Chapter Text
You would like to think you’re nice. Maybe even kind. Old acquaintances and previous coworkers called you sweet, and perhaps your current coworkers or your well-visited baristas think similarly.
Regardless, you’ve made the effort to memorize people’s names and faces. To remember aspects of their lives and characteristics.
You stop at the same coffee shop even while your bank balance teeters on empty. You see the workers. The owner, Jamie, puts their heart and soul into the business. Ashley, who constantly works to provide for her cats, whom she loves more than her husband.
You see the regulars whose timelines align with yours. Vincent, his twirled mustache, and red eye with an extra shot. Matt, his flirtatious comments, and an americano with a splash of cream. His sweeping cane bumps into your shoe more often than not.
Conversations with all of them are familiar things, but with Matt most of all. It doesn’t necessarily mean much; it’s just that the two of you manage to get there at similar times and walk in the same direction to work. He talks about current cases and friendly shenanigans. You talk about work and your newest read.
There isn’t much at work either: writing sales reports, doing financials, and pushing paperwork. You’ve done your best to make friends, but it seems superficial, because the thing is—no one sees you.
The last thing you want is to regress and forgo all the care you could give, but you’re tired, and noticing takes energy. You feel the light conversations with personal questions recede. Positive affirmations are pried from your tongue. You want to keep caring, but it’s getting harder. I think it’ll be over soon.
Hypomania kept you on your toes. Aware. It was a bounce around the city. Coffee shops, work, theaters, dishing out the little money you had. Anything. It kept you social, talkative, and present.
But it’s bad again. It always returns, and you always forget how low it goes. It’s home and work. It’s peeling yourself up each day and falling down every night. But last night, you came to the conclusion: I can make it…stop. This morning was light.
Over the past few weeks, the coffee shop visits were sporadic, but the peace of your impending choice tapped into a forgotten energy. Make today count.
Now, you spiral as you wait in line.
Make today count. You make a twenty-dollar tip. Ashley exclaims, “Whoops! Think you added a zero there, bud.”
“Nah, just making up for past visits.” It’s hard to focus on Ashley’s chatter, but you’re pretty sure you’ve nodded at the right times and hummed when appropriate. You’re content and exhausted.
Poke. Following the movement, you find Matt with a tilted head and a waiting expression. The smell of espresso hits your nose, and frothing milk screeches in the background. He looks at you expectantly. “Sorry?”
When Matt smiles, he only has one dimple, but it looks shallow today. “How you are? Haven’t heard your voice or order in a while.” Slow, you blink. You’re moving and processing at half-speed. It registers.
“Me?”
His face pinches. “Yeah. I haven’t had my walking buddy these past few weeks, thought we were two ships passing in the night, but Ashley and Jamie said they haven’t gotten to see you either.” He fidgets with the grip of his cane.
Who are you to say that the once dormant depression is restless again? That everything feels impossible? Eating. Thinking. Moving. It’s my turn to talk.
Waving a hand, you dismiss his concern. “Oh, I’ve been sleeping in, and you know, can’t afford fancy coffee all the time.”
He clicks his tongue. “Ah, very true.” Nodding, he faces the counter. It’ll be better tonight. A wave of calm passes by with reassurance. Unfortunately, Matt is a wallflower as well, observing others and gathering information. “So how are you?”
I don’t want to think about how bad it is.“Hmm, well, a bit more tired these days.” I’m exhausted. “But it’s probably the weather. It’s been drab.” I only leave my apartment for work. “How are you? How’s the life of lawyering?”
Just like with Ashley, you think you’re saying and humming the right things.
Then urgency smashes inside your chest, no regard for the situation or conversation. Fuck, another one. God, I’m so tired of these. I can’t- I can’t. No, no. Not here, please. I don’t wanna have a panic attack. I don’t. Don’t. No, no-
Matt’s hand presses against your shoulder, lightly shaking and repeating your name. “You okay? Your breathing is heavy.”
Even with your jackhammering heart and collapsing lungs, you pull it together. “‘M sorry. Yeah, I’ve just been tired recently, not sleeping well.” I just have to make it through today. Then I can finish it tonight.
“Thought you said you were sleeping in?”
Something inside snaps. “Am I on the stand or something?" Both of you are surprised at the outburst. Matt’s head moves back a tad, and your eyebrows shoot up. I ruin everything. Covering your mouth, you desperately wish to reel the words back. “I’m sorry. I dunno- I’m so sorry.”
Matt's concern is obvious, but he shakes it off and shrugs. “It’s alright. Are- has life been crazy?”
I feel crazy. I feel insane. You admit, “Yeah. It’s just. The world is on fire, and I’ve been kinda tired. And–” Ashley calls your name, smiles, and nudges your drink towards the end of the bar. Stuff it down. It’s fine. Make today count.
