Vertigo {Matt Murdock/Reader}

While you will not deny that it is cliché—and you are normally not a fan of those—the relationship that you and Matt have grown into can only properly be described as complicated. The pair of you had met in college, and the light friendship you had struck up had gradually evolved into something that you cannot put a label to. You like him a lot and you think he feels the same way about you which is really the only possible explanation for the way you dance around each other while summarily avoiding the possibility of any kind of romantic relationship.

Of course, not talking about things is not the right way to deal with them, and this leads to an unbelievably large number of awkward situations. One of which you have currently found yourself in: Matt had come over to your place to watch a movie with you, and you had been very much looking forward to spending the evening with him as you had not seen him in a while. And then, in the quest for popcorn, you find yourself turning away from a cabinet to find yourself face to face with Matt in a rather small amount of space.

Neither of you seems capable of moving even an inch, as if you are drawn to each other by forces beyond your imagination, or perhaps it is simply that you hold each other in place. Your breathing grows increasingly labored, and your cheeks feel as if they are on fire, but you know without a doubt that Matt is just as affected as you are, and that is what gives you the courage to finally do something other than slip past him with a mumbled apology and pretend that nothing had ever happened (like you have done a million times before).

Your hands stay surprisingly steady as you twine them around his neck, suck in a quick gasp of air, and lean in the few remaining inches to brush your lips over his, soft and just the slightest bit hesitant. His response is instantaneous, his mouth covering yours before you can go too far, his hands settling on your hips to pull you in even closer, and then his tongue is flicking at your lips and you are only too happy to allow him entry. The whole thing seems too good to be true but you cannot bring yourself to be overly bothered by that thought, absorbed as you are in the man you are kissing.

Matt is the one to break the absolutely heady kiss that has left you slightly weak in the knees; and immediately after he pulls away from you, his hands move to your shoulders and hold you up but even that contact only lasts until you grip the counter behind you to steady yourself. He moves away then, a little shaky himself, to lean against the wall, putting a good few paces between the two of you.

And that is when the sting of rejection hits you and it is all you can do to keep from shedding the tears suddenly swimming in your eyes, blurring your vision.

“I’m sorry, I don’t know what I was thinking,” you mumble, turning away from him, head bowed. You are watching the first of the tears splash onto the granite countertop in a detached manner when you feel his presence behind you. You pull yourself together, determined not to let on the extent to which his actions have affected you.

“___, I’m sorry,” he begins, reaching out towards you tentatively but you move away before he even gets close. He can only be apologizing because he pities you and even the thought of that makes the situation so much worse than it already is.

“No, Matt, don’t. You have nothing to apologize for. I was really out of line. I just.. I thought you felt something too,” you don’t mean your words as an opening and yet that is how Matt takes them.

“I do feel something,” he hurries to assure you, his tone earnest, and you turn back to him, waiting for him to continue. But he remains silent, seemingly struggling with what he is about to say next.

You open your mouth, about to urge him to speak, or maybe say something about your own feelings- you don’t quite know which yet and in the end, it doesn’t matter because his next words blow everything else out of the water.

“I’m falling in love with you ___.” He speaks softly, with conviction so absolute that you almost miss the discordant note of fear in his voice. Almost, but not quite, and so you latch onto it, choosing to ignore the confession he has made because you don’t know what to say to the fact that he thinks he’s in love with you, not when he has only just pushed you away.

“You make that sound like it’s a bad thing,” you manage to get out, your tone questioning and entirely incapable of conveying your anger.

“Don’t you see ___- I’m putting you in danger by even spending time with you. There are a lot of people who want to see Fisk out on the streets again, and I’m one of the lawyers who put him away.

How much worse will it get if one of those people finds out about the way I feel about you? I couldn’t bear to see you hurt because of me,” he gestures rapidly as he speaks, growing almost agitated, though you don’t doubt for a second that he genuinely believes in the veracity of his reasoning.

You cannot stop the peals of laughter from spilling out- true bitterness coming easily this time, for you cannot quite believe that this is the reason for his distance, for his refusal to ever let anything happen between the two of you.

“Listen to yourself, Matt. I didn’t know that the man I’ve allowed myself to fall for could ever be capable of such selfishness,” you are completely calm, your voice unwavering, in striking contrast to the near-insanity of your laughter from earlier. And as you speak, the anguish on his face grows until you begin to feel his pain as well.

“You…” he trails off, leaving his question unasked, but you know what he wants to ask and so you begin to answer with a smile on your face that belies the fact that you are just as hurt as he is.

And if he had not been driven to distraction by this argument—much like you—the pounding of your heart would have answered his question for him.

“Yes, I’m already in love with you,” your words come out sounding inevitable and you pause to consider the implications of that, steeling yourself before continuing, “Matt, you are the one who doesn’t see what’s going on here. I’m perfectly capable of taking care of myself.”

“I’m not saying you aren’t ___. I would never say that.”

“Then what is it?”

“I can’t help but be afraid. Of losing you.”

The irony of the sentence is not lost on you, and it is this knowledge of how much he cares that finally drives you to try the last thing you can think of to make him see reason, because you cannot bear to lose him without ever having given your relationship a try.

“You said you couldn’t bear to see me hurt because of you. Do you even realize what you’re doing to me right now?” you ask, finally lowering your barriers again, letting him hear the pain in your voice, “You’re the one that’s hurting me, Matt.”

All the fight leaves Matt as your words take effect, and you are immediately flooded by guilt.

“___, I’m sorry,” he whispers, his shoulders slumping and his entire posture speaking of defeat. You don’t deny his apology this time.

“I’m sorry too, Matt,” you reply, equally soft, equally broken. And when you sink into one of the chairs, and Matt takes the one next to yours, you allow him to take your hands in his.

“What now?” he asks after the passage of what feels like an interminable silence.

“I’d like to give this, us, a chance,” you begin, slightly unsure, “but I understand if you think what I said changes things. I mean.. I understand if you don’t want to be with me.”

It is his turn to laugh but the fact that his chuckles are merely relieved and a tiny bit indulgent is enough to give you hope.

“___, while I agree that we’ve both been a tad harsher than necessary- it was nothing either of us couldn’t take,” he chuckles again and you cannot help but smile a little yourself even as he continues speaking, “Would you go out to dinner with me? As a date?”

“I’d love to, Matt,” your reply is almost immediate and the smile on your face only grows because Matt has just drawn your hands up to his lips and pressed a kiss to your knuckles.

So you sit there, talking late into the night, movie completely forgotten, and you don’t know which one of you is more relieved that the scars from this evening are not permanent: in fact, they don’t even make it to the next morning.