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The apartment is empty.
No it's not. It just feels that way. It might as well be that way.
He would've called it home, but... how could it be now? Matt Murdock was home. And Matt Murdock is dead .
Dex wishes he bled out beside him on that roof. Or bled out in the snow instead of him. Why didn't he die? Why did it have to be Matt? Why the fuck wasn't it-
"Hey."
The intense buzzing subsided for a moment, pulled apart by Frank's hoarse voice. Dex looks at him. He looks at the blood he's covered in. None of it is Frank's. Or his. But some of it is...
"Don't go fallin' apart on me now, y'hear?"
He nods. They both know it was only an action. Hollow; one with no meaning. What good is a martyr if nothing comes of it? What was the fucking point?
The apartment has four people in it. Two are soaked in blood and grief, two are—hopefully—asleep. God knows they need it. God knows they'll fucking need it.
The humming is giving him a fucking headache. He wants to hurt someone. Maybe himself.
Matthew-
"FUCK!"
Dex's fist collides with the wall, creating little fissures in the plaster. If he keeps going, maybe the wall will break before he does.
He struggles against Frank's grip on his arm. The other one is solid against his chest, but it doesn't ground him. Not now. Not anymore. Not anymore.
"Frank? What's-?"
"Go back to bed, Karen."
She continues to stand there, terribly confused and terribly worried. The glow of the billboard faintly shows Frank holding onto Dex, who's by now collapsed onto the floor, sobbing. And...
"Where's-?"
"Karen!"
She flinches and Frank feels even worse. She didn't deserve that. His voice softens.
"Please, just... go back to bed."
Reluctantly, she leaves. She crawls back under the covers next to Foggy, who's miraculously still sound asleep. She smiles at the brief thought of him sleeping through a hurricane, but it fades just as fast. She hears a couple more bangs from outside the room. She holds onto Foggy for comfort. She doesn't think she'll get any more rest tonight. Something tells her she won't for a while.
The room is hazy. He's stripped down to his undershirt and briefs. The shower is running. It isn't as loud as his head. He can barely hear anything else. It's just a cacophony of red noise.
Matt-
He looks in the mirror. He sees red. He sees Red. His blood. His blood. He smeared it on his face. Is this the last thing he'll have of him? Is the blood on his face the last thing he'll ever feel of him?
His nervous system is on fire. He feels all of his veins, ready to explode.
He looks in the mirror.
He smashes his head into the glass, does it again, and he reels back for more, but Frank is yanking him away. His own blood is streaking down his face. He can barely see. He can't hear. It's unbearably fucking loud.
Frank turns him around to face him, concern etched into his features like it's coming home.
This isn't home. This isn't home and it's his fault. This is...
"This is your fault..."
He swings at Frank before he can process it, the hit connecting solid with his cheek. He goes for another shot, but Frank blocks it, and he's saying something, but he can't hear and he doesn't fucking care. Caring is what got him here in the first place.
"How did you let this happen!?"
He keeps swinging, blindly, and he can't fucking hit Frank when he keeps fucking blocking.
"You were supposed to keep him safe!"
He's suddenly against a wall. He can hear the shower again. He can feel warm, heavy breaths ghosting his skin.
"It ain't our fault, Dex. Not yours, not mine, not... not Matty's. It ain't our fault. "
The pressure of Frank's body is the only thing holding him up and, ironically enough, helping him breathe. He's tired. So, so tired. He can see it reflected in Frank's eyes. He always understands.
He hides his face in Frank's shoulder, sobbing again. He's all but dragged to the edge of the tub, Frank doing all the work to take off his shirt and underwear. He sits, hunched over himself, tears mixing with the water pelting him from above. How fitting. Might as well be rain. He doesn't know how he'll react if tomorrow's day is sunny. Probably badly. Maybe he'll die in his sleep.
"Close your eyes, Dex."
He barely has any mind left to not do as told.
Frank watches the pale red streaks rush against the white porcelain. The remainder of Matt's blood slides down the drain.