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Chapter Text

The last time Jason had been in a church had been for his Ma’s funeral. It had been a small one, his Ma- Catherine, not Sheila, the woman who gave birth to him and then sold him out to the Joker - didn’t have many people in her life when she died. Willis had been gone by that point, the mob had taken care of him in prison. Most of her friends had either been too high or had met the same fate as her. Really, it had only been him, old Mrs. Walker who used to watch him whenever Catherine was gone for so long, and the priest.

But his Ma’s funeral hadn’t been the first time he had been in a church. There had been more than a few occasions where he had gone to the little rundown chapel known as St. Michael’s a block from their apartment for Sunday Mass. Those Sundays had honestly been the best parts of Jason’s childhood before everything went to shit. Sure, he had no idea what the point of the sermons were about and he tended to get bored extremely fast, but it wasn’t the service itself that he liked. It was the fact that his Ma was clean around those times that made him happy. 

During those periods of sobriety, she would wake him up early and make him breakfast with the meager food they had. She never ate breakfast herself- Jason wasn’t stupid, he saw how thin she was- but she would smile and run a comb through his unruly hair while he ate before ushering him to his room and pick out the least ratty-looking clothing he had in his closet. Catherine herself would wear a long-sleeved green dress, one that hid the marks on her arms, and would hold his hand as they walked to church. 

Willis never went with them. He would laugh and sit on the couch, drinking a beer as they left.

While Jason had no recollection of Mass itself, he remembered the feeling of warmth and safety that he associated with the chapel. When the times got hard, when there was so little money that they had to choose between food and heating in the winter, the church was always there with promises of food for those that couldn’t afford it. 

The priest of St. Michael’s, Father Stoll, had been one of the few people Jason had actually trusted in his youth. He had been the one Jason ran to when his Ma fell back into the pit of drugs or when Willis had beaten one of them in a drunken rage. Even in the dead of night, when Jason had practically thrown himself into the church doors, Father Stoll would open it and take one look at his tear-streaked face before grabbing the small first-aid kit and rushing back to the apartment complex. He had been one of the few that saw Jason openly weep, and had been the one who listened to his fears about Catherine not making it, of Willis coming back to continue where he left off. 

Father Stoll would always leave in the end, but he would always part with a gentle but firm hug and a promise to pray for them that week. And that had brought some comfort to Jason, knowing that there was someone that thought of them.

But the older Jason got and the more Catherine turned to drugs to escape the world, the less they attended church. Sometimes, he would go back for some food that was served from the soup kitchen, but he couldn’t stand the look of knowing in the priest’s eyes. The look that said he knew Catherine had lost her fight again, and that Jason bore the brunt of the consequences by having to look out for both of them. So he stopped going.

During the harsher nights, where the heat was turned off and Catherine was shivering from withdrawals, his Ma would clutch tightly to a wooden rosary, praying for God to make the pain stop. Despite her attempts to keep it hidden, Jason could hear the whispered prayers through the thin walls of the apartment.

That fateful day when Jason had found her collapsed in the apartment, foam dripping from her mouth and eyes rolled back, she had been grasping the rosary tightly like it was a lifeline. He could scarcely recall banging on Mrs. Walker’s door, begging her to call for an ambulance. The only thing that was crystal clear that night had been him sitting on the steps of the apartment, twisting the rosary in his hand and watching the bag that held Catherine’s body be loaded into the ambulance. 

The night of the funeral, he had been toying with the same rosary, shifting the beads through his fingers as he stared at the casket. 

Father Stoll had offered his condolences, but the words felt empty to him. In his young mind, he was furious. He wanted answers. Why? Why him? Why did God take away his Ma? Why did He leave Jason to fend for himself? If He loved everyone, why did He make Jason suffer?

That had been the question that had echoed in Jason’s mind the night he fled the orphanage, echoed every night as he scrounged for food and fought to survive just one more day.

The only thing he had was the small bag full of spare clothes, his trusty tire iron, whatever food he could find, and his Ma’s rosary. Despite his loss of faith in God after her death, he couldn’t bear to part with it. The string of worn wooden beads had been the one thing she had cherished the most, had held onto even in death. Perhaps Jason should have buried it with her, but it had been the only thing that he had left of her. 

Some nights, when his stomach ached with hunger pains and he could barely feel his toes, he pulled the rosary out and thumbed the beads as he wished for Catherine to watch over him. A part of him wondered how he would meet his end. Part of himself believed that starvation would get him first. Another betted that the cold winter nights would freeze him to death. The possibility of meeting his end by getting shanked in a back alley crossed his mind too.

He never expected his death to involve getting backstabbed by his birth mother, beaten to death in a warehouse by the Joker, and then left to be blown up by a bomb.

If Jason could go back in time, he would shake his younger self and tell him not to jack the tires of the Batmobile. He’d tell little Jason Todd to go back to the church and have Father Stoll help him instead. Tell him to ignore his pride, ignore his anger at God, because anything would be better than crossing paths with Bruce Wayne in the end.

It was stupid to pin all of the blame on Bruce in the end, but dammit it he wanted to. He wanted the man to feel every ounce of pain and hurt he felt that led up to his death. The constant remarks of “Dick could get this easily, you need to do better, failure is not an option, ” the pressure, the arguments, fucking Felipe Garzonas- “I didn’t push him, Bruce! He got spooked and fell!” - everything. 

So when Jason had learned that Catherine wasn’t his real mom, that Sheila Haywood existed, he booked the first flight out to Ethiopia with hope in his heart. He really should have learned by then to reign in his expectations; life wasn’t like a Hallmark movie with sunshine and rainbows. But he had been so desperate for some form of love and acceptance, he trusted her too blindly and paid the price with his death.

You’d think death would be the end of it, right? But no, oh no. Fucking Talia al Ghul just had to intervene. She had wanted to earn Bruce’s love back after their latest spat and had decided the best way had been to resurrect Jason in the Lazarus Pit. 

In some twisted way, his little dip in the Pit was a fucked up version of a second baptism. 

But instead of washing away his sins on his soul, the Pit stained it. It broke him and filled the cracks with rage and insanity. It tore his mind asunder and stitched it back with whispers of bloodlust, always chanting and fueling his desire for death.

Jason had murdered five guards that night before Talia had subdued him, and it took another two weeks before the green tint in his vision finally subsided enough for him to understand where he was. The only reason he had been able to do so was because Talia had thrusted the rosary into his hands, and he had gone limp in the reinforced chains that held him in his cell. He didn’t bother to ask her where she got it.

Of course, he had resumed his hissing and spitting when he learned why Talia had brought him back. He was just another pawn in their stupid game, nothing more than a way to regain Bruce’s favor. 

And he wanted none of it. 

Talia seemed to get that there was no way for her original plan to work. The only way Jason would willingly go back to Bruce was if he was a lobotomized zombie. Force wouldn’t work; he’d sooner put a gun to his head then go back, especially when considering the fact that his relationship with Bruce had been on rocky terms before his death. 

Instead, she showed him the articles about the Joker being alive. That had made the Pit resurge in him with a vengeance. His vision had gone green and the next thing he knew, he came back to a destroyed room. Talia had looked at him with a bored expression.

“Are you done?” she had asked.

“What?” His voice was raw from screaming, chest heaving from exhaustion.

“Are you done?” she had repeated. 

Instead of answering, he had fallen to his knees, sobbing as the realization hit him. His hands found his Ma’s rosary, having been thrown under the bed at some point in his rage, and he gripped it like it was a lifeline, like it held the answers he so desperately wanted. 

Talia’s expression had softened slightly, and she crouched down to kneel in front of him. She had pulled him into her arms, fingers carding through his hair just like Catherine used to do. A small part of Jason couldn’t believe that the cold-hearted woman was capable of such a feat, but he just gripped her tightly in response.

That night, Talia had whispered sweet promises to make him better, to help him on his quest of vengeance. Again, he should have recognized the fact that he was being manipulated, but the Pit chanted in his mind, screamed for him to spill the blood of Bruce and of the Joker.

And he readily agreed.

Talia had sent him around the world to different teachers. Some he killed- okay, most he killed- but some he left alone. There was only one he admired. Ducra, the leader of the All Caste, had been only one of the teachers he appreciated, who had helped him reign in the madness of the Lazarus Pit. She had been the one that helped him refine his skills the most, even when she knew he would use his skills for the worst.

Five years he had trained, five years he had spent planning and working his way to his goal. 

The execution had been flawless. He had taken control of the criminal empire in less than three weeks since he blew into town. Sure, cutting off the heads of the lieutenants may have been a bit overkill (he blamed the Lazarus Pit rearing its head that night) but he had successfully made his point clear to everyone in the slums.

The Red Hood was not playing around.

He had Black Mask panicking not long after. It had been glorious, and Jason wished that Black Mask could see the shit-eating grin on his face as he waved and shot the rocket at his office. He had laughed until his sides hurt after seeing the guy run like he had the Devil snapping at his heels. 

And the parts with Bruce? Those had gone perfectly too. Leaving just enough breadcrumbs to drive the old man crazy in figuring out who he was but not enough to give it away immediately. That had taken some careful planning, but it was worth it in the end. 

A part of Jason was thankful Talia had given him the training to reign in the Pit madness. He’s not sure he would have been as discrete had he tried his revenge plan any earlier.

The final clue was an obvious one, him yelling: “You haven’t lost your touch, Bruce!” on the train tracks, but it didn’t matter. Everything was right on schedule.

Black Mask got desperate enough to break the Joker out of prison. Joker went rogue, because seriously? How dumb was Black Mask to think he could control the Joker of all people? Jason had swooped in and snatched the Joker while Batman had been busy saving the hostages. Hell, there was even a little time for Jason to beat Joker with a crowbar just like all those years ago back in Ethiopia!

The final act of his plan had opened on the rooftop, rain pelting the two of them. When Bruce had said his name, there had been a haunted look in his blue eyes. Jason had gleefully taken off the helmet to confirm his suspicions, and the look only grew more saddened. He had scoffed when Bruce said he didn’t want to fight Jason. Every previous punch leading up to the rooftop said otherwise, thank you very much. 

