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“You shouldn't be here,” the man in the mask says. She's nauseous and a little bit dizzy and it's hard for her to hear him over the sound of the rain and the relentless pounding of her heart that's echoing loudly in her ears.
“I,” she begins, trying to swallow. In the end, she just nods in agreement. He's right. She shouldn't be here.
“I'm staying with a.” She doesn't know what to call Matt Murdock. Her lawyer, sure, but that sounds weird, that she's staying with her defense attorney. Her blind, ridiculously good looking defense attorney who said he would keep her safe and she was desperate enough to believe him.
She wants to to think maybe he's her friend, or could be, if he doesn't get murdered for helping her like poor Daniel did, or get tired of her nearly being killed. He seems like a really smart guy. Smart enough to know she's not worth being friends with.
“I'm staying somewhere else,” she finally says. “It's not far.”
“Lock up and go there. Stay in the lights on the way. I'll take care of this.”
She walks towards her apartment before thinking to ask what the masked man was doing here, how he knew someone would be waiting for her, and wondering what he's planning to do with the guy chained to the scaffolding and the flash drive that caused all this trouble. Only when she turns back, he's already only a distant shadow, dragging away the man who tried to kill her.
By the time she secures trash bags and duct tape over the broken window, at least well enough to keep out of the rain for tonight, her hands are shaking so badly she can barely get the key into the door to lock it behind her. She wants to think it's shivers because of the wet clothes, but she knows that's not it. She recognizes the bitter taste of adrenaline in her mouth and the panic flooding to the tips of her fingers.
Get back to Matt, she tells herself. Get back to Matt. She repeats the words inside her head as she forces herself to keep moving, one foot in front of another, because if she stops, when she eventually will have to stop, she is going to freak the fuck out, and she can't afford to do that right now.
She half-runs back to Matt's apartment, luckily just a couple of well-lit blocks away, and crashes into him, almost knocking him down on the front stoop.
“Matt?” He's standing in the rain in his bare feet and sopping wet pajama pants and a t-shirt, rain dripping into his eyes.
He's waiting for her.
“You're safe,” he breathes as he steadies her before she falls over and takes him down with her. She can't tell if he's saying that to comfort her or himself. But her brain latches onto the words. She needs to believe them.
“I took your hoodie,” she stupidly replies.
“I'll get over it,” he says. “Let's go inside.”
He ushers her up the stairs, and it's not until they're standing once again in his darkened entry way that she notices his cane leaning against the wall next to the door. He hadn't taken it with him outside.
“How did you know where I was?” she asks.
“I woke up and you weren't here.”
He does this, she realizes, answers questions but not really. He makes it sound easy and conversational, but it must take practice to choose your words so carefully all the time. Maybe they teach it in law school. Matt must've been top of that class. Foggy, not so much.
“What were you going to do in your bare feet?”
“I would've improvised. I told you I'd keep you safe, Karen.”
He smiles that incredible smile, all dimples and laugh lines around his eyes. He's not quite facing her, and she thinks maybe it's a good thing he's blind because if his eyes lit up the way other people's do with that smile, she suspects it would be more than she could handle. She would have to crawl into his floor and die, and she really doesn't want to do that. In fact, after the past few days, she thinks it's safe to assume she has a very strong survival instinct.
He takes her elbow and gently leads her into the living room. The glaring sign floods the room in subtly shifting colored light, and she's grateful it's bright enough to not leave any dark corners in the apartment. Still holding onto her, he smooths the quilt over the couch where he'd been sleeping with his other hand.
“You're hurt,” he quietly says as he guides her to sit down. She appreciates it's not a question she has to answer. Because yes, she is hurt. And not just where her head hit the wall. “Let me see,” he says without a trace of irony as his hands move her hair out of the way.
“How did you?” she begins to ask when his fingers immediately find the tender knot on the back of her head.
But he tilts his head to one side, like he listening to something very quiet far away, as his fingers weave through her hair. He probes all over her head, his fingers spidering down and across to ensure he doesn't miss a single spot. She holds her breath, waiting for him to move to her face, like the blind people always do in the movies, but he doesn't stray past her hairline.
