Work Text:
Matt thought dying would be harder.
“Matthew.” Lithe, deadly fingers, threading through the strands of his hair. Elektra’s with him. “What have you done, Matthew.”
Oh, it hurts. It hurts like he’s never hurt before, not—as a little boy, caustic acid in his eyes, not the meat hook ripping out his guts, still failing to die—not ever. He’s rattling; there’s molten fire in his left lung. There’s sea water. He swallows rust. Huh, that’s blood. He spits blood, and some thicker, blacker substance that might be clots, or chunks of his lungs. His sweat tastes rancid, taints Elektra’s cool perfect fingers. There’s no dignity in death.
“You sweet, stupid, selfish man,” Elektra grits through a wet throat. Tears drop onto on his tacky face. She’s crying. “Always have to be a damned hero.”
And yet, the pain is inconsequential. Matt has spent so much of his life hurting and now, he can barely remember to feel it. (In a way, he’s spent his entire life practicing for this, and when it finally came, his last grand act, he can’t shake the feeling of banal déjà vu, a layer of detachment that comes with tired familiarity). And whatever place pain has in death, it’s growing distant with every heartbeat; chill like frost flicks each nerve-ending one by one, numb, and Matt falls back gladly into the blissful cold. He’s not even suffering anymore. That’s how he knows he’s dying.
“It’s okay,” he says. More blood comes up like bile; he spits it up. “It’s okay, I’m okay.”
The battle’s all around them, shouts made whispers, a lullaby, it seems his work is still not done – there are people depending on him – but he can’t recall the urgency—Elektra and the Hand, he thinks he came here to stop them. He thinks Elektra was fighting him. Then there was… walls trembling, Elektra, in danger—Elektra’s hands are on him – her proud, proudly hers, sai lay dull on the wet cement ground. That’s the difference between them, Matt thinks. For her, he was ready to go to the war; Elektra willingly disarms for him.
Don’t, he wants to tell her. Don’t have to. It’s only right he should go in the midst of Elektra’s hurricane—Elektra in her element, Elektra who’s her own goddess of war, the only god that’s ever been sympathetic to him. She shouldn’t kneel at his side, not even looking up to the fight she’s killed death for.
“We’ll get you out of here,” she tells him, tells herself – reassurances are for the living. Matt tries to shake his head. “Hold on, just for a little, Matthew, I’ll—”
Matt hushes her. “Shh, shh,” he soothes her anguish. “Let me—let me do this, E-lektra…”
“No—”
“…for you.”
“For me?” Elektra chokes on furious tears. “Live for me, damn you!” Matt smiles up at her. It’s amazing, how he’s finally freed of guilt in death.
“Don’t worry for me,” he says, or maybe it doesn’t quite make it out of his mouth. Elektra gasps in a sob. “I’m gonna be okay. Elektra, Elektra, it doesn’t even hurt.” He wants to laugh. “I want this.”
How many times has he fought, red tooth and claw, to rip himself from the death’s grasp? How many times has he been here before, kicking and screaming, and digging his heels in along the way?
He doesn’t remember why he was fighting.
Elektra is crying, cradling his head like it’s something precious, like he’s something worth preserving, trying to force the life back into his ribcage, and Matt wants to tell her he’s already drowning in his own blood, that she can let go. Elektra blinks rapidly, wipes her cheeks with her forearm in anger. Matt frowns. It’s not right. She shouldn’t be sad. He’s not, he’s not sad about dying.
“You’re going to be okay,” he tries to tell her. “You’re going to kill every single one of the bastards who did this to you, who tried to enslave you, because you’re—you’re Elektra Natchios and that’s what you do. And you’re going to go to London, or Tunisia, Madrid, like we’ve talked about, yeah? You’re going to have houses in Paris and San Sebastian, and you’re going to mourn me a little, because we’ve had a love, haven’t we? You and I. But then you’re going to move on and get past this, and look back at the time we’ve had like a fond memory, because you’re the strongest person I’ve ever known,” Matt wants to say to her, but his mouth is filling with blood and he can’t make his tongue make words. “You’re gonna live.”
He thought there would be more regrets. It’s a form of selfishness, choosing to die and leaving everyone to pick up the pieces in his wake. It’s not fair to Foggy and Karen; it’s especially not fair to Foggy, Matt knows he’s gonna blame himself. It’s not fair to Elektra. She’ll bury him, like she’s buried so much grief, and Matt hates to cause her more pain, but ultimately she wants to live, fiercely, she’s so full of life it’s spilling out of her, he’s choking on it (Matt wants to never leave her vibrant presence and still he scarcely ever wants to live). She deserves to live this time.
Elektra sniffles back tears, No, keening like they bleed the same blood, like the part of Matt that’s been ruptured is the part of him that was her.
“This is not how it ends for us,” she whispers. “You’re not going to die in here, Matthew.” Matt lifts a feeble hand and Elektra weeps, laughs brokenly, as he traces her beautiful face, trails her beloved – trembling – mouth.
She’s still so mesmerizing. He’s still aching, beneath the cold, beneath his searing lung, with how much love he has in him. He’d do it all again – all the heartbreak and the darkness, if that’s how he gets to have Elektra, he’d take it all. It’s enough, loving her. It’s enough for a life.
“Keep your… on me… Matthew,” her voice hums to him. “Don’t… away, don’t…” She’s leaning over him, damp eyelashes brushing his forehead. He would give up his last breath to hear her heart one more time. She’s fading. “Your place is with me, Matthew.”
His place… with her, for her, always. Elektra’s always had a way of snaring him, slicing right under his skin and claiming his quivering flesh for her own. He didn’t come here to be with her, but has that ever mattered? When he’s pressed against the wall, at a knife edge, has anything ever mattered but Elektra?
Matt finds that he doesn’t care whatever it is he’s been fighting for. He doesn’t care, about any of it, all that seemed to matter so much in his life. Death has no space for vain posturing, what he thinks should be important—the heavy load of obligation he tried, tried so hard to make matter to him. But in the end, he cares only about smelling Elektra’s skin until the last of his life drips out of him.
It’s right, dying here. A perfect symmetry. Elektra died for him so she could learn how it feels to be good. In dying for her, Matt finally learns how to allow himself to be selfish.
“Now I save you, sweetheart,” he whispers. “Don’t look back on me. I’m not… I’m not sorry.”
Whatever’s waiting for him—it’s not Heaven, that he knows. He’s run out all of reprieves. At long last he has to give the devil his due. But he’ll take eternal torments – deserved – of Hell if it means a chance he’ll see Elektra again. Their souls are the same, just as charred and remote, and they found each other and he wants no part in a Heaven if Elektra can’t walk with him.
Elektra—her blood-stained hands on his face, so gentle, gently deliver him to the arms of Damnation. Matt can’t think of a resting place more beautiful. His love’s weeping sounds to his ears like angels singing and sees him softly to death.