fear of god [Matt Murdock x F!Reader]

Matthew.

"Matt?" You knock on the door, leaning in closer to hear, "I came as soon as I could."

It's quiet for a moment, you wonder if he's left.

"It's - ah, it's open!" He calls out, having heard your footsteps as soon as you walked into the building. He hears you turn the doorknob, step inside, and breathe a quiet sigh of relief when you see him sitting at Karen's old desk.

"Hi," you greet. Dropping your purse on the empty chair by the office door, you look around the empty place, "Wow, you weren't lying. This place is dead."

"I never lie," he muses, "here, come take a look at this." He spreads out old newspaper clippings, his own copies in braille above the ones he wants to show you. The tips of Matthew's fingers graze the white paper ever so gently, and quick, as he searches. You watch quietly, your eyes flicking up to his concentrated face. "Alright, these two."

You eye the articles, skimming them over.

RED LIGHT DEATH: MAYOR CONDEMNS PROSTITUTION

Dated 1989.

"The current victims," Matt begins hesitantly, "they were all sex workers, yes?"

You study his face, your throat suddenly inexplicably dry, "Yeah. Yeah, they were."

"Well, that would've been helpful to know," he answers lightheartedly, a tinge of a laugh in his voice, "I had to do some digging to find more cases like those you described to me yesterday."

"Sorry."

There's something in your voice that he picks up on. Some sort of hesitation. But the beat of your heart is steady.

"What is it?" He wonders.

"Nothing, I just..." You look for the words and settle for the truth, "I didn't know if you'd still help me once you knew what connected them."

"What?" His voice falls drastically, sounding small and concerned, "Why wouldn't I?"

You hesitate, realising it sounds stupid now, "I, uh, I don't know. I didn't know how Catholic you were, I guess? I thought maybe you'd be... resigned to help."

A frown crosses his face and you regret saying anything, "I'm not resigned."

Of course, he isn't. He's a goddamn lawyer, he's meant to believe in helping all. You can't believe you'd let his faith discourage you from that fact. Maybe it was warranted - maybe it was your own fears, the time you've had to deal with rejections, the way no one seemed to really care. And now as you stand there, besides Matt, you wonder why you let that get in the way.

"Matt, I-"

"Either way, I think I may have found something," his hands land on the braille, sliding down in silence to find it, "the witness statement. Anonymous on one but on this one... Richard Deacon Senior."

You frown, picking up the article and looking through, "His father? He was a witness?"

"Not to the crime but to the police presence afterwards," Matthew answers, nodding plainly, "yeah, I found that odd too."

"What's the relation between this other article?"

"The witness statement is anonymous but something tells me Deacon Senior isn't too bright. Read what he says in the first one," Matt offers.

You read aloud, "...An after-witness, a middle-aged man named Richard Deacon, stated 'Authorities need to focus on cleansing this city, it isn't enough to clean up after the fact'."

"Now this one," he hands you the other article.

Your fingers brush for a moment and you swallow the lump in your throat, "Witness... Anonymous... 't isn't a tragedy, it's a cleansing."

"Sounds to me like this anonymous witness and Deacon Senior are on the same page," Matthew announces.

"You think they're both in on it?" You suggest, "Like some... fucked up father-son duo?"

"Maybe," Matthew shrugs lightheartedly, "Our next move-"

"Speak to the dad," you interrupt him, your mind moving incredibly fast as you take a seat next to him, ordering the papers in front of you, "Wait, is he alive? How old would he be? Does he live in the city?"

Matthew chuckles gently, placing a hand on your knee, "Okay, take a breath."

"Sorry, sorry," you shake your head, laughing nervously. Looking down at his hand on your knee, you can't help but feel guilty. "Matthew... About before, I'm-"

"I can tell you have your own view of religion," he interrupts you, turning to the sound of your voice, "and that's fine, I understand it. But, I want you to know that I don't stand for hate. I don't use the bible to justify bigotry and I don't use my faith for evil."

"No. No- Of course, I'm sorry," you mumble, shaking your head and placing your hand on top of his, "I didn't mean to judge. Really. It was so stupid of me. I know you're not like that, it's just..." you shrug.

Matt can feel his heart pick up at your touch. It's dangerous - something he can't control. Your hands are warm and soft and comforting, he wants to hold on forever. His mouth goes dry.

"Too many others are, I understand," he dissipates your worry, grasping your hand and giving it a squeeze before he lets go, "I've honestly met some of the most insufferable people inside a church."

You hum in agreement, rolling your eyes back at the memories, "Yeah, me too."

"Yeah? I bet my stories are worse," he banters, giving you a grin.

"A priest once told me that dying my hair was to spit in the face of God's creation," you admit to him, watching his glasses shift on his face when he widens his eyes.

"I once had an elderly lady tell me she admired my faith in God even though he 'cursed me with blindness'," Matt purses his lips slightly.

Your mouth hangs open, "Jesus. Did you say anything to her?"

"Yeah," Matt grins, recalling the memory, "I told her my husband said the same thing."

You let out a surprised laugh, "Okay, yours is worse."

"Told you."

"People are insane," you let out a sigh, looking back down to the papers.

"Yeah, just a little," Matt smiles, leaning closer to you, "What colour did you dye your hair?"

You let out a laugh, shaking your head slightly, "Red."

His mouth forms a circle before he smiles back at you, "What kind of red?"

"Bright red."

"Ahh, yeah that's God's least favourite colour," he nods in acknowledgement, "What colour is it now?"

"Y/H/C," you answer timidly, seeing his lips move for a moment as he finds something to say.

"Pretty."

"I'm assuming you weren't born blind, so you know what Y/H/C looks like," you muse back, raising your eyebrows at his compliment. Maybe he didn't mean it to sound so flirty. You brush away the way that your chest flutters at his low, raspy voice. Pretty. Pretty.

"No, no, I wasn't," he answers, sitting back on his chair. He raises his hands, reaching for the tie around his neck. It's silent when he loosens it, you watch the veins in his hands strain against the tightness of it. "At this point, most people usually want to know how I lost it."

You meet the circles of his glasses, a breath caught in the middle of your throat at just how distracted you are by him, "I guess most people actually care."

"And you don't?"

"Not really into sob stories," you smile, loving how he can play along with any quick quip you send his way.

His hands rest on top of the desk, "So what, the blind card doesn't work on you?" He pulls a laugh from you, "And the lawyer thing? What about that?"

Matt hears you let out a small laugh, in the form of a breathy huff - like you want to laugh or giggle but you just don't want to give him the satisfaction of it. "Yeah, I can get into the whole always-wearing-a-suit thing."

"Really?" He gives you a bright grin, hands supporting him as he stands, "Good to know."