Jason led Bruce back to the condemned apartment building. He had really wanted to call Bruce out on his bullshit about not wanting to fight, because, ow, smashing his face into the sink was not pleasant.

And when the time came, when Jason poured his heart out before hauling the Joker out of the closet and tossing Batman the gun, he had done something he hadn’t done in years.

He prayed.

He prayed to God that Bruce would make the decision he so desperately wanted, desperately needed him to make. He prayed that despite everything, Bruce would realize that Jason still saw him as his father. He hoped Bruce could see through the façade and realize that under the muscle and rage, there was still that small kid that was scared of the world. The small kid that just wanted the fear to go away, that hoped his father would keep his promise and protect him.

Words couldn’t describe the way his heart shattered into a million pieces as Bruce took one look at the gun and dropped it. 

Jason was thankful the mask hid his eyes, so that Bruce couldn’t see the way tears started to gather as he comprehended what was happening.

“You have to decide!” he shouted. There was a faint undercurrent of denial and hysteria as he watched Bruce stare at him. He pushed the gun into Joker’s temple to emphasize his point.

But Batman just stared back at him, face impassive.

“It’s him or me! You have to decide!”

He really should have paid more attention to the shift under Batman’s cape, but he was too focused on the denial setting in.

“Three.”

Bruce’s shoulders tensed up.

“Two.”

The Joker wouldn’t stop laughing at the situation, and Jason was half-tempted to forgo the countdown and just shut him up right then and there.

“On-”

In all his years he had trained with Bruce, the one point that had been made over and over was that the batarangs were never to be thrown at vital areas. They were sharp. Deadly. One wrong throw and a person could die.

So it took a second for Jason’s mind to catch up with the fact that Bruce had gone against his own warning. 

His blood was warm against his neck, flowing down his skin like a leaking pipe. He released the Joker and clamped a hand over his neck, over the gushing wound that Bruce gave him. The floor rushed to greet him as he collapsed in a mixture of shock and blood loss. 

Joker’s laughter barely pierced the ringing in his ears, but his mind was focused on the figure of Batman staring at him. It’s probably the blood loss, but Jason swore there was a  look of remorse and guilt on his face.

Tears flowed freely from his eyes, and the Lazarus Pit raged in him like an ocean during a storm. Each heartbeat sent more blood out, but he just felt tired. Tired of it all. 

His hand reached for the detonator in his pocket and he pressed down on it before collapsing back onto the floor.

‘If this is how I die, at least I’ll take out the Joker,’ had been the only thought in his head. He closed his eyes and his hand went down to clutch the rosary that rested in his pocket one last time. ‘Sorry, Ma.’

The timer ticked closer to zero and the last thing Jason felt were hands hauling him away before the explosion.

His memory goes a little hazy after that. 

He had a vague recollection of waking up buried in the rubble, drywall and brick caved in a way that left a small pocket for him to survive. His entire body ached, he’s not sure if that was because of Bruce or from the explosion itself. The only thing he remembered is the need to get out.

How he got out of the rubble was still a mystery even to him, and he’s even less sure of how he managed to stumble to one of his safehouses without getting caught. He’s pretty sure the only reason why he hadn’t bled out was because of the way the Lazarus Pit slowed his heart to an unnervingly slow pace.

Regardless, he had made his way through the alleyways of Gotham with one hand clamped over his throat and into the abandoned warehouse, staggered over to the false wall, slid it back, and all but collapsed on top of the first-aid kit. 

When Jason looked in the mirror, a fresh wave of pain wracked his body as he surveyed the damage. Half of the wound had been cauterized by the flames, leaving a sickening burn over his skin, but the other half still bled sluggishly. The red rivulets of blood trickled through his fingers, the flow speeding up with each breath, with each heartbeat. 

Jason’s memory ended with the first stitch and began again with him waking up on the floor with gauze haphazardly tapped to his skin and staring up at the ceiling of the small room. 

He was alive. And he wasn’t sure how to feel about that.

The next few weeks were hell for him.

He could feel the way his skin stitched itself together, the way the burns slowly healed, and the way broken bones sealed their cracks. But while he was physically healed, his mind and heart were still shattered. Shattered like the mirror he had punched when he saw his own blank stare. 

Gone was the fire that had raged in his eyes, the ever-glowing acidic green tint of the Lazarus Pit had dulled to a faded green.

He hated the green because his eyes were blue originally.

The third day after the incident, Jason had moved from the warehouse to an old apartment because he couldn’t stand looking at the bloodstains on the ground from his patch job. In the days it took for him to heal, he paced the small apartment, counted every brick in the wall, every tile on the floor a dozen times over. 

Part of his time was spent brushing up on his sign language while another part was spent looking over his shoulder. He half-expected Batman to appear in his apartment with a flourish of smoke and dramatics, shattering his window before slapping handcuffs onto his wrist, and dragging him off to Arkham.

It went like this for three weeks, spliced with hopping between safehouses because the little voice in the back of his head whispered paranoid thoughts to him at almost all hours of the day. Every shadow that shifted out of the corner of his eye made him flinch, every creak of the floorboards made his muscles tense in preparation for a fight. It left him with maybe two hours of sleep on a good night. 

By week five, Jason decided to say “fuck it,” and packed his bags. Really, it was probably the best for him; he was teetering on the edge of burnout. He tried to justify his escape departure as a way to recuperate without interference.

It wasn’t because being in Gotham, being in the same city as Bruce, hurt.

It wasn’t.

‘I’ll come back,’ he told himself. ‘I’ll heal, and then come back and Bruce won’t know what hit him.’

No matter how many times he told himself that, it still sounded like a lie.

The most pathetic thing, Jason realized when he was packing his essentials, was how little possessions he owned outside of his Red Hood gear. A few pairs of jeans, some shirts and underwear, a suit he used to infiltrate the parties of Gotham’s elite, fake identity papers, and a battered copy of Pride and Prejudice that he picked up from a thrift store along with his mother’s rosary. All of it fit into one measly little duffle bag.

In the end, he left Gotham with three duffle bags: one filled with his possessions, one filled with enough cash to keep him afloat for some time, and one filled with a spare set of his Red Hood gear. 

The tension in his body bled away with every mile he drove away from the city.

New York was the closest city that allowed Jason to easily disappear into the crowd. Thanks to the large number of people, there was little chance he would be found without extensive searching. And somehow, Jason found himself drawn to Hell’s Kitchen. 

Hell’s Kitchen was almost like a cousin of Crime Alley. Rundown shops littered the corners, a few condemned buildings here and there, graffiti decorated the alley walls. It was simultaneously familiar and foreign to him.

Another perk of New York, and especially of Hell’s Kitchen, was that many people couldn’t care less about Jason’s history. The owner of the apartment building barely blinked at the way Jason only answered with pen and paper or how he paid with a stack of cash. Merely handed over a set of keys and a contract, which Jason signed after a cursory glance. 

Which left him in the present, staring at the empty one bedroom apartment. The wooden floor was scuffed and the wallpaper was stained an unpleasant yellow- most likely from a previous tenant that smoked, if the lingering scent of cigarettes was anything to go by. The fridge and stove had seen better days and the kitchen faucet dripped every so often. 

In short, it was a shithole. But it would have to do, especially if he needed to leave on such short notice. 

The first thing Jason did was make his way to the bathroom and pulled down the collar of his turtleneck. Tilting his head to the side, he could see the way the ugly scar marred his pale throat. He hesitantly traced a finger over the red jagged line, stopping halfway as the feeling of pain washed over him.

‘It’s not real,’ he told himself. He gripped the edges of the sink and forced himself to breathe slowly. ‘It’s not real.’

As soon as the phantom pain passed, Jason looked into the mirror again. His eyes were still that dull, empty green and they were ringed with dark shadows. The rest of his face didn’t fare any better, either; stubble coated his cheeks, which had become a bit more hollow in the few weeks, and his hair hung limp and lifeless. It wouldn’t be a stretch to say he looked like death warmed over.

With a silent exhale, he left the bathroom and made his way to the singular bedroom. It was in a similar sorry state as the entrance. In fact, one could say that calling it a bedroom would be generous. It could maybe fit a small queen bed and a dresser, but nothing more. A window looked out to a dingy alley with a fire escape taking up most of the view.

Jason opened the closet door and crouched down to feel the wooden floor. He wedged his fingernails between the small cracks and wiggled the wood until one of the planks lifted. He kept going until there was enough room for him to be able to stash the duffle bags and Red Hood suit underneath. 

When that was all said and done, Jason sat against the wall and stared out the window. The sun had begun to set, but the fact didn’t seem to register in his mind. Instead, the sudden realization of everything came crashing down at once. 

Bruce had chosen the Joker. 

Bruce had chosen his worst enemy, one with no hope of redemption, over his own son.

Hysterical laughter bubbled past his lips as the revelation washed over him. Well, there would have been laughter if he still had working vocal chords. Instead, quiet rasps of air escaped him, and his shoulders shook as he gripped his hair tightly. 

‘You should have known,’ a small part of him whispered. It sounded strangely similar to the voices of the Lazarus Pit. ‘You’re nothing but a monster, wearing the face and name of his dead son. Of course he would choose the Joker over you.’

His hands loosened their grip on his hair, and instead moved to cover his ears. They pressed tight, nails digging into the cartilage. But no matter what he did, the whispers seemed to only get louder.

Slowly, Jason’s laughs turned into sobs and tears streamed down his face; breaths came out in choked gasps, and his whole body shook as he curled in on himself and rocked back and forth. He buried his face into his knees, trying to make himself as small as possible.

He let out a near-silent scream of anguish as something inside of him snapped.

Sunlight blinded him when he finally came back to himself. His back ached as he sat up, and his legs had that tingly feeling one got from not moving for so long. Jason blinked several times as his eyes adjusted to the light.

The date on his phone showed the date being three days later from when he had first moved in, and the pangs of hunger confirmed the amount of time that had passed. 

‘Huh, haven’t had an episode that bad since I came out of the Pit,’ he thought.

Lazarus episodes were a tricky thing, that much Jason knew. More often than not, an uncontrollable, blind rage was the most common episode for him, which resulted in the deaths of those who got in his way. However, on the rare occasion, the Lazarus Pit would force him deep into traumatic memories to leave him catatonic, usually for a few hours.