Karen knows he can't see, yet somehow he makes her feel like no one else has ever cared enough to look at her this closely before. It should scare her, the way he's studying her so intimately, but instead she just feels his promise. She feels safe.
She's curious about how he knew about her head, but she doesn't want to disturb the intense look of concentration on his face. She sits quietly and focuses on his eyes instead of her questions or what just happened. Without the dark lenses in place, he looks innocent and strangely vulnerable, but she can tell he's neither of those things. His eyes are a pretty shade of pale green, framed by long lashes, and they gaze off somewhere just over her shoulder and slightly above her head.
“It's not a concussion,” he finally pronounces as he stands up, like he knows she was staring at him and saw his eyes instead of herself reflected back in the smoked lenses and doesn't like it. “You're going to have a hell of a bump though.”
“You went to medical school too?” she asks as he heads to the kitchen and opens the freezer.
Matt seems capable of accomplishing just about anything even though he's blind. She feels badly for before, when she pitied him. She had no right to feel sorry for him when he told her he missed the sky. Sure he did, because being blind has to suck. No way to tiptoe around that. But he doesn't want pity, and he certainly doesn't need it. Not from her or anyone else.
“My dad was a boxer,” he replies. He's wearing the glasses again when he sits down next to her on the couch and holds an ice pack to the back of her head. “It was just the two of us, so I got a lot of hands-on first-aide training. Used to sew a mean stitch, back in the day. Not so much anymore.”
“Good thing I'm not bleeding,” she says. Because blind guys don't sew. Except he'd said the accident happened when he was nine, and a little kid shouldn't know how to put in stitches either. Maybe that's why he seems so much older than Foggy. It helps to explain the calm, confident way he carries himself. The way he says things like he'll keep her safe so that she doesn't think to wonder how a blind guy will make that happen until much later.
“Karen, can you tell me what happened?”
“I,” she begins.
She doesn't know what to say. He's her only friend, if that's even what he is. He's really kind and has been so nice to her, and she could have gotten him hurt. Or worse. The last lawyer she talked to is dead. And if not for that man in the mask, she would be dead too. He would have slit her throat, right there in the her apartment. Her blood would have soaked into the carpet next to Daniel's. It would have been days before someone found her because no one would notice that she was missing.
“I,” she tries again because Matt and Foggy would care. She knows that. They care, and maybe that's enough for whoever it was to send someone after them next, after she's dead in her apartment. She's already lied enough, and Matt's been so nice to her, and he deserves better than this. She owes him this truth.
But before she can find the words, she's crying. Like a dam that had been holding up under the rising pressure until suddenly, it just can't anymore. What had been hairline cracks in her self-control break apart, spewing ugly sobs that shake the sofa.
Two nights ago, she was drugged and framed for murder. She woke up next to a nice guy, only now he's dead, and his blood was under her fingernails and soaked into her carpet. Then a cop tried to strangle her in her prison cell. And tonight a hit man was waiting for her in the dark.
This has to be a nightmare. This can't be her life. She needs to wake up.
Karen, wake up. Wake the fuck up right now.
“Karen,” Matt says as he pulls her into his arms. She hangs onto him because he's the only life preserver in the middle of this flood of 'Oh Shit! We're all going to die!' and buries her face in his neck.
She is not dreaming. Her imagination would not have been able to invent a beautiful, blind savior who doesn't seem at all upset that a random stranger he had to bail out of jail is sobbing on his sofa. She's not that creative.
He rubs soothing circles on her back and doesn't seem put out at the inconvenience of a wet, hysterical girl snotting onto his shoulder. He doesn't tell her to calm down or stop crying. He doesn't tell her this isn't the end of the world because, who knows, maybe it is. Matt just sits there, like he knows exactly how long she's been swallowing the terror and the panic and guilt, long before two nights ago, and he has nothing he'd rather do than patiently wait for her to cry until there are no more tears left.
“A man was waiting for me in my apartment,” she finally says when she can talk. Matt doesn't seem to have a clock, so she has no idea how much time has passed.
