fear of god [Matt Murdock x F!Reader]

The Father, The Son.

Matt can hear your heart going wild. It's beating like crazy, mirroring when he called you pretty. But he brushes over that. It was a slip, he can't help it. It isn't his fault that hearing you speak with such passion and conviction makes him admire you. The elevator is so small here too, he can hear the whirring of metal scraping the sides of it as you ascend the building. It bounces off the small, suffocating walls. He can handle your heart, sure, but the way your foot taps against the floor is starting to irritate him.

"Nervous?" He asks tenderly.

"No," you steal a look at him, hating how his lips twitch at your obvious lie. You plant your foot on the floor, steadying your stance. "I'm a journalist, I'm used to talking to people."

He knows you're telling the truth, just by your voice. It's one thing to interview people, it's another to be on the path to discovering something totally new. For all you know, this could be a big break into your investigative article. Matt would never judge you for being anxious about this, he knows how important it is to you.

"You know, when I worked with Foggy," he begins, his voice gentle and low, "we both somehow agreed that I'm better at giving the opening statements. Guess we thought I came off stronger and more confident but, our first trial, I was pretty much scared shitless," he lets out a laugh, prompting you to let your own out too, "it went alright - pretty good, actually - a lotta rehearsing for that one. But, you know, every trial still feels like the first."

The elevator dings and the doors begin to slide open. You give Matthew a thankful expression, admiring the way he smiles and stretches his hand out towards your arm. You feel more calm, knowing he's there with you. He hears your heart slow, reaching a normal - somewhat elevated - pace.

He squeezes your arm gently, "Alright, lead the way."

You're not alone in this, if you falter, he's there. And vice-versa.

The nursing home is clean. You make a mental note that the Deacon family must come from money. Not all nursing homes look this well staffed and well kept. You walk to the floor nurse, a lovely woman, tall and cheery. She has blonde hair, tied in a tight bun at the back of her head. Her scrubs are light pink. She smiles when you approach her. Definitely paid well.

"Hi, how can I help you?"

"Hi," you breathe back, stealing a glance at Matthew before smiling back at the nurse, "we're here to visit someone. His name is Richard Deacon, they told us he was on this floor."

"Oh, Richie!" She nods, rising to her feet, "Wonderful timing, he's just woken up."

"Oh, wonderful!" You respond happily.

"I gather you checked in at administration on the floor below, yes?" She prompts politely.

"Yes, we did," Matthew answers, giving her a curt smile.

"Great, it's just room 707 right down that hall!"

You thank her, squeezing Matt's hand gently. He gives you a curt nod, smiling politely as you lead him. The door is shut, sleek, and numbered. 707. You take a breath, your hand reaching out and knocking once. Matt nods, telling you to proceed.

"Richard Deacon?" You call out nicely, taking a step inside. The room is stuffy. It feels like no one's opened a window in here for weeks. You frown at the dimness he sits in. The man faces the wall, seated in a black wheelchair, a large oxygen pump attached to him. "Sorry to bother you, sir," you smile nervously, feeling Matthews drop your arm, "Are you Richard Deacon?"

"Senior," he mutters loudly, half turning his body to face you and Matt, "How many times have I told you, huh? Senior."

When he's met with silence, Richard turns to face you. His expression drops slightly when he sees two unfamiliar faces.