Three days had been the longest one by a landslide.

It took a few tries for him to get to his feet. Thankfully, because of the lack of furniture, there was nothing that needed to be cleaned up. Well, except himself, that is. 

Crescent-shaped bruises dotted his arms from where he had gripped himself at one point, and his throat itched uncomfortably. He didn’t want to look in the mirror and see the damage he caused to himself, but what choice did he have?

He stumbled to the bathroom, catching himself on the edge of the sink as he entered. Grimacing, he gently prodded the scratch marks at his neck. Some of them were deep enough to draw blood, which had long since scabbed over.

The medical kit he had was still in the duffle bag that he hadn’t stashed away, and he went back to grab it before returning to the bathroom. 

Shaky fingers held a cloth that was used to wipe away the dry blood, and they continued to shake as he wrapped his neck with the roll of bandages. He pointedly refused to acknowledge the scar on his neck.

When all that was said and done, he went back to his room and stared at the empty space.

‘I need to get stuff if I want to actually live here.’

His stomach growled in agreement.

Two days was all it took to get everything he needed. Most of the furniture he got from nearby thrift stores, food from the supermarket, and a few extra pieces of clothing that helped hide the scar on his neck.

When all that was said and done, when everything was all set up how he wanted, Jason was at a loss at what to do next.

For the first time since Jason was brought back, he had found himself with no purpose. 

There was no Bruce, no Joker, no taking over Gotham’s underground. 

Nothing.

Jason sighed.

He knew that he couldn’t stay in his apartment forever. 

“You can either lie down and give up, or you can get up and do something," Talia had once said to him. 

Jason had never been one to give up so easily. Instead, with hat and sunglasses on, and a jacket zipped all the way up, he decided to spend the next few days familiarizing himself with the streets of Hell’s Kitchen.

During the day, he learned which alleyways held fire-escapes that he could easily jump onto, what places had decent coffee, and where he could find the best Thai food. Jason also learned some of the neighborhood gossip during these outings; how the owners of two rival bodegas across from each other actually were dating, the re-opening of some well-known law office that had closed for unknown reasons, how the sweet little old lady that owned the bakery a block over had gotten a tattoo despite being well into her seventies. 

But during the night, it was a completely different story. The night was Jason’s home, and he was right in his element as he casually strolled down the streets on nights he couldn’t sleep (which was almost every night). He saw figures huddled together, exchanging drugs and money, and drunkards getting tossed out of bars. He watched women that were grouped together, who tensed whenever they passed every alley or a man. 

But the most interesting thing to Jason was the so-called “Devil of Hell’s Kitchen.” Some of the criminals he heard talking would swear up and down that he was the actual Devil, hellbent (ha) on punishing the corrupt. How he had beaten Wilson Fisk, a once prominent crime lord, bloody until he surrendered to the police. How he would magically appear from the rooftops if someone so much as whispered his name.

All of it made Jason laugh.

It was during one of his walks during the day that he came across the church. He’s not sure how he missed it in the two weeks he spent walking Hell’s Kitchen, lost in what to do, but he did. 

Green eyes scanned the building, taking note of every part of it. The building was in a more pristine condition than St. Michael’s had been, but the signs of age were still there; the stones were weathered from the years and the roof had seen better days, but the amount of love that went into the maintenance made up for it. The windows had been washed while the trees were carefully trimmed to allow the right amount of shade over the singular bench that sat outside.

For some strange reason, Jason couldn’t help but cross the street to get closer to it. The door looked like it had been painted recently, a bright red that reminded Jason of his helmet.

Reminded him about the way his blood trickled down his neck because of Bru -no, stop it.

The rosary felt like a heavy weight in his pocket as he stared at the door.

The urge to go inside was too powerful for him to ignore.

His hands were sweaty as he gripped the handle and pushed it open. The interior was much darker than it was outside, and Jason took off his sunglasses as he scanned the white walls. There were several stained glass windows depicting scenes from the bible, casting the lights with a rainbow hue. The sounds of running water drew his attention to the little fountain near the entrance. Jason stepped closer, eyes trained on the ripples of the surface as the fountain bubbled.

‘Wasn’t there something to do with dipping your fingers and making the sign of the cross?’ he thought. ‘How did it go again? Forehead, chest, left shoulder, right shoulder? Or was it Forehead, chest, right shoulder, left shoulder?’

He glanced around, and saw that no one was around to tell him off for trying to stick his hand in the water.

‘I’m already going to Hell, might as well add one more fuck up to the list.’

Small droplets of water fell onto him as he lightly touched his forehead, then his chest, left shoulder, right shoulder. He couldn’t help but feel rather foolish in the large hall, and his hand clutched the rosary in his pocket in an attempt to steel his nerves.

Jason’s footsteps made no noise as he made his way to the pews, he was trained not to after all. He chose a spot in the pews near the doors, anxiously glancing about the room. 

He felt like an outsider, intruding on something he shouldn’t be a part of. He was no Catholic, he was a criminal, a murderer. Something in his mind screamed at him to get out, that he had no right to be in there with the amount of blood on his hands. 

The rosary’s beads clacked together as he fumbled to pull it out. The wood had become even more worn from the years spent with him, some of the dark brown fading to a lighter shade. The sharp edges of the cross had rounded from the amount of times he ran his thumb over the points. The string wasn’t looking so good either, parts of it frayed to the point where he’s considered buying some thread and restringing the beads before it broke.

His thumb ran over the cross before he curled forward, closed his eyes, and rested his forehead against his clasped fists with the cross gently pressing into his skin. 

The air that escapes his lungs was shaky, partially distorted by the scar tissue in his larynx, and he hated it.

The rage that he had locked away since he woke up had returned full-force, the Lazarus Pit stirring once more to whisper for blood to be spilled. His hands shook as he clenched his fists tighter to the point that he could feel his nails break the skin of his palms. The pain helped ground him a bit, forcing the Pit to settle again so that only the grief was left to deal with.

He cursed Bruce once more, hoping that the bastard spent his nights sleepless over what he did to Jason. 

He wants to scream at God, to ask him once more, "Why?"

Why him? Why did he always have to suffer? Why couldn’t he have just stayed dead? 

Why didn’t Bruce love him enough to do what Jason needed him to do?

“Because it’d be too damn easy,” Bruce had said.

Jason had wanted to scream at him for that. But instead, he kept his cool. “I’m not talking about killing Penguin, or Scarecrow, or Dent. I’m talking about him. Just him. And doing it because…because he took me away from you.”

Maybe he should have screamed at him. Maybe it’d get through his thick skull that it wasn’t about revenge or making up for him failing Jason. 

He was just scared and angry in the end. 

Scared, angry, hurt, betrayed.

He didn't realize his entire body was shaking until he felt a hand on his shoulder. 

For one hopeful second, he thinks it’s Father Stoll, comforting him like he used to when he was younger.

‘But it’s not him,’ his brain reminded him. ‘Father Stoll had died in the crossfire of a gang war shortly after you died.’

That had been a punch to the gut when he returned. St. Michael’s had closed and fallen into disrepair after Father Stoll had died. The faint stain of his blood was still visible on the wooden floor near one of the windows.

He tensed and glanced up, his tear-filled eyes falling onto the kneeling old man in priest robes. His eyes are filled with concern, head tilted forward to meet his gazes.

“Are you alright?” the priest asked.

His voice didn’t have the same timbre like Father Stoll’s, but it still held a tone of worry that was similar to the one he had heard all those years ago. 

Jason sucked in one long breath and let it out slowly, forcing his body to release the tension and stop shaking. Once the motions stopped, he blinked away the tears and nodded. 

Evidently, the priest didn’t believe him, if the look of skepticism was anything to go by.

“I’m Paul Lantom, I’m the priest of Clinton Church,” the priest- no, Father Lantom- said. “May I ask for your name?”

Jason felt panic at the simple question. He didn’t want to have to try and explain why he couldn’t talk, it was already frustrating the few times he did so. He was still in denial himself some days.

The panic must show on his face because Father Lantom merely patted his shoulder.

“It’s alright, you don’t have to say anything if you don’t want to.” His tone was understanding, and Jason felt a little better at that. “I just wanted to make sure you were alright, you looked like you were having a panic attack.”

Was he? He scratched the back of his neck and felt his cheeks grow red. Part of him felt a bit of shame at showing such obvious weakness.

The priest squeezed his shoulder once before finally removing his hand. “No shame in having one, dear boy.” Damn, he needed to pull himself together if he’s that easy to read at the moment. “Do you wish for me to leave you alone?”

He silently thanked God for the simple yes or no question. He nodded.

The priest mirrored his nod before he stood up, dusting the imaginary dust off his robes. “If you need anything, I’ll be in the room towards the back.” He pointed over to a door near the back left corner. “If I’m not there, you can find one of the sisters and ask them to come get me.”

Jason nodded and watched as Father Lantom started to walk to the aforementioned door before he paused and glanced back.

“And young man? Whatever is troubling you, I’m always available to listen. Seal of confession applies over lattes, and I’m told I make a good cup.”

And with that he left, leaving Jason to stare at the door in bemusement.

He’s not sure how long he’d sat there in the pews. 

After Father Lantom had departed, Jason had gone back to weaving the rosary between his fingers, making patterns with it. He doesn’t dare try to make something that could break the delicate strings, but the feeling of it woven around his fingers kept him grounded enough to stave off the Pit’s whispers.

Instead, he went over every moment that led up to the final confrontation. Kept looking at it from different angles, wondering if there was a way that he could have prevented the encounter from ending the way it had.

Maybe he should have just killed the Joker back when he kidnapped him. Maybe he shouldn’t have given Bruce the choice. Maybe, maybe, maybe. All hypotheticals.

‘Look at me, thinking of ways I should have committed murder in a house of God,’ Jason mentally laughed at his situation.

In the end, his mind kept straying back to that moment, the moment where the sharp edges of the batarang pierced his neck and took the one thing that was his away. The wound had finally healed, but the phantom throbs of pain he felt whenever he thought of that moment had yet to cease. 

