AN: So after binge-watching the entirety of season 2 in two days (the pros of being sick in bed over a weekend) I just couldn't let this go. I had to explore the why. It's my first foray into DD fic territory, so forgive my mistakes and help improve them with constructive feedback! Please R&R! Ta, hope you enjoy.

Note about the writing: sentences/phrases written in italics are people's thoughts, odd words here and there in italics are just for emphasis. You should be able to tell the difference, but just thought I'd mention it here!

Once again, this story contains seriously huge spoilers for the end of season 2. If you haven't seen it and don't wanna know, then do not read ahead. This is your final warning!

The calm after the storm was always strange. You began to feel the pain of the bruises and wounds once the adrenalin faded. There was the bone-deep desire to close your eyes and sleep until your body could forget the pain, your mind forget the night. You'd feel relief that it was over, anger that it had to happen; feel gratitude, sorrow, anxiety, joy.

There was also grief. Loss. Isolation. These were the ones Matt succumbed to as he sat alone in church.

He'd found himself there after the funeral. Stick had stopped the car and dropped him at his apartment before continuing out onto the streets of Hell's Kitchen without a word of where he was going, or if he'd be back. Matt had been trapped within himself, reliving the fight, and hadn't been quick enough to voice the question that Stick hadn't answered. He found he didn't really care – the old man would return, he always did. Instead of dwelling he'd walked past his apartment, the gentle rhythmic clicking of his cane coming in time with each blow of the fight as he replayed it over and over and over.

There must have been something. He must have missed something.

Was this what it was like to be Frank Castle? To be unable, unwilling, to let it go and instead watching the images on repeat as if it would change something. In just a flicker of a second, everything had gone wrong – and now someone he cared about, someone that he'd lo-

"Care to share your thoughts?" the priest jolted Matt into the present and he fumbled with his cane, twisting it between his fingers. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to intrude. It's just that normally, when you come here, you're not looking for silent reflection." When he didn't speak up, the priest sat next to him and looked up at the altar, taking in the decorative frescos with a familiar eye. "What's on your mind Matthew?"

He almost laughed but it turned into a harsh sound, more grief than humour. He had no idea where to begin, or how to explain. "Someone that I love is dead and it's because of me," the words fell out of his mouth in a rush and he bit his lip, wrapping the loop of the cane's handle tightly around his fingers until the circulation cut off.

There was a weighty pause. He felt the priest shift next to him on the pew: "Are you saying that you've killed someone?"

"No- no-"

"Did you hire an assassin?"

"Father, that's not-"

"Did you stand by and let them die, without trying to save or help them?"

"No!" he snapped, banging the cane on the ground sharply. "No, I did everything that I could. I tried – I tried to stop it but I didn't, it was too fast. I was too slow, I should have done something different, I should have realised it was happening, I should have- have seen it coming. I should have…" I should have seen it coming.

There was another pause as the priest let the man calm. A quick glance had exposed the marks on his skin: cuts and bruises and stains of dried blood not quite washed off, all plain indications of a vicious fight. He would not question. He knew this was one of the good ones, now he needed to try and convince the man himself of that.

"Grief does strange things to us. It twists our memory, encourages us to put the blame solely on ourselves. It's one of our…vainer qualities," the priest smiled slightly, "to assume that we are in control of the situations we encounter in life. We can influence them, we can control parts, but to be in control and therefore responsible for every individual choice made and every outcome?" He shook his head slowly. "No, that is not in us. Grief makes us crave that control because it allows the placing of blame – knowing that you did what you could, don't let it control you. Grieve the loss of life but do not grieve the loss of control, because it's not something you ever had."

They sat in silence, the priest's words ringing through Matt's head. For the first time since the fight he felt some clarity in the fog of his mind. "How do I stop…feeling it? How-how can I move on? I'm…I'm so alone, Father. I feel so isolated."

"Then perhaps you should share your burden."

Matt cracked a wry smile, his first since…well. "I thought I already was sharing." The priest humoured him with a dry laugh as he stood and made his way slowly towards the church doors. Matt took the cue and followed.

"Yes, this is sharing – but I meant of a different kind. With a friend, someone who knows you, whom you trust." He sensed the man's hesitancy and turned to face him, raising a brow, "Misery loves company, so why not indulge yours?"

The priest led them beyond the church doors and began down the steps, halting only when his companion asked him where they were going: "I believe you owe me a latte."

Matt stared out at the skyline of Hell's Kitchen. It was a jagged, jaded view, but it was his. His city. A thrumming, living city with black vein roads that carried in corruption alongside the everyday traffic.

He'd sacrificed a lot for this city – could have sacrificed a lot more, and wouldn't sacrifice more than he had to. The priest was right.

When he rang she didn't answer. Hesitantly, his voice echoed around the empty apartment: "Karen, hi. It's me – it's Matt. I know I'm probably about the last person that you wanna see right now but…I really need to see you. And not just so that I can apologise in person for…for being like I have recently, but…really, I need to – I want to explain everything. Please, meet me at the office tonight. I'll be there at eight and I-I hope that you'll be there. Karen, I…I'll wait. I'll be there."

He'd arrived early, so he was surprised to hear the nervous heartbeat coming from Nelson & Murdock. As he got closer, he could hear her breathing and soft murmuring as she wondered if she was crazy to come, that if he was even one second late she'd be out of the door…

Matt folded up his cane and took a shaky breath as, with jaw locked tight to contain his nerves, he turned the handle. Her heart skipped slightly when he entered. For the second time that day, he had no idea where to begin. "Thanks for meeting me" – better than nothing. He dropped his cane on a chair, overcome by a strange mix of anxiety and need to do this. Here was the tipping point.

"What am I doing here Matt?"her voice was steady, although not as firm as he thought she intended. He heard her small intake of breath on noticing the paper bag as he stepped forward and began to open it.

"I- I have something-"

"No, no I-I don't wanna-"

"I have something," he interrupted because this was important, this was the turning point and he couldn't calm her down about whatever she thought this was because if he stopped now he'd never start again, "that I need you to see."

Surprisingly, she didn't reply. She waited and Matt had never felt guiltier about abandoning her than now, when he realised the extent of her trust in him. Of her belief in him. It was that realisation that made him nod and fully unfold the bag, offering himself up on a platter. Offering his real self, all of him, because she could handle it and deserved the chance to.

He saw her astonishment in her heart rate, her stillness, her breathing.

In that moment, he was proud that his hand didn't shake.