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He was always fine, right up until the wave took him under.
That was the way it usually went for him, though, wasn't it?
A breath of air that lasted a day, a week, a few months, a year if he was lucky. And then—
Crash.
Under he went.
It happened like clockwork. In the same way that dusk so inevitably followed dawn, so too were the fragile moments of peace in Matt's life followed by a sense of despondency, by a hopeless, inescapable void of dark water that pulled him beneath the surface without mercy. He'd managed over the years to find at least some of the triggers, able to spot the earthquakes that set the waters into motion. But some months, some days, they just… came from nowhere, came despite a calm, placid sea, these rogue waves that roared over him before he had a chance to suck in so much as a single gulp of air.
There was no predicting them fully. All he knew was that, eventually, no matter how long it had been since the last time, the wave came again.
And again.
And again.
Always.
He wasn't stupid, or as clueless about this as Foggy and Karen and Lantom probably thought. He'd done his reading, had dug into the research at one point, had listened to the doctors and the nuns as a teenager. "Likely genetic, when looking at your family history." He knew what this was, and what the treatments usually were. In a better life, there'd be medication that didn't send his hypersensitive body into a flaming tailspin, and therapists he could pour himself out to without any risk of them being killed.
But that wasn't his life.
There was only this one, and the crashing waves that came and went without rhythm, driven by winds and God and a butterfly's wings on the other side of the world, inescapable as gravity.
He'd gotten good at hiding when he was in the middle of a wave, at least—disguising the way the cold waters had risen again to choke him on bitter hopelessness and thick, black silt that filled his lungs and numbed his mind. He took on every case that stumbled into Nelson and Murdock's doorstep; laughed and drank at Josie's with Foggy and Karen; threw himself at every robber and murderer he could find on the street. He treated them all like bits of wreckage, like floating bits of wood on an open sea, because maybe if he moved fast enough, held on tight enough, the wave wouldn't take him under fully this time. He couldn't afford to sink, to drown, not when there were so many others waiting for him to go back and pull them up, too.
The frantic pace helped a little. At the very least, it made him feel less useless as he waited for the storm to pass.
But it still left him drained, his body and mind so very tired from hiding how close he was to drowning. You were the only one who saw it, and only because there was no way he could keep it from you when you both lived together.
A relief for him. And surely a curse for you.
"What's this one from?" you asked him one night, as he lay on his side in bed, unmoving in your arms where he'd curled up seeking some glimmer of comfort. You traced the ridge of an old scar across his hip, ragged and uneven. He wondered if that scar had grown pale yet, a ripple of silver like a lightning bolt. His dad had always said his old scars would look like that eventually, but Matt had never seen any on his father's hands that stayed closed long enough to be anything but red and raw. And then he'd seen nothing at all.
Did he have more scars than his dad, now? Surely he did, on his knuckles at least.
What a fucking disappointment he was.
"Knife," he said distantly, flatly. There was never any energy left in him by the time he crawled into bed at the end of the night. Not when he spent most of the day, the night desperately trying to reach the surface of the water he'd sunk beneath. The things he'd read online never talked about how truly exhausting this whole process was. "Mugger in an alley, I think. It was a while ago. I don't really remember. Most of the scars blend together now."
You were quiet for a long moment, tracing up his side, following a carved map of old wounds and freckles he couldn't see and never would. If you were bothered by his moods, by these waves, by the empty husk he became—because surely that's what he was, a scarred and useless animal hide filled with thick black water and silt, nothing pleasant, nothing worth talking to—you'd never let it show. It had terrified him the first time you'd seen him like this. It still did, when he had the energy for that kind of emotion. How could you not get sick of this, of him, of waves that came from nowhere, came from everything in his life, butterfly effects and ripples from his own hand? Though at the moment, all he felt was just… distant relief at the way he didn't need to pretend with you that he felt better than he did; relief that he could just be… empty.
"This one's not healing great, though. I'm a little concerned about it," you murmured, brushing your thumb along a healing gash on his ribs. The skin there was sore, inflamed and stiff. The wound had been made in a bad spot, a place that pulled far too much when he was moving and swinging, a place he'd been cut before. That had destined it at the start to a slow healing process. Scar tissue was never as strong as unbroken skin, weaker and more prone to tearing, and so it had torn beneath the fresh wound that had been layered over it a month ago, tear upon tear, split upon split, a scar for a scar.