When he felt the gnawing presence of the Pit start to rear its head after his mind honed in on that memory, felt the way his hands shook with rage, he slammed that mental door shut. It took several minutes of meditating before he felt safe enough to continue thinking.

His mind turned to think about the ways he could have avoided his first death. What if he had stayed at the orphanage, had gone to Father Stoll instead, had not been a cocky little shit and boosted the tires of the goddamn Batmobile?

What if, what if, what if. Maybe, maybe, maybe. Coulda, woulda, shoulda.

He hates himself for dwelling on it all. 

“Dwelling on past mistakes only causes more pain,” Ducra had once told him. “Knock it off, stupid man-child.”

His shins ached with the phantom pain of her knocking her cane into his legs whenever he was being stupid.

But still, he can’t help but think.

Coulda, woulda, shoulda. Coulda, woulda, shoulda. Coulda, woulda, sh-

“Penny for your thoughts?”

Jason opened his eyes to see the end of a cane near his foot. Following the stick up led him to face a man that was fairly older than him, mid-30s if he had to wager, whose head was cocked to the side as he sat a few feet down in the pew Jason was sitting in. Brown hair styled back, and red, round glasses concealed the man’s eyes. The stranger wore a suit that looked well-kept but not too expensive.

The man smiled down at Jason, as if he knew he had his attention. 

“Hi.” His voice was sweet and slow, almost like syrup. “I don’t think we’ve met. I’m Matt. Matt Murdock”

Matt held out his hand in an invitation for a handshake, which Jason hesitantly accepted. His heart raced as he tried to figure a way out of the mess that was the situation. 

The air grew awkward when Jason didn’t respond, and Matt’s smile waned slightly. He cleared his throat after pulling his hand back. “Right, well. Sorry for bothering you, but you seemed like you could use someone to talk to.”

Jason scoffed under his breath. 

A blind man and a man who can’t talk sit in a church. Sounds like the set up to a joke.

Matt didn’t seem to take offense to his silence, and decided to keep talking.

“I tend to come here when I need to think,” he said. “Or when I need some advice.”

Jason nodded.

Matt’s head turned towards the cross, and Jason’s own gaze followed it. 

“And from what Father Lantom said, you looked like you could use the same thing.”

Jason scowled. Fucking snitch of a priest.

“Hey, there’s no shame in needing help.” 

Jason jerked back in surprise. Could this guy read his thoughts?

“No, I’m not a mind reader,” Matt continued with a smile, which did little to assuage Jason’s suspicions. “I’ve been in the same spot before. Feels like you can only rely on yourself because the world has let you down one too many times, right?”

Jason was seriously doubting the guy’s claim at not being a mind reader at the moment.

Jason nodded, only to facepalm after he realized Matt wouldn’t be able to see that.

“I’m going to go out on a limb and guess you just nodded, didn’t you?”

When Jason huffed in agreement, the man chuckled.

“Trust me, you’re not the first person to have done it, and you’re most certainly not going to be the last.” Matt quickly sobered up. “I’m guessing you’ve been dealt a bad hand too, right?”

If Jason hadn’t been trained by the World’s Greatest Detective, he would have missed the signs of nervousness radiating off the man. Fingers tightening on the cane, a foot shifting just a miniscule to the left, a split-second where he looked ready to speak but falter. Jason’s eyes narrowed at the man, and his muscles started to coil in preparation. Whether it was for fight or flight, he wasn’t fully sure.

“And your throat injury must have been pretty recent, if I had to guess.”

Jason lunged, grabbing the lapels of Matt’s jacket and hefting him off the pew with barely any effort, the cane clattering to the floor. Even though he had lost a bit of muscle mass (not like he needed it after his plans quite literally blew up in his face), Murdock’s weight was hardly anything to him. Like picking up a wet kitten, if he were being honest.

Immediately, Matt’s hands went up in a placating gesture. “Easy, easy. I just want to talk.” 

The reassurance did little to calm Jason’s nerves. His mind raced as he tried to surmise “Matt Murdock’s” motives. Did Bruce somehow track him down and sent someone to distract him? Was “Murdock” affiliated with one of the many gangs he had crushed beneath his boot as the Red Hood? Or was he one of Talia’s League of Assassin minions?

The first option seemed unlikely since Bruce was always the type to keep secrets to himself, even at the detriment of the person it was about, because he was a paranoid bastard that only ever saw his opinion as the right one. Jason wasn’t so sure about the second option because he hadn’t really been paying attention to every single person on the gangs’ payroll, so it’s possible he could have missed this guy. And the third option was also a likely scenario; Talia had contacts everywhere in the world and Jason had only met a handful of them. Coupled with the fact that she had invested enough into him to put her life at risk, it would be illogical to assume that she’d let him go so easily.

The world around him narrowed as green crept into his vision, and his lips pulled back into a snarl. He hoped that “Murdock” would be able to tell how pissed he was.

A gasp sounded behind him, and Jason whipped his head towards the sound. A nun stood at one of the doorways, a hand clasping at her cross while the other gripped the door frame.

“Matthew!” she choked out in fear, which Jason couldn’t blame her for. He was easily intimidating with his build and height, but coupled with the scars and perpetual scowl, he had made even the toughest of thugs reconsider the idea of going toe-to-toe with him. Honestly, the only ones that still tried to mug him were either those that were truly desperate or didn’t even have two brain cells to rub together. And judging by the burning sensation in his eyes, he knew that his eyes glowed with the eerie green of the Lazarus Pits, which only happened when he was well and truly mad.

But instead of looking scared and trying to break free, Murdock had waved his hand at her to stand down with a determined look on his face. “It’s alright, Sister Maggie. It’s just a minor disagreement. You can go back to what you were doing.”

“But-” She moved closer to the two of them.

“Maggie, please.” Matt’s tone was firm and he hadn’t even turned to look at her as he spoke.

The nun looked resigned as she nodded and closed the doors, leaving the two of them alone once more.

“Look, I’m not here to do anything to you, okay?” Murdock said. “I’m not with whoever you think I’m with.” He gestured to the pews. “Why don’t we sit down and talk about this like reasonable people?”

Jason mulled over the options. If worse came to worse, he had his gun hidden on him as well as several knives strapped to him and he was pretty fast. He could easily be out of the town by sundown if he tried hard enough. But he also had come to appreciate Hell’s Kitchen. It wasn’t the same as Gotham, but it soothed the ache of homesickness.

Reluctantly, Jason loosened his grip and sat down. Murdock did the same and started to stoop down to grab the cane, but Jason struck fast, slamming his fist into the wood of the pews as a warning and the sound echoed off the walls. Matt raised an eyebrow and sat back up.

“Alright, you want me to keep my hands free. Got it,” Matt conceded easily. He laid his hands flat in his lap. “Like I said, I’m not with anyone. I’m just a random churchgoer who could tell that you could use some advice.”

Without taking his eyes off the man, Jason slowly reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone. Thankfully, he had already figured out how to enable text-to-speech, but it took him a second to type out his message since he refused to look away for even a second.

“Who are you?” the phone read out. “Who do you work for?”

At that, Murdock frowned and cocked his head to the side. “Like I said, my name is Matt Murdock. The only ‘people’ I work for is the community of Hell’s Kitchen. I’m a lawyer, do a lot of pro bono work.” His hands fidgeted idly. “I don’t do it for the money, I do it because I want to help people.”

“Bullshit.”

At that, Murdock let out a startled and slightly bemused laugh, which only served to make Jason tense. But he quickly stopped laughing as the tension in the air grew thicker. 

“Is it really so hard to believe that there are people out there that want to help others?” he questioned lightly.

“Nothing in this world is free.”

Surviving on the streets cost him his childhood. Being Robin cost him his life. Trying to end the Joker cost him his voice. 

The corners of Matt’s mouth turned down and his brows furrowed in a way that Jason wasn’t used to. It took him a second to realize the expression on the man’s face was sadness.

“I’m sorry that whatever happened to you has made you see the world that way.”

Jason could practically hear his teeth being ground into powder with how hard he was clenching his jaw. How dare he? How dare he apologize like he knew what he went through! He didn’t want this man’s, this stranger’s, pity. He could take it and shove it right up his ass for all he cared.

Matt’s face screwed up as if he had smelled something rotten for half a second before he smoothed over his features into a calm, albeit somber, mask. One of his hands went up towards his jacket and Jason grabbed it, squeezing tightly in a way he knew had to hurt. But despite the pressure, the only sign of discomfort Murdock showed was a slight tick in his jaw and a thinning of his lips.

“I know you don’t believe me.” The cadence was similar one would use when trying to coax a scared, rabid dog out of hiding, and the urge to punch the man was stronger than ever for Jason. “I’m just going to give you my business card. You can look us up and it’ll prove that I’m being honest.” 

When Jason didn’t let go, Matt sighed. “You can have whatever weapon you have in your back pocket out if it’ll make you feel better.” Then a pained hiss escaped him as the death-grip tightened even more to the point where Jason could feel the bones start to creak. 

“I can hear it hitting the chair when you move, that’s how I know you have one,” he answered the unspoken question before he gave a weak smile. “Besides, what person doesn’t have a weapon in Hell’s Kitchen?”

Jason blinked in disbelief. ‘Did…did he seriously just make a joke when I could literally break his wrist right now?’

For some reason that he couldn’t explain, he decided to give the man the benefit of the doubt. He set his phone down and pulled out the gun from the back of his jeans. The safety clicked off and was immediately pointed at Murdock before he loosened his hold slightly on the wrist, a silent gesture to continue.

The card that was pulled out was small and fairly generic looking. White cardstock and red ink. One side proudly displayed the words “Nelson, Murdock & Page” with the words “Legal and Investigation Services” underneath it and the Scales of Justice at above the cluster of words. There was also a series of dots under the words, most likely a braille version of the written words if Jason had to guess. Flipping over to the back revealed Matt’s full name as well as an address, phone and fax number, and an email address.

“Go ahead.” Matt raised his hands up. “You can look us up if you’re still unsure.”

Jason paused and set the card down before grabbing his phone while the other hand kept the gun pointed at Matt. His eyes kept flickering back up every other second as he googled the name of the business and- oh damn, there were a lot of articles about them.

