fear of god [Matt Murdock x F!Reader]

Judas.

You've forgotten how to speak. Perhaps, you've forgotten how to think. Looking at his bloodied face right now feels like touching a hot kettle; it burns so fiercely that you can't help but snap your eyes away from him.

"P-Please," he whimpers, lips trembling as he slurs his words, "say something."

"You need medical attention," you find yourself muttering to yourself. Frowning, you shake the betrayal from your mind and spring to your feet. Grabbing a pile of kitchen towels, you lean down and quickly press them onto his side.

"Sweetheart-"

"If I don't stop the bleeding in five minutes you're going to pass out and most likely die, I'm not explaining that to you again," your voice raises below a shout, your words really sink in and you bite your bottom lip, your eyebrows pinching together in desperate, "I'm calling an ambulance."

"No," he grunts loudly, "no hospitals."

"You're hurt really bad," you state plainly, somehow composed despite your frantic thoughts, "I can't fix you."

"I can guide you. You'll need a needle and wire," he huffs out. You push his hands against his abdomen before jumping to your feet, "Lighter, alcohol."

You return, eyeing the large cut on his red vest. There's enough room that he doesn't need to remove his shirt. There's no time for that anymore.

When your hands are on his, you feel the chill of his skin against yours. "You're so cold," you tell him.

"I'm going to go into shock soon."

"What?" You whimper quietly.

"Pour the vodka on me," he tells you, pulling the damp tea towels from himself.

You uncap the bottle, dousing his side in it and squeezing your eyes shut when he groans out. When you turn to the needle, you thread it through faster than you expect to. In fact, Matthew is the one who begins to tremble - not you. He's right, he's going into shock. He's losing a lot of blood. "Y-You know how to s-suture?" He asks you.

"No!"

Taking the needle from you, Matthew reaches down to touch the bright, red wound. He sucks in a breath, still trembling as he threads the needle through himself. "Like t-this," he grunts, "in lines, half an inch apart roughly. Then tie it off and keep going."

"Oh, God," you grimace at the sight, shaking your head at the bloodied mess he's creating, "What if you pass out?" You ask, quickly taking the needle from him and leaning down to his abdomen.

"You keep going," he answers weakly, resting his head against your pillow.

You move your fingers half an inch away from the first suture, and you grit your teeth together when you push the needle through his skin. Matthew doesn't answer. "Matthew?"

He lifts his head a little higher upon hearing you, "Y-Yeah?"

"Stay with me, please," you speak a little louder, tying a knot at the fifth suture, "keep your eyes open."

"Okay," he whispers, tilting his head back towards the curling and letting out a painful grunt. You're at the end of the wound, the blood has stopped. He's begun to clot. For safe measure, you pour more vodka onto him. "Ah, f-fuck!" He grunts, face contorting at the sting.

"Eyes open," you remind him, fiddling around your first aid kid to find the gauze and tape, "keep your eyes open, I don't care how tired you are. Keep them open. Please."

"N-No, I-I'm going to p-pass out," he warns, his eyelids heavy and dry. He feels inexplicably cold and thirsty. You glance at him, eyes widening at his pale face and the blue tinting his lips.