fear of god [Matt Murdock x F!Reader]

Animus Nocendi.

A door slams. It wakes you up immediately. It's late, there's no light coming from outside. The thick blanket falls from your chest, allowing you to feel the cold that settled as you both had slept. Turning to your side, you reach out. The spot beside you is still warm. But he isn't there.

"Matty?" You call out, voice hesitant and raspy, "Matthew?"

He doesn't answer.

You rise to your feet, holding back a gasp as the cold floorboard touches the soul of your foot. His apartment is quiet, dead quiet - you can barely hear the street outside. Though, from the living room window, you can see the city still alive. You turn the kitchen light on, after failing to find it a few times. Furrowing your eyebrows, you recall last night. He had taken to you the bathroom so you could both clean up, between kisses, teasing comments, and laughs. Then he handed your underwear to you and pulled you to his bedroom. His hands held you as you both slept in one another's warmth.

You check your phone. 2:37 am. Grabbing your coat, you tuck it around yourself, revelling in the comfort it brings. After you put your shoes on, you pick up your purse and you let the front door slam behind you. Neighbours be damned.

You head for the floor level, tugging your jacket closer to you as you step out into the early morning. It doesn't seem like the sun will rise for a while now. You begin your trek home, it isn't too far - you'd rather walk home quickly than wait for a train to arrive. You aren't particularly fond of the late-night or early-morning commuters.

When you pull your phone from your pocket, you can feel the tips of your fingers aching from the cold. As you walk, you type.

You: Hey Karen, still on for brunch tomorrow?

Karen: Technically it's today...

You: Oops, you're right. Still good to meet up?

Karen: Of course :) Is everything okay?

You: Yeah, everything's fine!! Just confirming

Karen: What're you doing up so late?

You: Same as you; writing

Karen: Touche.

Someone knocks into your shoulder, sending your phone flying from your grasp. The man whizzes past you, running as fast as his legs can take him. Your gaze turns to follow him, sending a concerned scowl his way. A second before he turns the corner, you see the fearful look in his eyes. It's desperate, like a frightened animal being hunted. That primal fear. Picking your phone from the ground, your chest sinks at the shattered screen. Great - not fully fucked, but halfway there. From the alley beside you, where the man had run from, you hear something move. Or someone, you suppose. Just as you're about to walk, a series of sounds ring out. Your legs tense, you're glued to the spot. But you're ready to run home at any sign of danger.

You should run now. Now. Go home. But the reporter in you wants you to stay. Something feels horribly familiar. An alley, early morning, someone running from what could be a crime scene. Except you're not wearing a scarf this time. And this time, you feel as though you're being watched. Examined. Viewed. Something feels open and ugly about standing in front of a dark alley way.

It sounds like metal being punched or knocked, and it's repetitive. Then it fades quietly.

Do you take a step towards the darkness? Or do you put your head down and continue to walk? The thought of potentially leaving someone who may be in need of help has you glued to your feet. Not again. Please not again. The sound it... it sounds like someone climbing.

Angling your head up towards the tall building, you hold back a gasp when you see it. A man, perched on the edge of the roof. He's looking down at you, hiding in the darkness his frame casts. There is little light to illuminate him, except for the moon hanging low in the distance. It creates a contrast of white against the dark outline of his broad shoulders. On top of his head, two little horns. You can just make them out in the black of the night. The Devil of Hell's Kitchen. The man without fear. Vigilante. Dangerous. He's been called so many things in the past year - and your mind reminds you of every single encounter you've ever read or heard about him.

You stay planted in the ground, staring, facing the sky like a sunflower. A moment lingers between the two of you; you, watching with unbelieving eyes, and him, peering down, still as a marble statue.

Suddenly, and all at once, he rises to his feet. He disappears, taking a few steps back into the depths of the dark. He disappears, a rooftop magician turning to air before your eyes. Then, you see him leap. No hesitation. Mid-air, his body is unsupported by the safety of the ground below. You grit your teeth. Daredevil lands on the apartment roof beside him. Lowering your head, you tuck your hands into your warm pockets and turn in the direction of your apartment. You only take a few steps before you find yourself turning, unable to shake the watchers eyes.

When you peer up at that rooftop, you see nothing. He's disappeared into the night. Or maybe, he's so good at hiding in the darkness of Hell's Kitchen that you just can't see him.

You make it home at 3:10 am, in time for your phone to begin buzzing. Karen. You answer, pulling it up to your ear with a forced smile, "Hey, Karen. Everything okay?"

"Where are you?"

An instant frown makes its way to your face, you feel freezing cold at her tone, "Home. Why?"

"What're you doing?"

"I was about to go to sleep - what's going on, Karen? You sound scared. Are you okay?" You grip your house keys in your hand, ready to drive to wherever it is she is.

"I'm okay, I'm fine," she sighs, you can hear shuffling at her end of the line, "is your TV on?"

You reach for the remote, "No, but-"

"Keep it off," she orders you, "a story's about to break, I'm here at the scene of the crime."

"Is it Matthew?" You close your eyes.

"What? No!" Karen shakes her head, almost as if shaking the thought from her brain.

"Red light?" You ask your second question. Her answer comes in the form of tense silence. She's choosing what to say, you know her too well. "Where?"

"I can-"

"Karen," you cut her off, your breathe shaking lot calm, "where?"

"43rd and 11th," she states simply, "I gotta go, police are on the scene. Stay home. Take care of yourself. Don't watch the news."

"Okay. Stay safe." You hang up.

43rd and 11th. Daredevil. You feel frozen; a different type of frozen from being in his presence. It's more fearful, more guilt-ridden, more frustrated. And, above all else, it's more betrayal. It's 3:15 am and Matthew doesn't pick up when you call.