Ignoring the business’ official site, because it could easily be biased in their favor, he went to the Wikipedia page about them. His eyes widened as he skimmed the article, noting their involvement in apprehending the crime lord Wilson Fisk (which earned some points in Jason’s book) and the disastrous trial of Frank Castle, a.k.a. the Punisher (Jason respected the guy’s philosophy since he followed a similar code). 

There was also a link to an article specifically about Matt, and Jason clicked it. When the page loaded and he read the title of the news article, a sense of understanding flooded through him. 

A truck carrying chemicals had lost control and Murdock had pushed an old man out of the way but was blinded by the truck’s contents when it tipped over.

Slowly, Jason clicked the safety back on and lowered the gun, but he didn’t put it away quite yet.

‘People can be bought, even when they’ve done a lot of good,’ the paranoia in him hissed. 

Instead, he kept a loose grip on it as he let it lay in his lap, and Matt let out a quiet exhale as he lowered his hands.

“How did you know I can’t speak?” Jason typed out. “There’s no way that priest saw my neck.”

Matt shifted uncomfortably, as if he were debating how to respond to the question.

“My hearing is better than the average person.” He lightly tapped his ear. “Compensation for losing my eyes. I can…I could hear how your breathing sounds different,  just like how I heard the gun hitting your seat when you moved. Father Lantom mentioned what you looked like, especially how distraught you looked. I just made some guesses from there.”

“Those are some pretty good guesses for a lawyer.”

Even though the text-to-speech voice was robotic, the sarcastic tone thankfully came through, and Murdock chuckled.

“Some would say that my lack of sight has made me more insightful.”

There was a moment where they both sat before the tension bled away. Jason threw his head back, shoulders shaking as he laughed and it was as if the floodgates had opened, because once Jason started, he couldn’t stop laughing. He laughed until his sides hurt, until tears streamed down his face, until his puffs of air that took the place of his laughter turned to ragged gasps. 

He’s not sure when it devolved into crying but the next thing he knew, he was hunched over, one hand covering his face. The gun had clattered to the floor at some point, same with the phone, but Jason couldn’t muster enough mental resources to give a damn.

How was it that a total stranger was able and willing to show more compassion to him than the man he had called his father?

A light weight settled on Jason’s shoulder, and he flinched at the contact. The weight retracted immediately, but the presence at his side never moved away.

He’s not sure how long they sat like that, but the pounding in Jason’s skull told him he must’ve been crying for a good amount of time.

God, he was sick of crying. Sick of feeling tired.

“I don’t know your story,” Matt said. “And I’m not going to ask for it. But I’m willing to lend an ear to whatever is troubling you. Attorney-client confidentiality and all that.” 

He lowered his glasses enough to throw a wink at Jason, allowing him to see the man’s eyes for the first time. They were a nice hazel, a stark contrast to Jason’s uncanny green, but they were unfocused, staring just slightly to the left of Jason’s head. 

And then the red shades were pulled back up with an easy-going smile.

Jason hesitated before he scooped up his phone and gun. The gun went back into his back holster but he kept the phone out. The screen was blank, and his fingers hovered over the keyboard as he contemplated his next move.

“Does it get any better?”

Matt’s face twisted into a look that was a mixture of a grimace and contemplation.

“That’s hard to say,” was the answer he settled on. “It’s not going to be the same ever again, I can tell you that much.”

“No shit.”

“I’ve spent more years without sight than with it. But even then, there are still people that pity me,” he huffed. “It can be frustrating, because even though they mean well, it’s demeaning.

“And there are days where I wish I could see again.”

He voiced the thought as if it were a sin.

“I wish I could see my friends’ faces, wish I could see the way New York has changed. I used to think this a lot back when I first lost my sight, and I remember asking, ‘why me?’”

And wasn’t that the million dollar question every person, including Jason, had.

Why me?

“But Father Lantom once told me that God’s plan for us is like a tapestry, and only He could see the beautiful picture in its entirety. The tragedy of being human is that we only get to see the back, with all the ragged threads and muddy colors.” 

Matt waved a hand in front of him as if he were reaching out to touch the imaginary tapestry.

“For the longest time, I focused on that muddy back, angry at the way God’s plan left me in the dark, both literally and figuratively. But now? After all the things I’ve experienced?” Matt leaned back against the pews with an air of nonchalance. “Now, when I look at the way my life has turned out now, I don’t think I can say I hate it as much as I used to. I’ve got friends that care about me, a job that I’m passionate about. And yeah, it was a struggle, it still is some days. But now I’m starting to understand the plans He had for me.”

Jason sat there, watching the man casually shift. One foot kicked the fallen cane back up into his waiting hand with a practiced ease, and he collapsed it before setting on the space next to him. 

His brain was racing as he mulled over the man’s words, and his finger hovered over the screen of his phone, the screen empty and waiting to be his voice.

He had thought his purpose for his resurrection had been to rid Gotham, to rid the world, of the plague that was the Joker. But seeing as how he was sitting in New York, broken and empty, proved him wrong. He had failed, and he knew that it’d be nearly impossible to step foot back in Gotham without all of the memories setting him off once more.

So what was his purpose?

“How do I know what my purpose is?”

Matt raised an eyebrow. “I can’t be the one to tell you that. It’s up to you to decide.”

If the Red Hood had been his only purpose, what was the point of staying alive? He should’ve died back in that building.

“What if I have no purpose?”

“Well, everyone has a purpose, otherwise you wouldn’t be here in the first place.”

“And if I’m not supposed to be here?”

The casual air Matt had suddenly shifted back to seriousness. He sat up straight, leaning forward with a pinched expression. He ignored the way Jason flinched as he placed a hand on his shoulder.

“You wouldn’t be here if you didn’t have a purpose.” He spoke with an intensity that made Jason lean away, only to be hindered by the grip on his shoulder. “Trust me. Dying isn’t the answer.”

Jason wanted to scoff. “I thought what I was doing was right. But all I got in the end was a knife to the throat by the person I thought I could trust the most in order to save someone that deserved death.”

“It’s him or me!” he had told Bruce. 

His father hadn’t chosen Jason.

“If that’s not my purpose, then what is?”

Matt's expression was angry. But not at him, Jason realized with a jolt of awareness. He was angry at Bruce, even though he had never met the man. He opened his mouth before shutting it several times as he tried to piece together a response. 

“Again, I can’t give you that answer,” was the response he finally settled on. “I don’t know you or what you’ve been through, but you’re hurt by the one who did this to you. You’re still hurting, you’re angry, and you have every right to be... 

“But whoever they are, they don’t deserve you. If they were willing to put you before someone else, to permanently disable you as they did it, then to hell with them.”

‘Or maybe, you didn’t deserve him,’ the Pits whispered to him. ‘You’re a monster, a murderer, the scum of the earth. You don’t deserve pity or love, especially not Bruce’s.’

“Don’t let your purpose be tied to someone else,” Matt urged him, cutting through the voices. “Think about what you wanted before and what you want now. Don’t think of whatever this person wanted from you.”

What did he want? To kill the Joker, had immediately sprung to mind. He wanted to avenge himself and the countless others that had their lives destroyed by his existence. 

But what would have been his purpose after?

Jason closed his eyes. In his heart, he searched through the broken, jagged fragments that made up who he was. It tore at his soul, left it raw and bloody, but he kept digging until he finally found the pieces of the boy from his previous life. The shards were small, crushed under the weight of anger and grief, but they still existed.

Jason Todd had been hopeful. In the beginning, he had wanted to survive to the next day. When he was adopted, the doors of opportunity were countless. He had wanted to go to college, he wanted to make a difference as Robin. He had wanted so many things, but they were taken from him the moment that the timer on the bomb had hit zero, the moment he had choked on smoke in his final moments buried under the rubble of the warehouse.

The Red Hood had been what emerged from the Lazarus Pit, not Jason Todd, his damned screams echoing off the chamber walls. He was, in essence, the personification of Death itself. A self-appointed judge, jury, and executioner of criminals. But the Red Hood had also died the same way Jason Todd, Robin, had. With betrayal and an explosion.

So if he wasn’t Jason Todd, wasn’t Robin, wasn’t the Red Hood, then who was he and what did he want?

“I don’t know what I want,” He finally typed. 

Murdock squeezed his shoulder. “Then it looks like you have some thinking to do.”

Exhaustion seemed to hit Jason all at once, and he slumped forward. It was as he was looking at the floor that he realized that he had dropped Catherine’s rosary at some point. He scooped it up and cradled it close like it was the most precious thing in the world.

“No one can tell you what to do with your life.” Matt’s cane snapped back together. “People can help you, guide you, tell you what to do, but at the end of the day, you have the final decision about everything.”

Jason watched as the lawyer stood up and turned towards him with an unreadable expression. 

“You have to make the life you want. The world can’t give it to you.”

He passed Jason, one hand trailing over the back of the pews and the other gripping his cane tightly. Jason’s green eyes watched as he made his way to the entrance doors, only to stop with his hand on the door handle. He didn’t turn around as he spoke. 

“You survived, you have a second chance. You’re angry, yes, but that’s good. It means you have some fire left in you. Take that and figure out who you are… but just be careful not to let yourself burn out, okay?”

And then finally, he turned his head to give Jason a reassuring grin as he pulled the door open. “I know I just met you, but I can tell you’re a fighter. I’m positive you can find yourself.

“And who knows? If you’re still in the Kitchen by the time you do, feel free to give me a call. I’d like to share a drink with you when that day comes.”

Jason watched as the door swung shut before looking down at the rosary in his hand. With shaky hands, he looped it around his wrist, once, twice, and then pocketed his phone. The only sounds he could hear was his own breathing as he leaned forward until he practically curled in on himself and his eyes wandered to the business card that had fallen to the floor at some point. 

For once, the Pit was quiet, leaving him only with his own thoughts.

Chapter Text

The only reason Matt had been alerted that someone had entered Clinton Church was because there was a brief moment where he caught the sounds of the outside world when the door was opened. 