She leaves her head on his shoulder, not ready to abandon his warmth or the lean line of muscles she feels pressed against his side. His hand presses comfortingly on her back, like he understands she suddenly feels too light without all that noisy grief. She gets the sense he knows she feels like she's insubstantial enough to float away without him holding onto her.
“Second attempt on your life in two days,” he says.
She appreciates that, like before, he doesn't ask her to answer questions, like what was she doing there when the whole point of her staying here with him was because he and Foggy suspected there would be someone lying in wait at her apartment.
“It's enough to give a girl a complex,” she admits in a shakier voice than she'd like.
She feels it when he smiles, and she moves her hand around his neck, to feel his pulse beneath her fingers. She's just had a nervous break-down in front of someone she doesn't even know but wants to be friends with, but he's as steady as a metronome.
“Second man you've fought off in two days,” he quietly points out. “You're brave. You're a fighter, Karen. Not a victim. Don't let them make you forget that part of the story.”
“Is this trauma recovery?” she asks. “Me being grateful for what I have and all even though people keep trying to kill me?”
“Maybe,” he admits with a smile. “Doesn't mean what's happened isn't terrible, but they haven't succeeded. Which is definitely better than the alternative.” His voice is as calming as his hand on her back, and she thinks she could curl up on this couch and never leave. “I might go so far as to call it a miracle.”
“It wasn't a miracle,” she says. “It was a man in a black mask. He just. I don't know. He came out of no where and saved me.” She shakes her head. “I didn't even say thank you.”
“A man in a black mask?”
“Yeah,” she nods. “I know it sounds crazy, but it's true.”
“I believe you.”
“You always believe me when I tell you the wildest, most unbelievable sounding stories. Are you like this with everyone? Should I worry about people taking advantage of your good nature?”
“I'm not that easy of a mark, Karen. Besides, Foggy worries enough about me. He's quite the mother hen.”
“He seems really nice.”
“Foggy's the best. But I can take care of myself.”
“I believe you,” she whispers.
“Can you tell me about the man in the mask?”
“He wasn't very big. Your size, maybe. But he was.”
She wants to describe how fierce he was. How fast and scary, which was also the opposite of scary because she knew he was going to stand between her and danger and not let anything get to her. But Jesus. Conspiracies and drugged drinks and dirty cops and hit men and now a man in a mask. It's nuts.
“He moved like one of the guys in those stupid kung-foo movies high school boys always watch,” she says instead.
“I haven't seen a lot of those,” he admits with a smile.
She realizes he doesn't have a tv in his apartment. At least not one she can see. Or pictures hanging on his walls. Or any pictures at all. Or knick-knacks. She wonders if that's a blind thing, having a living space so stark to avoid having to dust and knock stuff over, or if it's a Matt thing.
“You're not missing much. But this man, he fought like that. Running up the walls and flipping and kicking and breaking through the window and still fighting. It was.” Her voice trails off while she swallows and sniffles and tries to sound less like a girl who will always need rescuing. She sighs. “You're right. He was totally a miracle. My own personal miracle. He said he would make sure everyone knew about Union Allied, that they would leave me alone if I couldn't hurt them anymore. I don't know what he meant, but I trust him.” She sighs. “Matt, what are we going to do?”
“Well,” he says with a smile. “You'll sleep in my sweatpants tonight since the clothes Foggy got for you are soaked. It's probably not going to be your best look ever, but they'll do.” A small laugh that sounds only a tiny bit hysterical escapes and she nods her head. “There are certain benefits to only having one case that's just been settled, and tomorrow morning, we will take full advantage of them all. We'll sleep in. Then we'll call Foggy to get one of his cousins over to your apartment to fix the window while we go out to breakfast. Sure, you'll still be wearing my sweatpants, but this is Hell's Kitchen, so you won't be under-dressed. By the time we're done, you should be able to go back home.”
“Foggy has lots of cousins?”
“Brace yourself when you meet the Nelson clan,” he advises. “There are about 5,000 of them, and they're all very loud and will touch you and force you to eat way more than you want to. It's best to not fight the inevitable, though. They are very determined women. It's like trying to resist the tide. Just let them wash over you.”