Slipping forward, you grab your drink. “Thanks, Ashley. You always make my mornings. Tell Jamie I say thank you.” Today, you forego the coffee sleeve in the hopes that the burn against your palm would rouse you in some way, shape, or form. The hurt feels deserved.
Matt feels for and grabs your arm before you can slip further. “Matt? What are you-”
“Walk with me today, yeah?”
“Okay? I was planning on it?” An americano joins the bar.
One hand holds his drink, and the other moves to you. “Can you walk with me to work?”
In the few months you've had this routine, you've walk to his office twice? Both times you were bouncing and unable to cut yourself off.
But he's never asked explicitly or seemed so...clingy? Maybe he isn’t doing well, or he needs someone to talk to. Blinking incessantly, you steal yourself, but your words still hold confusion. “Yeah, sure, Matt.”
The call bell behind you is just another form of white noise. Nelson and Murdock isn’t directly on your way to work; it’s a few streets over, but still the same general direction.
The walk is quiet for a block. Normally, you find something to chatter about, but the space between the two of you feels incredibly odd. Maybe something's happened to him these past few weeks. Gingerly, you ask, “Are you doing okay?”
The grip on your elbow tightens and loosens immediately after. “I’m okay. I was wanting to catch up since we haven’t talked in a while.” You eye the bruise under his chin.
“Alright…catch me up. What new cases and weirdos do you have in store?” Matt seems almost disappointed in your question. Pausing, he licks his lips, then relents, sharing the most recent oddity of a lower-level felony client and their poor arson attempt against a metal park bench.
Matt continues, "The crime rate in that neighborhood isn’t high anyway. The bystanders were more annoyed than anything.” You chuckle. “Are you anywhere near the high crime areas?”
“Somewhat, I’m on the outskirts of Hell’s Kitchen, but I’m not too worried.” I won’t have to be worried.
Arriving at Nelson and Murdock, you slow, then bump your shoe against his as he does to you. Make today count. “Sorry for snapping earlier, but, um, it’s always nice to see you, Matt. Take care of yourself.” You're yanked back by the elbow. He doesn't say anything. “Yes?”
Even without sight, he's studying you. “Stop by sometime. Maybe after work?” His chest rises and lowers faster than it should.
Perplexed, you smile and shrug. “Maybe.”
Slipping away, his hand unwillingly leaves you. The spiral begins again. Will anyone actually think about me after today? Next week? Matt calls your name and asks, “See you on Monday?”
Apparently. But he’ll be okay. It’ll all be fine. The lie slips with ease. “‘Course!”
Even though you called out sick the past few days, no one asks how you’re feeling. If you caught the flu or were just using PTO. It’s no one's job to check on you; you’re an adult. But it would be nice. It just… it would be nice.
Eating your lunch in the break room, you wonder how your coworkers will find out. Wellness check maybe. Paul in accounting reads the newspaper front to back, so maybe they’ll find you in the obituary column. He loves the Peanuts comic strips best. Your sandwich is flavorless. Chips too.
Small talk and document deadlines feel easier, and an unfamiliar contentment follows you throughout the day. In the moments you stop, you think of Matt. His question is repeated. “See you on Monday?” The world feels oppressive again. So you keep moving. You came in today to put everything in order. It only seems fair.
With everything as good as it can get, you leave earlier than normal. “Stop by sometime.” Wishing your coworkers a good night and saying goodbye, they do likewise and are none the wiser.
An oddity occurs on your walk home: you change route and fumble over your own feet outside Nelson and Murdock, as if your mind was pushing you to ask for help before tonight. “Stop by sometime. Maybe after work?” You linger at the corner. I should. You keep walking.
The same thing happens outside your tried and true coffee shop. Stop in one last time? Shaking your head, you walk home with a heavy chest. The energy of this morning is gone.
It’s not exactly like you have a timestamp. A plan, yes, but a chosen hour? No. You’ll be upstairs and enjoy the view. Let it get dark enough for the street lamps to blink to life and neon signs to buzz.
Before you know it, you find yourself in bed. “See you on Monday?” Chalky pills coat your tongue, but you throw back some vodka, and gag at the burn. You feel good, though.
Slumping, you’re folded in your mused comforter, but flop onto your back and stare at the water stains. What if I did something crazy? Maybe you could pick a fight with a stranger, the kind of person with skittering eyes. Or what if I played the hero?
Empty laughter scatters off your apartment walls. Oh, man, imagine that. You, out there in some costume, being a vigilante in the night. Fighting for justice, stopping some bad guys, and going out in a shootout to protect someone. Crazed giggles spill. Everything is warm. “See you on Monday?”
You blink, and it’s dark out. Or you fell asleep. Could be either. Whatever. Then a few more pills.
Slipping up the stairwell and up onto the roof, you bring a bottle of vodka and your graceless self. I should have grabbed a chaser and made it a little more fun. Fumbling against some AC unit, your blurred eyes make the lights look impressionistic.
Your nose curls and you take a swig and gag, barely keeping it down.
