This Is A Code F (fic; matt murdock x reader; rated T)
this is fluffy nonsense but wheezy sick devil is an idea I’ve had for a bit now and finally delivered. May it be an appropriate apology for the angst in TRT rn.
Ship: Matt Murdock x Reader
Rating: T. Some swearing and some nude shenanigans but nothing major.
You’ve never seen Matt get the flu before, but despite Foggy’s warnings, you’re not all that worried. Matt’s sick. How difficult could it be to look after him?
Really difficult, as it turns out, because Matt Murdock does not do anything by halves, whether it’s attacking mobsters or feverishly perching on the banister like a wheezing gargoyle.
Time to get the cough syrup.
Warnings for this chapter: language, nudity, sickness. You know what you’re in for. This is true love, in sickness and in health. Let’s do this.
You’d never actually seen Matt get sick.
It never seemed to matter how busy he was or how many sick people he was around. He never hesitated, either, to care for you when you were sick. Regardless of your level of contagion, you could count on him to be nearby, hovering and eager to provide whatever hot soup, warm tea, and sick-day cuddling you needed. At this point, you were pretty sure he used some sort of secret meditation trick to turn his antibodies into miniature Hulks. His body laughed in the face of the common cold, turned its nose up at the stomach flu, likely because it got stabbed on the weekly and anything less seemed a bit underwhelming in comparison.
That was why you knew something was off when you woke to find Matt standing beside the bed, swaying and soaked in sweat.
“Matt?” you asked warily, furrowing your brow.
He shivered, swinging his head back and forth. It was a clear attempt to orient, and an attempt that didn’t seem to do him much good based on the way he almost stumbled as he stepped away from the bed.
Matt didn’t stumble. Not unless he was hurt.
“Matt, Matt!” You scrambled out from under the blankets and over to his side of the bed, already rolling through a list of possible injuries—another gunshot to the head, hit by a car, internal bleeding, bitten by a diseased raccoon while defending a citizen, picked a fight with a Much Larger Bad Dude. You’d learned by now never to rule anything out when it came to Matt. Had he slipped up yesterday, gotten hit maybe? He had been unusually tired last night, but ‘tired’ was more of a default state for Matt than an outlier, and you had a feeling he slept standing up more times than he’d admit, using his red shades as cover while he catnapped.
It would be just your luck if he’d added another head injury to the mix.
“Don’t… feel right,” he said thickly, sounding so congested you probably could have walked him past the fish market without so much as a wrinkled nose. He took another uneven step towards the doorway. “Need… Just need… tea. ‘M fine.”
You quickly threw your legs over the side of the bed, reaching for him. “Matt, wait, you’re gonna hit the—”
“Fine,” he slurred insistently, before promptly running into the doorframe.
That was the start of your morning, and it only got worse from there.
