Nelson And Murdock - Tumblr Posts

So this is the first chapter in *hopefully* a series! Let me know what you all think!

**To Love in Silence**

{Matt Murdock × Gender neutral reader}

{Slow-burn/angst to comfort/ miscommunication/a slight pregnancy trope. Karen × Foggy}

The fog clung to Hell’s Kitchen like a heavy coat, weighing the city down with the kind of damp chill that seeped into your bones. It was a suffocating mix of gasoline, rain, and something uniquely New York—garbage left too long in the summer heat, mingling with the faint, greasy scent of food vendors hustling to make a buck. It wasn’t pleasant, but it was home, in the way that Hell’s Kitchen was always home. It was rough around the edges, a place that constantly smelled like it was on the verge of either decay or rebirth.

Josie’s Bar was a testament to that. It was the kind of dive that hadn’t seen a proper cleaning in years, where the dim lights buzzed faintly overhead and everything seemed to be coated in a thin layer of cigarette smoke, even though smoking hadn’t been allowed in years. The booths were sticky, the red leather cracked and worn from years of use, and if you leaned back too far, you’d catch a whiff of something sour, like spilled beer that had soaked into the wood and never quite dried. The floors, perpetually grimy, clung to the soles of your shoes, and every step felt like a battle against the faint but ever-present stick of spilled liquor.

It was noisy, too—an endless hum of conversation underscored by the clink of glasses, the dull thud of pool balls colliding, and the occasional burst of laughter from the back corner where a group of regulars always seemed to be locked in an eternal argument. The jukebox played half-forgotten rock songs, muffled and distorted, as if the music itself was too tired to put up a fight against the constant chatter. Every sound echoed in the tight space, bouncing off the stained walls and low ceiling, creating a cacophony that somehow felt familiar, comforting even.

Foggy slid into the booth across from me, his usual smile in place but not quite reaching his eyes. He smelled like he always did—like cheap aftershave, something bright and sharp that clung to him even after a long day in court. There was a hint of fabric softener, too, a faint clean scent that contrasted with the mustiness of the bar, but underneath that was the smell of sweat and city grime, of long hours spent hustling through the streets of Hell’s Kitchen. He looked tired, like all of us, his tie loosened and his hair slightly mussed from where he’d run his hands through it one too many times.

“You look like you could use a drink,” he said, flagging down Josie with a wave. I watched her shuffle over, wiping her hands on a dirty rag before slamming two beers down on the table. The glasses were slick with condensation, leaving damp rings on the worn wood.

“I could use a lot of things,” I muttered, staring into the foam as if it held answers I couldn’t find anywhere else.

Foggy leaned back, the leather squeaking under his weight. “What’s eating at you?”

“It’s Matt,” I said, unable to keep the frustration from bleeding into my voice. “He’s… different. Distant. I feel like I’m losing him.”

Foggy nodded, his expression darkening as he took a long sip of his beer. “He’s got a lot going on,” he said, but the words felt hollow, like he was tired of saying them. He smelled faintly of the cheeseburger he’d inhaled on the way over, greasy and comforting, mingling with the stale air of the bar.

“I just don’t understand,” I said, picking at the label on my bottle, my fingers sticky with beer residue. “He used to tell us everything.”

“Used to,” Foggy echoed, his eyes drifting to the empty spot beside me. “Matt’s always been good at keeping secrets, but lately… I don’t know. I don’t think even he knows what he’s doing.”

I glanced at the TV above the bar, where Wilson Fisk’s face loomed larger than life. The screen flickered, showing scenes of destruction—burned-out cars, crime scene tape flapping in the wind, cops huddled together like they were preparing for war. Fisk’s name was everywhere, a dark cloud that hung over the city, and behind it all, whispers of the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen—the masked vigilante who’d been tearing through the crime rings, leaving chaos in his wake.

“You ever wonder who that guy is?” I asked, nodding toward the screen. “The Devil?”

Foggy followed my gaze, his brow furrowing. “Sometimes,” he said, a hint of unease creeping into his voice. “He’s out there every night, taking on Fisk’s men like he’s got nothing left to lose. You gotta be a special kind of messed up to do that.”

I thought about Matt then, about the bruises and the bandages, the way he winced when he thought no one was looking. There was a smell to him when he was hurt—like copper and antiseptic, sharp and medicinal. On his good days, though, he smelled clean, like the cedarwood soap he favored, mingling with the faintest hint of coffee and old books, something warm and familiar. It was a comforting scent, but lately, even that had been tinged with something darker, like smoke and sweat, as if he was constantly fighting battles I couldn’t see.

