponing it. Homemade cranberry sauce and buttery peas will still be on."
His words tickled a faint memory in the back of your head, of lying in a dock and talking almost incoherently with Matt on the phone. "Aw. You two talked about... the plans? While I was out?"
"It was that or talk about the latest legal precedent issues that are making life hell for us at the office," Matt said, smiling. "But we would never do Thanksgiving without you." He rubbed his thumb gently against the top of your hand, avoiding the bandage where the skin was sensitive. You didn't even want to think about what that wound looked like.
"I'll have to run to the grocery store soon, then," you said. "And we have to buy a crock pot, Matt. And we need—"
"We need you to get better, first," he cut in. "Claire left some medication for you. You should take it now."
"I'm fine."
"Y/N."
"Matt, whenever I tell you to take your meds, you brush me off and say that you're fine." You tried to push yourself up onto your elbows. "I want to get ready, I want to get out of this bed — I feel like I've been out of commission for so long."
But Matt gently stopped you from getting up. "Sweetie, Foggy wasn't lying. You almost died. I need you to get better, okay? Rest, and heal. I'll be here."
"But—"
"Get some sleep," he whispered, and it wasn't really that unappealing an idea. You slowly lowered yourself back onto the pillow, this time avoiding the mistake of flopping backwards.
"Okay," you said finally, sleep already taking you. "But... I want to do two desserts, okay? One strawberry rhubarb."
"And the other?"
"Devil's food cake," you murmured, closing your eyes. "'Cause it'd be funny."
As you finally fell asleep, the last thing you heard was Matt's laugh.