This was the third time since then that he'd almost opened it up again.
"It's fine," he said, tone empty. It was a blatant lie, one even he recognized, but an important one.
"Is it?"
He blinked slowly at the darkness that felt like deep water, barely twitched when he felt the gentle, tender brush of your lips against the old scar on his hip. He hadn't bothered to dress in anything more than a pair of boxers, his skin raw and buzzing from the rubbing of cloth all day, his body an open wound soaked in saltwater. Even your touch hurt a little, though he'd never tell you just in case it made you stop. He needed the comfort of your touch more than he cared about the pain.
"Matt?"
Was he fine?
"Yes."
Because he had to be. There was no other choice.
"Do you want to talk about it?" you asked. There was no pressure in it, no force. You wouldn't be mad one way or another.
The sharp smell of smoke appeared in his nose, phantom-like, ash hanging thick and charred on his tongue. He thought of a grandfather with a lit match and a sleeping family he'd rather die with than be forced to live without; thought of a swung fireplace poker that seemed to come from nowhere thanks to a sensory map distorted by roaring flames and waves of heat, burning Matt's skin because he hadn't had time to run home and put his suit on before stopping to help.
"No," he said.
He'd gotten the family out.
Most of them.
Another kiss, soft and tender, near the healing line along his ribs. Not directly on it; it was too fresh for that. But near it, enough to know where the kiss was meant for, left wrapped on the wound's doorstep.
"I wish I could reach the scars you have inside," you said softly, turning your head until the air currents above the bed stirred. He thought you were glancing up at his face. He didn't bother to stretch his senses out to confirm it, not even sure he could when he was this tired. The warmth of you at his back was all that mattered. "Sometimes I think they worry me more than the ones on the outside, with what you go through as the Devil. They're a bit harder to heal."
He remembered his father's hands and scars that never had time to mend, not when they were opened up again night after night. Was that what he looked like inside? Just... a mass of wounds that never had a chance to scar over before they were torn open again? Scars atop scars atop opening scars?
"Sometimes I wonder if they'll ever heal." It was a gloomy thought, but a real one, one that wandered in and out of his mind like an unwelcome guest when he was so far down, a passing shark stopping to take a few bites from the body struggling to make it to the surface. "I try to beat this when it comes, but nothing seems to work or stop it no matter how hard I fight it. It always just… there's nothing I can do. Nothing left to try."
"For what it's worth, there are more options than you had when you were younger. Most of which will feel more achievable when you come out of this low spot." You set your chin over his shoulder, spooning more comfortably up against his bare back. He was never sure if the cuddling made things better, but it kept him from sinking any further into the dark, which was always nice. "But I also know it doesn't feel like anything will work when you're deep in it. Still, the reminder is important. This wave will pass like all the rest, just like every time before, and then we can try something new. And we'll keep trying until we figure it out."
Trying something new.
He hadn't bothered in years, not since college.
He quirked a lip, vaguely sardonic. "Hope's a little hard to locate when you're depressed and can't even see sunlight."
"That's the darkest blind joke you've made yet, no pun intended," you huffed quietly in his ear, not put off by the flat, cynical tone in the slightest. "Well done."
"Thank you."
You lay there with him for some time after that, just breathing with him, your fingers skating up and down his arm. It was soothing, rhythmic, and his eyes fell half-closed, drifting into a bizarrely peaceful sort of haze as he accepted that this was where he'd be for the rest of the night. You'd made sure he'd eaten earlier, for all that he had no appetite, for all that he'd fought you; made sure he'd showered, too, and put clean sheets on the bed for him, so there was nothing to irritate his skin and make this feeling worse. There was no reason to get up until morning. He was… comfortable, at least, held in your arms as he waited for sleep, for dawn, for something, and that was no small thing.
But then, you knew firsthand what these moods were like, what it was like to feel like you were drowning, and how the little things could add up until it was just the tiniest bit easier to breathe. It was as if you knew how to take some air from the surface into your lungs and bring it down to him, breathe it into his mouth until he could make it to the surface himself, some twisted kiss of life. You'd mostly figured it out by dealing with your own waves, learning through experience, through trial and error, but you'd also been through the gauntlet when it came to… those other options you'd mentioned. Ones that had helped you in the long run, even if there'd been rough patches he'd had to talk you through, hold you through, just like you were doing for him now.