“Do you think…,” I started, but the thought died on my tongue. I couldn’t bring myself to say it, to voice the suspicion that had been clawing at my mind for weeks. That maybe Matt knew more about the Devil than he let on. That maybe he was closer to the danger than any of us realized.

“Do I think what?” Foggy asked, giving me a curious look.

“Nothing,” I lied, forcing a smile. “Just… nothing.”

But the doubt lingered, festering in the back of my mind as the night wore on.

It was late when I finally got home, the city quieting down to the dull roar of distant sirens and the occasional shout from a street corner. I fumbled with my keys, my fingers numb from the cold, and stepped inside my apartment, greeted by the faint, musty scent of old wood and the slightly metallic tang of the radiator that never quite worked right.

I had barely kicked off my shoes when I heard a knock—a soft, hesitant tap that sent my heart lurching. I opened the door, and there he was, leaning against the frame, looking every bit as battered as I felt. His suit was rumpled, the collar of his shirt stained with something that looked suspiciously like blood, and his hair was a mess, sticking up at odd angles like he’d been running his hands through it all night.

“Matt,” I said, the surprise evident in my voice. He smelled like rain and the faint, acrid scent of city air, layered with something distinctly him—cedar, sweat, and a trace of something metallic and sharp. My throat tightened at the sight of him, all messy and undone, like he’d been fighting shadows I couldn’t see.

“Hey,” he said, his voice rough around the edges, like he’d been shouting over the noise of the world. “Can I come in?”

I stepped aside, and he brushed past me, his movements stiff and unsteady. I could smell the sweat on him, mingling with the faintest hint of blood, though he tried to hide it beneath a weak smile. He sank onto the couch, burying his face in his hands, and for a long moment, we sat in silence, the air between us thick with everything we didn’t know how to say.

“You look awful,” I said, half-joking, trying to cut through the tension. But it was true. Up close, I could see the bruises blooming along his jaw, the cuts that hadn’t been there last week. He smelled like pain, like antiseptic and bandages, and something else—something darker, like smoke and gunpowder.

“Long day,” he muttered, rubbing at the back of his neck. “I didn’t mean to bother you. I just… I didn’t know where else to go.”

“You’re never a bother, Matt,” I said, though the words felt fragile, like they might shatter if I looked at them too closely. I moved closer, hesitating before reaching out to touch his shoulder. He flinched, just barely, and I drew back, my hand hovering between us. “What’s going on with you? I feel like you’re a million miles away.”

He didn’t answer right away, his head dropping into his hands. I could hear his breathing, ragged and uneven, and the faintest catch of something like a sob caught in his throat. It was the first time I’d seen him this vulnerable, this… lost. And it scared me, more than I was willing to admit.

“It’s Fisk,” he finally said, his voice barely above a whisper. “Everything’s getting worse, and I… I can’t fix it. Not the way I want to.”

“Matt,” I said softly, trying to catch his gaze. But he was somewhere else, staring through me like he was seeing ghosts. “You don’t have to do this alone.”

The way he wanted to. The words hung heavy, loaded with all the secrets he was too afraid to share. I watched him, the faint tremble in his hands, the way his shoulders hunched like he was trying to hold the world together on his own. And maybe he was.

He lifted his head, and for a split second, I saw something break in him, something raw and real and utterly heartbreaking. He smelled like rain, sweat, and exhaustion—like a man who’d been running from someone, or something..

WIP part II ! 6 hours in, more to come 😂

tw: fake blood, wounds.

CURRENTLY THINKING ABOUT KAREN PAGE, MATT MURDOCK, AND FOGGY NELSON DURING THE BLIP.

Imagine one of them survives the blip, doesn't really matter who, they wouldn't be able to go into their office. The Nelson Murdock & Page plaque being a constant reminder of the other two. Matt would become vengeful/angry, Foggy would become sad/depressed, Karen would be numb and try to act like nothing happened. They blame themselves even though they knew Thanos was at fault.

—

Now imagine two of them survives the blip, again it doesn't matter who, they couldn't be in the same room as each other. Seeing each other would be a constant reminder of the one they lost. I imagine there would be more arguments leading up to them not talking anymore.

—

Now imagine they all reunite, Matt's sense's are overwhelmed with everyone returning. Karen wouldn't feel so empty anymore. Foggy would have his bestfriend(s) back. They could go, more or less, peacefully back to work at Nelson Murdock & Page.