She smiles, pleased that he seems to think she will meet Foggy's family when she's just a client who can't pay them.
“Foggy knows everyone,” he says. “Someone will get over there right away.”
“You make it sound so simple.”
“It is simple,” he says. “It's just not easy. The simplest things are always the hardest. You're shivering.”
“So are you.”
“We're wet. Why don't you take a hot shower. You'll feel better. And then maybe you can get some sleep. You're exhausted.”
The thought of going anywhere alone, even just into the next room and shutting the door, immediately replaces all Matt's borrowed calm with terrified panic.
“I'll be right here.” Matt is quick to reassure her, as if once again he's able to read her mind. “You don't have to be afraid. You can leave the door open, if you'd feel better. I promise not to look.”
She laughs and nods her head. “Yeah. Okay.”
She uses the same toothbrush he'd given her earlier to brush her teeth before her shower. Standing at the bathroom sink, she watches Matt fold the damp quilt they'd been sitting on and gather up a pile of wet clothes that he hangs over the back of one of the kitchen chairs. He has his glasses on, and when she's really paying attention, she sees the way he touches things more than sighted people, as if he needs to make sure stuff is where he thinks it is. Or maybe to make sure he's where he thinks he is. But if not for that, she wouldn't be able to tell, watching him move with easy grace around the room, that he's blind.
“Here,” he says, handing her a glass of water.
She nods before she remembers he can't see her. “Thanks. I'm okay.”
“That I don't believe,” he says. “Not yet. But you will be.” Before she can think of a way to answer that one, he points at the medicine cabinet. “Advil's in there.”
“Thanks.” She hates that she keeps thanking him for everything without giving him anything back.
She realizes he wasn't kidding about knowing first-aide when she opens the cupboard over the sink. The shelves are well stocked with different kinds of bandages and gauze, butterflies, tape, disinfectant, and bottles of that liquid adhesive they use sometimes instead of stitches. She runs her fingers over all the packages, wondering how he knows which one he wants.
Karen turns on the water to let it warm up and glances in the trash can to see what kind of toothbrush he opened for her so she can replace it. Because how would he know which kind of toothbrush to buy at the store? Only the trash can has been emptied since she went to bed that first time just a couple hours ago. That's strange. She doesn't remember him doing that. She'll just have to guess because if she asks, she knows he'll tell her not to worry about it. And she's not worried. She just doesn't want to owe him anymore than she already does.
She unbuttons the wet shirt and glances out to see if Matt is sitting there. It was weird, earlier, when she pulled off the Bolts t-shirt Foggy gave her right in front of him, and he stood there, frozen, the way a man would when he saw a woman without a shirt for the first time when he wasn't sure if he was supposed to see her or not. But maybe he was just standing still so he didn't run into her before she got it buttoned. She's never spent time around someone who's blind. If they are friends, or are going to be friends, there will be a lot for her learn in the next few weeks. Surely Foggy will have helpful hints.
Matt isn't in the living room, so she tiptoes around the corner until she can see into his bedroom. He's already changed into dry pajama pants and is toweling his hair. Karen can smell the distinctive scent of glue and sees bruises on his chest.
“Did you cut yourself?” she asks.
“Do you need something?” Matt asks instead of answering.
He pulls a t-shirt over his head. Which is kind of too bad, Karen thinks, because he looks all right without a shirt. More than all right. Which is a stupid thing to notice on a night when she's nearly been killed. Again. But there it is. He really is beautiful.
“No. I. Um.”
“I'll come sit with you,” he offers.
“No. I'm okay. Really. I just.” She shrugs, hating that she really would feel better knowing he was sitting in the bathroom while she took a shower. Because as much as she hates to admit she's a scardy-cat and a baby, she hates even more the thought that she'll have to close her eyes to wash her hair. And she won't be able to hear over the sound of the water.
“I don't mind.” Once more, Matt takes her elbow and starts walking towards the steamy bathroom, leaving her no choice except to follow his lead. “I have to brush my teeth anyway. So really, you're doing me a favor.”