He had been in the back with Father Lantom, catching up with the old man and seeing how his recovery was going. It had been a miracle that he had survived the attack on the church by Dex, but it hadn’t been without consequences. Despite surviving, Father Lantom had been in the hospital for several weeks, a combination of the severity of the injury and his age leaving him bedridden. And Matt, ever the one with the guilt complex, spent most of his free time with the priest to the point where the man had practically banned him from visiting anymore until he was out of the hospital after he saw how little sleep he was getting. Father Lantom had just been cleared the day before to return to the church, albeit with strict instructions to take it easy.

The two of them were sipping on lattes, Matt discussing the potential spaces for a new office when he was suddenly reintroduced to the sudden cacophony of the outside world. The revs of the cars on the street, the soft whistle of the breeze entering the building, the dozens of footsteps of pedestrians going to their next destination. They’re all sounds that he was used to, ones he had learned long ago to tune out. 

Out of habit, he slightly cocked his head to the side and listened for whoever opened the door. He expected to hear the footsteps echo off the walls, but the steps were so quiet that Matt actually had to focus a bit harder to actually hear them, and that set him on edge. No normal person had steps that soft; it was something that had to be trained, that took a long time to learn.

Unbidden thoughts forced their way into Matt’s mind. The memory of Dex, donned in a copycat Daredevil uniform stalking down the aisles of the pew calling for Karen Page; thoughts of remnant members of the Hand finally resurfacing in an attempt to enact revenge against Matt; the idea of an assassin sent by Fisk also crossed his mind.

 He hadn’t even realized he had trailed off until he felt a hand gently wrap around his forearm. 

“Matthew?” Father Lantom’s voice cut through his thoughts. 

In response, he held up a finger and continued to focus his hearing on the newcomer. Their steps were quiet but there was a sense of hesitancy with each step, which only confused Matt more. The person stopped in front of the font of water, and the quiet drip, drip, drip of water told him that they had dipped their hands into the quiet bubbling fountain. They stood still before slowly making their way towards the pews. 

Matt’s hand curled into fists as he silently stood up, ignoring the questioning voice of Father Lantom as he crept to the door and locked it before pressing his back against the wall. The room they were in was one of the off-shoot rooms in the church and Matt didn’t want to risk it.

The footsteps stopped at the pews and there was the creak of wood as the stranger settled onto one of them, sitting in the middle of the row towards the entryway doors. Matt tilted his head when he heard the person shift, fabric swishing as they clumsily pulled something out of their pocket. A distinctive series of clacks could be heard as they fumbled with the object. Some sort of small, wooden beads, Matt noted. A necklace? 

The person let out a shaky exhale, distorted in a way that was not because of emotions. It came out ragged and crackly. Matt’s interest was piqued, and his mind raced with possible reasons as to why they sounded like that.

The most likely answer had to be some kind of injury, but that just opened the door to more questions.

Matt listened to the person’s heartbeat and his curiosity only grew with each beat. 

Ba-dum.           Ba-dum.            Ba-dum.

It was slow, methodical, but loud like a war drum. But the pace was what concerned Matt the most. It was slow, yes, and spoke of a high chance of them being physically fit, but it was even slower in comparison to athletes, almost to a worrying degree. 

‘Not normal,’ Matt thought. ‘Some kind of superpowered or enhanced person, maybe?’

Regardless, he held his breath and waited to see if they were going to do anything. The only thing he got was the quiet clack, clack, clack of the string of beads were toyed with, the crackling breathing, and the sluggish ba-dum, ba-dum, ba-dum of their heart. Matt’s finger tapped against the wall in time with the heartbeat as mentally counted.

Thirty-five in a minute. While he was no doctor, even he could tell that it was definitely not normal, even by extreme athletic standards.

But other than that, there was nothing else coming from the stranger, and Matt hesitantly relaxed, but never let the tension fully bleed from him as he pushed off the wall and sat back in his chair.

“Sorry.” He picked up the coffee mug and took a sip, grimacing at the lukewarm latte. “There’s someone here, I didn’t recognize them. Thought it could have been someone with… less than good intentions.”

“Matthew.”

Matt winced at the tone. It was one that said, "I know you’re not telling me the full story, and while I won’t ask you to clarify, I’m disappointed in you for keeping details from me."

“It’s fine,” he stressed to the man. He didn’t need his sight to tell that the priest didn’t buy it for a second; but he let Matt continue the story of how Foggy had vetoed a potential office on the basis that one of the rooms in the space they were looking at had lights that were permanently busted. And even though Matt had volunteered to take that particular room, Foggy had been hellbent against it because, “It makes us look cheap if we don’t bother to fix it, Matt!”

“I’m pretty sure Karen had been ready to punch the owner of the building we were looking at,” Matt laughed. “He kept interrupting her and brushing off her questions. Apparently the look on his face when Foggy told him that she was the office manager was something to behold, or so Foggy said. When we went to look at this place near the pet shop-”

He was cut off when something acrid hit his nostrils. Matt’s face scrunched up as the bitter scent registered to his senses, and he had to force himself not to gag as it touched his tongue. It smelt like a combination of bile, sulfur, and ammonia.

“Do you smell that?” he asked.

“No, what is it?” Father Lantom responded. “I don’t smell anything.”

“It’s like-” Matt paused to swallow down a gag, using one hand to cover his mouth and nose. “I can’t really describe it. It smells like something rotten, but worse.”

Father Lantom’s chair scraped across the ground as he pushed his chair back from the table. “Do you think it could be some kind of broken sewage or gas line? Is there any way you’d be able to figure out where it’s coming from?”

“I can try.”

Matt focused on the sounds around him, listening for any sounds of gas hissing from pipes or liquid seeping from a leak. He could pinpoint Maggie’s heartbeat, as well as a few other nuns, down in the basement washing sheets. Children were laughing and playing outside in the orphanage next to the church. And lastly, there was the stranger, still sitting in the pews. He almost glossed over them until he took notice of their heartbeat.

Ba-dum. Ba-dum. Ba-dum. Ba-dum. Ba-dum. 

It was beating faster than when Matt had first clocked it, almost reaching the average resting rate- which is why he almost missed it. But if their heart was already incredibly slow, then that meant that what he was hearing now had to be bad. He turned his attention to the stranger once more and immediately picked up on the fact that their breaths were coming out in violent, short bursts, too quick for any oxygen to make it into their lungs.

His surprise must show on his face, because Matt felt Father Lantom place a hand on his shoulder. “Did you find it?”

“There’s nothing there, but it sounds like someone is having a panic attack outside.” He gestured towards the door. 

Immediately, the priest was up and alert. He let out a quiet grunt as he hauled himself out of the chair. “I’ll go see if they need any help.”

“No, Father, wait-” Matt reached out to grab the man’s sleeve, but his ribs protested at the sudden movement. He let out a quiet hiss of pain, placing one hand on the aching part of his side while he silently cursed the thug who managed to get a lucky hit in the night before and cracked his rib.

And in that time Matt was nursing his pain, Father Lantom had made it to the door- and damn, did he move fast when he knew that there was someone that needed help. 

“I’ll only be a moment,” he assured the lawyer.

The door swung open on quiet hinges before clicking shut, leaving Matt to listen in on the conversation while he struggled to stand. He didn’t know what this person would do to the priest, and he didn’t want to give them a chance to try anything. 

Paul Lantom’s steps were quick as he made his way over to the person in the pews and the fabric of his robes shifted as he knelt down. 

“Are you alright?” he heard the priest ask.

There was a sharp inhale and then a slow exhale from the person. Matt waited to hear some sort of response, but he only heard the heartbeat slow marginally before Father Lantom continued.

“I’m Paul Lantom, I’m the priest of Clinton Church. May I ask for your name?”

Again, their heart picked up again, the beat accelerating once more.

Ba-dum. Ba-dum. Ba-dum. 

“It’s alright, you don’t have to say anything if you don’t want to. I just wanted to make sure you were alright, you looked like you were having a panic attack.”

Matt was at the door, gripping the handle as he listened to the one-sided conversation with a mixture of curiosity and frustration. No matter what Paul said, they were entirely silent, and Matt had no way to tell what was going on. Was this how people felt listening in on a phone conversation? 

Ba-dum. Ba-dum. Ba-dum.

But as Father Lantom spoke, the strength of the bitter scent had dampened considerably.

‘Is it…coming from them?’ Matt couldn’t help but question. 

He didn’t want to consider the possibility, because that just opened a whole different can of worms. 

‘Why was it happening? What did it mean? Was it some kind of new drug? Some kind of mutant ability? Am I the only one who can tell?’

He hadn’t heard Father Lantom’s tone change, so the likelihood of him being the only one to smell it was possible.

Too caught up in musings, Matt had almost missed the fact the conversation was over until Father Lantom’s voice was considerably closer to the room. He hobbled back over to the chair and settled into it with an air of textbook innocence just as the door opened. Neither of them bothered to say anything until the door was locked again.

“I’m not going to bother asking if you were listening to us, because I know you were.” 

Matt had to bite his lip to hide the impish grin that threatened to take over his face at the priest’s exasperated tone. But he did let the corner of his lip tick upward, the only sign of confirmation for the priest. The sigh that left Father Lantom was a heavy one, coming deep from within his chest, and he could practically hear the eye roll as the man collected the coffee mugs and dumped them in the sink.

“You know, he reminds me of you in more ways than one,” Father Lantom commented without turning back from his spot at the sink. 

Matt couldn’t help but raise a questioning eyebrow. He folded his hands on the table and leaned forward. “How so?”

The priest turned on the faucet and grabbed the sponge. The lemon scent of the dish soap filled the air, removing the last bits of the rotten smell that lingered in Matt’s nose. “He’s lost.”

Matt snorted. “Gee, thanks.”

Father Lantom ignored him. “He looks distraught, like he had his entire world yanked out from under him. Like he has no idea what to do next… much like a certain child I met a long time ago. And he holds himself like he’s exhausted from carrying the world on his shoulders, much like a certain lawyer I know now.

“But it’s his disposition that concerns me the most.” He scrubbed the mugs clean and rinsed them out before reaching for the small towel. The squeaks of the ceramic mugs being dried were just slightly grating on Matt’s ears as the man finally turned back to face him. He leaned against the counter. “Reminds me of when we found you after Midland Circle, when you were still recovering and had heard that Wilson Fisk was released from prison.”