This is you. And you can feel good here. You do. Another drink. “See you on Monday?”You smack your head against the metal until the repeating question stops. Another drink.
Your stomach and chest cramp, but you breathe through it. You’ll be just fine. It’s all just fine. Mumbling to the city lights, you garble,“‘M fine.”
A wave hits, bringing a niche euphoria you've never experienced, which delves deep inside your chest. Your breathing is nice and slow, the beats feel minutes apart.
The light shining directly into your eyes turns off for a moment, then flicks back on. A shadow moves on the rooftop across from you. It comes closer, swiftly jumping over and across the ledge, onto your building. Clambering away, you scrape your skin against the cement.
Panting, the figure asks, “Are you okay?”
The halo of light behind him outlines devil horns. Ohhhh. Clumsy, you wave and mumble, “Heyyy, Mr.Dev'l. ‘M good.”
Suddenly, he’s squatting at eye level and asking, “How much have you had to drink?”
You get in his face and retort, “You'd a cop?” But with a body that’s far too heavy, you slump back and smack your head against the metal again. “Sor'ry.”
His head moves like a bird’s. Staccato movements stop abruptly. “Did…did you take something?”
“See you on Monday?” It clicks in your lethargic mind. “Whoaa, soun’ jus’ like my bud, tha’s crazy.”
Crowding closer, he hisses and questions, “What did you take?”
He’s like a gnat. Stupid, annoying gnat. You want him away. “I’da know, kinda like Xanax, think, bu’ you can’ have none, ‘m sorry.”
God, he’s so close, up in your personal space and everything. “How many?”
Flimsy, you jerk and shrug. “Dunno? You e’vn look like-” Your heavy arm moves to nudge his mask, but he grabs your forearm midair. He’s ruining your high. This dude sucks.
“I need you to think. How many?” They’re not questions anymore; he’s just angry-sounding. I just wanted a nice, calm night. To sleep forever and–“How many? Two or three?”
Your stomach cramps when a small chuckle titters. “Oh! No, kinda, like a han’ful I think.”
His chest heaves and hand tightens. “A handful?”
Your head feels like concrete, but you nod and hum. “Mhm, think so.”
He pats down your body, and you exclaim, “Whoa!Hans’ to y’rself!” Daredevil steals your phone off your body and dials.
“911, what’s the address of your emergency?”
He rattles off the address and situation. He's fucking this whole thing up. With a surprising strength, you knock the phone away from his ear. “F'ck off!” You want to convince him that everything’s okay, it’s just like you planned. “‘S okay. ‘S kay!”
But the phone is quickly swooped back up. Then he’s moving you. Clammy, your shivering body burns. The sudden spinning motions make you even more nauseous than before. Panting, you plead, “Stahp, imma throw up.” The movements become slower. “God, bein’ mean ‘da me!”
It pisses you off. He’s ruining it. Even through waves of unrelenting nausea and a barely expanding chest, weakly curled fists thump against his chest. You try to push him away, but high and drunk, it’s an extremely pathetic attempt. You throw up on…everything, you think. “Ugggh. Noo, errg. Damn it.”
Even being manhandled, you reach for a half-full bottle to get rid of the gross, acidic taste. Before the glass can skim your fingertips, it’s snatched and chucked across the roof, hits the lip, and shatters on impact. “Damn.”
Breathing restricted, you hack and wheeze. It’s an ugly sound. Tons of pounds are pressing on your chest and your lungs crumple from the inside.
Daredevil moves you, flipping you into recovery position: on your side, your upper leg hitched up, and a hand tucked under your head. You groan and try to move, but he holds you still.
The Devil looks worried, but you’re angry. “Wasn’ suppos’ hap’n. Why’d you gotta’ be ‘er?” I'm sad.
His leather hand moves up and down your back. “You’re okay. Help is on the way; I just need you to stay awake.” You don’t know it, but the ambulance is three blocks away, speeding and wailing.
Your chest is tight. Air is scarce. A gasping breath is cut off, your stomach revolts once more, but he just moves you away from the choking hazard. “Shi’, fu-this hur’s.”
His chin trembles and his voice cracks, “It’s okay. You’re o-okay.”
You don’t want to, but you start crying. Unwilling tears and frustration groan into the rooftop. “Fuu-s’ mad.”
“No one's mad. No one.” A flesh hand skims down your cheek. The skin feels warm against you.
Hiccuping, you moan, “‘M mad. Jus’ wanna sleep.”
Hunkering closer, Daredevil murmurs to you. “I know. I know, but we gotta stay awake.” It’s the world's most pathetic attempt to wriggle away, but you try anyhow. He holds you close, offering physical comfort amidst your shattering world. The whisper, “You’ll be okay. We’ll figure this out,” makes everything shatter.
We. It's just me. “Fu- ‘m so ‘lone.”
Daredevil’s wobbling chin presses into your head. It’s scratchy, but he chokes, “You're not aIone. I’m right here.”