“Yeah,” she ruefully says. “I'm doing you all kinds of favors tonight.”
But Matt only shrugs and grins and reaches for his toothbrush. He grabs hers by mistake, they're identical except for the green band of color on the new one he gave her and the pink band on his. Before she can tell him, he must realize it and gets the right one. She can't help but stand there and watch as he adds the toothpaste in a move that doesn't seem at all strange or awkward, something she thinks should be harder than he makes it look.
She quickly strips off the rest of her wet clothes and steps into the shower. She occasionally looks around the curtain to make sure he's still there while she washing, catching glimpses of him flossing his teeth and combing his wet hair. When she finally turns off the water and pulls back the curtain, he's standing there with an open towel.
“Such service,” she says.
“We aim to please here at Hotel Murdock, Miss Page,” he teases back. He drapes the towel around her and steps back, careful not to touch her as she dries off.
She follows him back to his room and while she's putting on a pair of his sweats and a t-shirt, he efficiently pulls the fitted sheet tight on the bed and straightens the covers so everything is cool and smooth when she slides in.
She turns on her side and watches him settle into the couch without covers this time since they got the quilt all wet earlier. He takes a deep breath and closes his eyes. She wonders if he can tell the difference, or if it's all just dark. Does his darkness feel infinite, like he could fall off into nothingness, never to be seen or heard from again? Or is it claustrophobic darkness that crushes against him even though he can't even escape it.
God, she doesn't know which one is worse.
“Matt?” she breathes so quietly it's doesn't even count as a whisper.
His eyes immediately flash open. For a second, he seems to be staring right at her. She knows he isn't, but he somehow does see exactly what she needs because he gives her a kind little half smile and nods before getting up and climbing to bed with her.
“I know it's a lot to take on faith, given what you know about me,” she begins once he's laying quietly next to her. “But I'm really not one of those women.”
“What women?” he asks.
“The helpless, damsel-types who sit around and wait for someone to rescue them. I'm not needy. Not usually, anyway. Up until two days ago, I could take care of myself too.”
“I believe you,” he says with a smile.
“You do?”
“Yeah. Want me to leave the lights on? It won't bother me.”
“It's okay.”
Part of her wishes he would turn to her, and not just because he's the most attractive man she's ever seen up close and personal, let alone gone to bed with. But mostly she's relieved she doesn't have to worry about any of that. Not tonight. She knows her virtue is safe with him, even if he is laying right next to her on sexy, slippery silk sheets.
“Matt?” she finally whispers. “It probably sounds silly, and of course you don't have to tell me, but are you ever afraid of the dark?”
He softly sighs and shifts before answering. “They always say it's the darkest before the dawn. I don't know if it's literally true, but I like to think it is. I find the idea...” He shifts again as he searches for the word he wants. “Comforting. When I was a kid, I'd watch my dad's fights on tv. Or, after, listened to them. And then, when it was over, I'd sit at the kitchen table with the first-aide kit and wait for him to come home.”
“That sounds awful.”
“It was, even though I knew the worst was already over. The fight was finished. He was coming home. But that hour always took forever, the waiting. Until I could see him with my own eyes, or feel him with my own fingers, and know he was really okay. That hour in the kitchen, waiting, was always the darkest.”
“Matt? How is that comforting? Now everything's always dark for you.”
“True,” he admits in a voice that makes her know he isn't offended. “But it's also always about to get better.”
Matt had something terrible happen to him. Something no one could have anticipated and something he surely didn't deserve. But it happened anyway. Because accidents happen, and life isn't fair, and that's just the way it is. It was kind of a miracle he wasn't killed, that he survived. Sure, he's not the same as he was before. It changed him. But he didn't let it stop him. He didn't spend his life terrified of what could be lurking in the dark corners.
Jesus, for Matt, the entire world is a dark corner, and he still smiles. All the time. That amazing, dimply, infectious smile that lights up entire rooms he can't even see. She'd be doing all right if she was half as brave as he is.
“Goodnight, Matt.”
“Sleep well, Karen.”