The heat of his stare made Matt shift uncomfortably as he recalled that dark period in his life he had only just recently dug himself out of. He had felt like he had nothing left to live for back then; Nelson & Murdock had closed its doors because of Matt’s actions, Elektra had been presumed dead after the building collapsed, his hearing had been shot, his body had been severely injured to the point that there had been some lasting damage that would prevent him from operating at his peak ever again. So when he had finally regained his hearing in time to learn that Fisk had been moved into protective custody because of his little ploy that involved a fake attack in the prison, Matt had just about snapped. He acted recklessly, his only goal being to get Fisk back in prison no matter the cost. He burned dozens of bridges, including the ones with Foggy and Karen. To this day, Matt’s still amazed that they decided to once again rebuild their friendship, and they had been a huge reason why he was doing better than he was back then.

“You want me to talk to him, don’t you?” Matt sighed.

The priest set the cups on the counter and hung the towel back up. 

“I’m just making some observations,” he said innocently. “I can’t make you do anything you don’t want to. 

“But I know you, Matthew. You’re curious about him, and you’re not one to let things lie until you’ve picked it apart.”

“Well, I am a lawyer, after all,” he quipped.

But Matt knew he couldn’t deny it. Ever since he had picked up on their heart and heard the odd breathing patterns, he had been intrigued. And now, with the new information he’d just been given, it only solidified his need to meet the person.

“Yes, well that is most certainly one of your biggest strengths and biggest flaws,” Father Lantom chuckled. 

Matt grabbed his cane and stood, only to be stopped by the priest clearing his throat.

“Perhaps give him a few minutes to settle first?” he suggested lightly. “I doubt he’d appreciate two people pestering him in such close succession.”

“Right, right.” Matt sat back in the chair, fidgeting slightly with his cane. Tilting his head to the side, he listened once more to see if there were any changes in the man.

Ba-dum.           Ba-dum.            Ba-dum.

His heart had gone back to that same, slow pace, and the clacks of beads meant that he was messing with the necklace once more. But other than that, he had no image of the man.

“What does he look like?”

Father Lantom pulled his chair out and sat across from Matt once more. “He’s young, younger than you- most likely in his twenties, but the years haven’t been kind to him,” he started. “He’s got green eyes, but they’re haunted, much like the soldiers who have returned home after a harsh tour. His hair is black, cut fairly short, but he has this white patch of hair at his forehead- stress, I’d wager. Caucasian, tall- at least six feet, if I had to guess- and extremely muscled, which makes me think he was in some sort of military before he came here. What else?” He hummed and rubbed his chin. “He has a scar running through his right eyebrow, another one going from the left side of his jaw to his cheek, as well as heavy frown lines.”

“What about his clothes?” 

“Jeans, boots, a navy blue running jacket, and a black hat. He also had a rosary with him, a wooden one that looked quite old.”

“Was the jacket high collared by any chance?”

Father Lantom leaned back in surprise. “Yes, how did you know?”

Matt gestured to his ear. “His breathing sounds wrong, and he hasn’t said a single thing this entire time. I have a theory, and I think you just confirmed it for me.”

The two of them sat in silence, neither having the heart to even try and fake a conversation when both of them were too focused on the person sitting in the pews.

Matt had camped out in the side room with Father Lantom for twenty minutes. He impatiently drummed his fingers in a nonsensical pattern on the wooden table while he waited, much to the man’s annoyance. He only moved when that smell started to permeate once more.

“I think I’ve waited enough.” He stood and grabbed his cane before he marched over to the door, ignoring the way Father Lantom called after him. “Lattes were great, Father. Same time next week?”

He didn’t bother to wait for a response before he left the room. The smell of ammonia and bile was even stronger outside, and Matt had to take a minute to steel his senses before he silently moved away from the door. Trailing his fingers along the wall, he walked towards where the man was sitting. He got no reaction as he shuffled towards where he was at.

Matt made sure to keep at least three feet of space between them as he sat. His breathing was sped up and that acrid smell, though less prominent than before, was still prominent. The rosary beads clicked in his hands as he fidgeted with it, pulling and tugging at the thing to the point where Matt could hear the poor string strain under the tension.

He decided to spare the rosary’s string from the potential fate of being snapped.

“Penny for your thoughts?”

The stranger stiffened, his hands stilling as he slowly raised his head to meet Matt’s face. Once he was certain that his attention was on him, he flashed one of his signature charming lawyer smiles.

“Hi. I don’t think we’ve met. I’m Matt Murdock.” He held out a hand, and was mildly surprised when the proffered hand was taken. The motions of the handshake were slow and hesitant, but the grip was another story. It was strong, and his hands were rough and calloused. He could feel the hardened skin of his knuckles and myriad of scars across the surface.

An awkward silence settled between the two of them, and Matt’s smile fell just a bit as he tried to think of what to say next. He hadn’t really planned how to go about the whole thing. He cleared his throat as he pulled his hand back. “Right, well. Sorry for bothering you, but you seemed like you could use someone to talk to.”

A scoff escaped him, barely audible to the average person. But Matt caught it, and he kicked himself at the poor choice of words.

“I tend to come here when I need to think. Or when I need some advice.”

Lord knows how many times Matt had sat in the confession booth, and how many times he had gone to Father Lantom or Maggie when he needed advice on how to balance his civilian life with Daredevil. 

“Too many,” Father Lantom would jokingly answer.

“And from what Father Lantom said, you look like you could use the same thing.”

The man’s jaw clenched hard enough for Matt to hear his teeth grind painfully, and his shoulders tensed in response to Matt’s words. The strange smell seemed to grow sharper, more bitter as the temperature dropped a bit. 

“Hey, there’s no shame in needing help.”

Matt was thankful that Foggy wasn’t with him at that moment. It had taken dozens of people and months for such a concept to get through Matt’s rather thick, stubborn skull, and he’s sure that if Foggy heard him utter those words aloud, he’d never let it go. Knowing Foggy’s dramatic style of teasing, he’d call Karen and jokingly tell her to make sure she marked the date and to write an article to publish, because Matthew Michael Murdock had finally admitted that it was okay to ask for help.

The man jerked back in surprise, incredulousness radiating off him in waves at the fact that Matt had accurately surmised his thought processes. Not like it was hard of course. Takes one to know one, and all that.

“No, I’m not a mind reader,” he reassured with a grin. “I’ve been in the same spot before. Feels like you can only rely on yourself because the world has let you down one too many times, right?”

For a long time, it was better that way for Matt. Better to rely on yourself when everyone else left in the end. His mom, his dad, Stick, Elektra. He still had those thoughts some days, but he’s been getting better thanks to the people he started letting in around him.

The air shifted and fabric swished, all of which was followed by skin connecting with skin.

“I’m going to go out on a limb and guess you just nodded, didn’t you?” Matt asked. When he got a huff of agreement, he couldn’t help but chuckle at the antics. “Trust me, you’re not the first person to have done it, and you’re most certainly not going to be the last.”

Not like he ever took such mistakes to heart. It was kind of funny, actually. Hearing people get so flustered about a simple mistake was always the highlight of his day.

‘Focus, Murdock,’ he reminded himself.

The conversation would go nowhere if Matt didn’t state the obvious, but he dreaded the possible reactions he knew he was going to get from the man.

“I’m guessing you’ve been dealt a bad hand too, right?”

He shifted uncomfortably as he psyched himself up. Now or never.

Inhale. Exhale. Aim the proverbial gun. 

“And your throat injury must have been pretty recent, if I had to guess.”

And fire.

Matt’s world spun as he was suddenly hoisted up from the pews. The fabric of his jack dug uncomfortably into his armpits as he manhandled by the front of his suit, and his side protested at the sudden movement while he had to scramble slightly for his feet to find purchase on the ground. Distantly, he noted the clatter of his cane against the floor as it slipped from his grip.

Heat practically radiated off the man in waves, anger palpable enough that Matt could clearly picture his expression. Immediately, he raised his hands in a gesture of peace.

“Easy, easy.” 

The fact that he was picked up with little struggle concerned Matt. He acted as if Matt didn’t weigh any more than a pillow; and while Matt didn’t have the physique of a professional bodybuilder, he still had enough bulk to make Foggy complain the few times he helped him up the stairs to his apartment. Coupled with the fact that the guy’s heart was working overtime and the smell of sweat was collecting on his brow, Matt knew he was seconds away from getting punched- or worse.

“I just want to talk.”

The only sound between them was the guy’s accelerated breathing as he processed his words. Matt forced himself to keep his face calm even though a part of him was nervous at the unpredictability of the situation. He had no idea what this guy’s history was, and the PTSD and paranoia made him a potential danger not just to Matt, but to everyone in the church. 

It didn’t help that the bitter smell of ammonia and bile became sharper, burning into Matt’s nose with a vengeance like no other and distracting him.

But sue him, Matt always had a bleeding heart. He couldn’t ignore someone that obviously needed an ear. So if he got punched while helping him, then that was okay.

Of course, the universe had to throw a wrench in his plans. He only had a split second to pick up the sound of Maggie’s footsteps before the door opened.

Her entrance forced the man’s attention off of him, and onto her. Ice-cold panic flooded Matt’s veins as she spotted them and gasped out his name. He wasn’t in the best of shape, and while he was willing to take a hit if it came to it, there was no way he’d be able to fight him enough to protect her.

The strategic part of his brain went into overdrive as he thought. He needed to get her out as fast as possible.

He waved a hand at her, never turning directly to face her. “It’s alright, Sister Maggie. It’s just a minor disagreement. You can go back to what you were doing.”

Much to his frustration, his reassurance didn’t deter her. Instead, she took a step closer.

“But-”

“Maggie, please.” He put a bit of his Daredevil voice into the plea in the hopes that she’ll listen. He could never forgive himself if she got hurt because of his decisions.

There was a moment where Maggie hesitated, and Matt could picture the pinched expression she was no doubt wearing as the options warred within her. But blessedly, she listened to him, letting out a resigned huff before closing the door and leaving the two of them alone in the empty Nave. He could hear her muttering under her breath as she walked away, and Matt waited until her footsteps were gone before he continued.