"What would it even look like?" he asked, his eyes fluttering faintly as you ran your fingers through his hair.
"Hm?"
"What would it…" He rolled his head on the pillow, tired but restless, irritated he'd even asked when there wasn't a point. "Nevermind."
"You can't leave me hanging like that," you snorted, sounding amused.
"It's not an option."
"You don't get to decide that, Mr. Low Serotonin. Not right now at least. Your brain can't be trusted when it's being a lying little bitch."
"Funny."
"You know I'm right. I'll put up a bunch of braille post-it notes reminding you of that. Don't think I won't." You propped your head up with one hand, lifting your other hand that had been on his hip to continue playing with his hair, slow strokes of your nails along his scalp that would have had him purring if he'd had the energy for it. "Let me guess. What would it look like if you… tried a few of those options? Some medication like mine, or therapy?"
"I don't even know how it would work," he said after a long moment as you combed through his hair. "With my senses, antidepressants would just throw me off. And anyone I talked to…"
"Didn't you and Foggy represent that one therapist, the enhanced one?" You cocked your head. "Alters her own memory so she can't remember her patients outside sessions? Supposed to be she's safe to be seen by… well, usually other mutants. But I suspect she wouldn't have a problem seeing a vigilante. She's an option."
"It would still be dangerous," he said tiredly, as you wound your way back around him, nuzzling against the back of his neck. He wished he could give you more back than this, more than just dead weight floating in the dark beneath the sea. Instead, all he had the strength to do was pull your arm in tighter around him, holding on as best he could despite the way his very bones ached. "You know it is, telling someone about what I do. Being… being open about it."
And there was no point, no point to therapy if he couldn't be honest, couldn't reveal his darker side, his life at night where so much pain, so many scars came from.
"That's true," you said thoughtfully. "It's not that I don't get it. I'm the last person that will judge you for keeping that secret. But you going out every night is dangerous too."
"What's that got to do with it?"
You tapped one finger meaningfully against one of the scars on his chest. "The point is that some people just... accept the risk if it means helping someone else. She might be one of them, just like you."
"I'm not worth it."
You clucked your tongue. "I'm not letting you get away with that one. Reframe that one like I have to with mine. Fair's fair."
He gave the tiniest snort, but it worked. "Fine. My brain is telling me I'm not worth it."
"Better. And yet again, your brain is being a lying ass because it's hurting right now." You tucked your legs up behind his, squeezing his hand when he tangled your fingers together—a life jacket, a life ring he clung to, one that kept his fingers touching air even when all the rest of him had been dragged under. "You don't have to decide right now. But think about it, as you start to come out of this one. For me."
He sighed, but didn't argue. "...You seem awfully convinced this will work."
You pressed a kiss to one of the faded scars along his back as his eyes dropped closed, finding something like peace as he drifted off to the comfort and reassurance of your voice.
"I think at the very least," you said softly, "it will make things better, help you float until we find a ship that can pull you out of the water entirely. Sometimes that's what counts when you're drowning."
-~-
Days passed in the dark, in the deep.
A week.
Two.
And then—
The wave eased, just like you'd promised.
His hand touched air.
He breathed again.
Dawn after dusk.
"Did you make that call?" You traced your fingers across the old scars just beneath his collarbones, two clean lines left by Nobu's blade. "I saw it on the calendar."
"Mhm," he said sleepily, rolling over to face you, laying one arm over your hip. He was still tired, still treading water, but that was easier to do when he could get the air into his lungs. "Just a consult, so I can test her out. See if she's as safe as everyone says."
"Good. I'm proud of you." You leaned over to press your lips to the marks you'd just traced, before glancing down and making another soft noise of approval.
"Hm?" he mumbled.
"That one on your ribs is finally starting to make some progress." You brushed your fingers around the mark, the edges raised and bumpy. But unlike before, most of the soreness was gone, the skin no longer hot and irritated. It wouldn't fade, not for some time. But it was a start. "Told you. It always gets better eventually."
"I'll just wind up with another one next week, sweetheart."
"And that one will heal, too." You carded your fingers through his hair, and this time your lips brushed against his. He couldn't help but draw in the sweet warmth and air you gifted to him, pulling it deep into his lungs where it belonged. "Won't it?"
"…Yeah," he whispered. "Yeah, I think it will."