Blackout | Matt Murdock

chapter fourteen | living through the aftermath is a bitch

In the weeks since Matt more or less accidentally showed his hand to Michaela, he's been equal parts relieved and anxious. Relieved, obviously, because Michaela finally isn't someone he has to tiptoe around – she knows him, both sides, and, like Karen and Foggy, she didn't immediately kick him to the curb. And she would have had more reason than most, what with him not letting her know he was aware of her secret identity until he was called out on it.

He's anxious, though, and contrary to popular belief, it's only gotten worse these last few weeks, because now Matt has... it's not a need, per se, Michaela is an adult and a super-powered one at that, she's not looking to be coddled, and maybe especially not by him, but. She checks in every night, or close to it, and he's always able to think a little more clearly after she's done it.

She hasn't checked in tonight.

It's a slow night by his standards. He and Foggy have been taking on more cases lately, most of them pro bono, and while it hasn't made a sizeable difference in the neighborhood, he's starting to see the ripple effect. More people going to jail for the crimes they commit, more people feeling safe in their own homes, getting the justice they deserve. And Matt's not giving himself the credit, their legal work has been seventy-five percent Foggy and the rest of it is probably Karen – Matt's been taking the night shift, so to speak, and it means he's not making it to as many court dates as he'd like. Or as many as Foggy would like, and Foggy hasn't even really forgiven him for the entire Frank Castle fiasco.

Matt hasn't forgiven himself for that one, either, but as Michaela likes to remind him, that's at least partially the Catholic guilt talking. Doesn't make it any easier to ignore, but he's working on it.

So, slow night, nothing out of the ordinary besides the odd screeching of stray alley cats duking it out over food scraps. Matt's staking out a rooftop, far enough from home that there's no viable connection but close enough that, internally, he wonders if suiting up was worth the effort. Casting out his senses only gets him inconsequential feedback: the rumble of faraway cars, the buzz of streetlights, mundane conversations from the residents of the buildings in the surrounding area.

Rocking back on his heels, Matt reaches for the hidden pocket of his suit and draws out his phone. He tugs his glove off with his teeth, so he has a free hand to work the touchscreen, swiping the phone open. His thumb taps restlessly against the cool surface of the glass.

Call or don't call? She's not going to be mad if he calls and interrupts her, or if she has a voicemail waiting for her when she has a free minute to catch her breath. He knows that from experience (and also from the laughter she'd spilled down the line when he called back after she left him a voicemail while he was in the middle of breaking up a gang fight). But if feels like he's giving in if he calls before she does; not that he knows what he'd be giving in to, and not that it's a contest, he's not losing anything either way.

Except maybe his sanity.

I'm acting like I'm back in middle school, he thinks, a little too amused at his own insecurity. Making fun of it is better than confronting it, he supposes, though it's certainly not getting him anywhere.

...Matt took down the genius-level leader of a massive crime syndicate, and he doesn't know whether he should call the woman he likes. The spider kid calls Michaela without hesitation, and here Matt is – hesitating.

"Alright," he murmurs, tightening his grip on the phone. "Just call her, Murdock, the worst that can happen is she doesn't pick up right away."

Matt holds down the home button. "Call Michaela—"