“Look,” he began slowly. Fabric swished as his head turned back to Matt. “I’m not here to do anything to you, okay?”

A part of Matt wondered what kind of life he had to have lived if he was that worried about being cornered.

“I’m not with whoever you think I’m with.” He gestured to the seats. “Why don’t we sit down and talk about this like reasonable people?”

Twenty seconds passed before the grip on the lapels of his jacket finally loosened enough to let go and sat down. As he did so, Matt heard the distinctive clunk of metal hitting wood and the tinkling of bullets shifting ever-so slightly in a magazine clip.

‘He’s armed,’ Matt noted. ‘Some kind of pistol.’

Letting out a quiet exhale, Matt lowered himself into the seat beside the man, hunching forward to grab his cane. But the loud bang and vibration that ran through the seat as a fist slammed into the wood made Matt raise an eyebrow and sit back up. 

“Alright, you want me to keep my hands free. Got it.”

As much as he was reluctant to leave his cane on the floor, he’d let it be if it meant that he’d feel comfortable.

He lightly drummed his hands on his thighs as he chose his words carefully. “Like I said, I’m not with anyone. I’m just a random churchgoer who could tell that you could use some advice.”

He’s not surprised that when he finally does get a response, it’s with the text-to-speech of a phone, further cementing Matt’s theory that the guy was totally mute.

“Who are you? Who do you work for?”

Matt couldn’t stop the frown taking over his face. If he was as young as Father Lantom said he was, then he had to have had many troubles in order to jump to such a mentality. Sorrow went through Matt at the realization; no one, especially someone so young, deserved to live a life filled with constant fear of someone being out to get them.

“Like I said, my name is Matt Murdock. The only ‘people’ I work for is the community of Hell’s Kitchen. I’m a lawyer, do a lot of pro bono work. I don’t do it for the money, I do it because I want to help people.”

“Bullshit.”

At the bold declaration, Matt couldn’t hold back the startled laugh. However, the growing tension made him cut it off quickly. 

“Is it really so hard to believe that there are people out there that want to help others?” he questioned lightly.

Sure, they lived in New York, where there were a bunch of assholes, but not everyone was a selfish prick ready to stab someone in the back at a moment's notice if they benefited from it. 

“Nothing in this world is free.”

And oh, Matt’s heart broke at that. It always did when he came across someone so jaded as the person in front of him. But this was the first time he found it in someone that was so young. 

The words out of his mouth before he could even consider the potential damage that would come from them.

“I’m sorry that whatever happened to you has made you see the world that way.”

Again, the bitter smell returned with a vengeance, and Matt’s face scrunched up.

‘So, I was right. It's coming from him,’ Matt thought. ‘Must be tied to his emotions, but I still don’t understand where or what it means.’

Knowing that he wasn’t going to get trust on his words alone, Matt opted for the next best thing. He reached for the inner pocket of his jacket, only for a hand to clamp down on his fingers in a bruising grip.

“I know you don’t believe me.” He purposefully pitched to one of the lower tones he used when speaking to a civilian after saving them. The grip tightened more, painful enough for Matt to wonder if the guy had superstrength. “I’m just going to give you my business card. You can look us up and it’ll prove that I’m being honest.” 

If his words wouldn’t cut it, then surely the words of dozens of people had to be enough.

When the hand didn’t let go, Matt sighed. “You can have whatever weapon you have in your back pocket out if it’ll make you feel better.”

That was a mistake. 

The bruising grip became one so crushing that Matt swore he could hear the bone marrow in his wrist start to crack under the pressure. The guy leaned into Matt’s space, forcing Matt to take shallow breaths to avoid the awful smell.

But Matt could read between the lines, even through the pain.

‘How does he know?’ was the unspoken question.

“I can hear it hitting the chair when you move, that’s how I know you have one,” he hissed out quickly.

It was the closest to the truth that he was willing to go. If anyone learned about how well his senses were, there was a greater risk of someone connecting him back to Daredevil.

His smile was brittle, pain making it difficult to focus. “Besides, what person doesn’t have a weapon in Hell’s Kitchen?”

Thankfully, his attempt at humor paid off, because the presence moved away from him in disbelief. Matt could practically see the ‘is this guy serious?’ look that was no doubt being aimed at him. 

Neither moved from their position, waiting for the answer that would decide the direction the conversation would go.

Ba-dum.           Ba-dum.            Ba-dum.

He shifted forward, pulling the gun out from the back of his jeans and the safety switched off. The pressure on Matt’s wrist lessened enough that the bones weren’t in danger of being snapped, and he took that as his signal to reach for the card. His movements were slow and telegraphed in an exaggerated manner as he reached for the cards that were in the inner pocket of his jacket. 

Matt would have to admit, he was quite proud of the business cards. It had taken quite a bit of time to figure out the best look for the card, and both Foggy and Karen were a huge help in describing the designs to him when they were designing. They even went as far as to add the braille for Matt and any other visually-impaired clients.

But a business card wasn’t going to be enough to satisfy the level of paranoia he displayed, and Matt knew it.

“Go ahead. You can look us up if you’re still unsure,” he suggested easily.

It was a tactic Matt had learned long ago when dealing with uncooperative people. Always give the target the idea that they are in control, make them feel safe about the situation.

Matt cocked his head to the side, listening to the tap-tap-tap of the phone keyboard as he did just that. His heartbeat fluctuated, rising and and falling in speed like the waves of an ocean as he read whatever it was he was looking at. A small part of Matt was curious as to what he was reading.

Finally, there was the telltale click of the safety being switched on, and Matt let himself relax marginally. The gun was still out, but Matt was willing to take whatever victory he could get with the unknown.

“How did you know I can’t speak? There’s no way that priest saw my neck.”

And wasn’t that the question any sane person would ask if they were in the same situation. How does a guy who can’t see figure out that a guy can’t talk before any other person with sight?

He shifted uncomfortably. “My hearing is better than the average person.” He gestured to his ear. “Compensation for losing my eyes. I can…I could hear how your breathing sounds different, just like how I heard the gun hitting your seat when you moved. Father Lantom mentioned what you looked like, especially how distraught you looked. I just made some guesses from there.”

And yeah, he had been curious when he realized it, but that wasn’t what really drew Matt to him. 

“Those are some pretty good guesses for a lawyer.”

Even with the robotic voice of the phone, Matt couldn’t help but chuckle at the dry sarcastic energy it radiated. Rarely did he find people that matched his level of snark, the only one that came close was Jessica Jones; and for a brief moment, Matt wondered how the two would get along if they ever met. Probably like a house on fire, if he was being honest with himself. 

“Some would say that my lack of sight has made me more insightful,” he joked. Never mind the fact that he was the equivalent of a walking lie detector and bloodhound rolled into one.

A beat passed, and the tension flooded away as the joke was finally processed. His laugh sounded scratchy, the scarring in his throat making the air whistle as he exhaled. 

But Matt’s brows shot up as he kept laughing, and laughing, and laughing. Concern flooded through him; did he break the guy?

But then understanding washed over as the laughing dissolved into wretched sobs. He could taste the salt in the air from his tears and hear his lungs work overtime in an attempt to get some air into him as he gasped with each breath. The gun and phone slipped out of his hands as he hunched forward and buried his face into his hands, sobs muffled by the skin.

The hand Matt placed on his shoulder was meant to be a comforting one, but he retracted it the minute he felt the flinch. Instead, he sat close in a silent message of solidarity and comfort, because Matt got it. 

Human beings were social creatures by nature. When they see someone in pain, the first instinct is to go and comfort, to try and solve the problem. But not everyone wanted that. Some, like himself, wanted to be alone, wanted to simply let out that part of themselves free of judgment. He knew that sometimes the best thing was to just let it happen, but also be ready to support when needed.

He sat there for some time, listening until the sobs tapered off to shaky breaths with the occasional sniffle. 

“I don’t know your story.” Matt didn’t bother to acknowledge the breakdown, knowing that sometimes, acknowledging such a thing is like rubbing a salt in the wound. “And I’m not going to ask for it. But I’m willing to lend an ear to whatever is troubling you. Attorney-client confidentiality and all that.” 

In an attempt to lighten the mood, he lowered his glasses and winked before pulling them back with a smile.

The guy picked his phone back up and typed, “Does it get any better?”

Matt grimaced. The first instinct is to tell him that yeah, it’ll get better. But he's living, breathing proof that life isn’t as hopeful as the media makes it out to be. Life doesn’t just get better on its own; you have to make it better yourself, take the chances you come across and run with them. You have to fight for the good that you have, fight with every fiber of your being because it’s so, so worth it in the end. 

“That’s hard to say,” he sighed. “It’s not going to be the same ever again, I can tell you that much.”

“No shit.”

Matt has to bite back the grin at the sass.

“I’ve spent more years without sight than with it. But even then, there are still people that pity me,” he huffed. “It can be frustrating, because even though they mean well, it’s demeaning.”

In the beginning, he had gotten frustrated at the number of people that would try and steer him without his consent, would speak down to him as if he were a toddler rather than a kid. It’s why he started to hold himself with an air of confidence, posture straight and head held high. It’s why he wore now his suits, tie straight and hair styled. 

And when it all became too much, he took his frustrations out on the punching bags at Fogwell’s… and on the goons he came across in the alleys as the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen.

Hey, Matt never said his coping mechanisms were perfect, but they worked pretty well for him so far.

But even though he had spent many years blind, had grown used to it all, there has always been thought within him, one that he has kept tucked away in the deepest part of his heart under lock and key.

“And there are days where I wish I could see again.”

It was painful to admit. He still had days of jealousy, days where he wished he could see like the rest of the world for just one more day. When he had confessed such thoughts to Father Lantom, he had only shook his head.

“It’s not bad to think such a thing,” the priest told him. “It just means you’re human. And there’s nothing wrong with being human.”

“I wish I could see my friends’ faces, and I wish I could see the way New York has changed or the sky one more time. I used to think this a lot back when I first lost my sight, and I remember asking, ‘Why me?’”

Having his father had lessened the sting, because Matt always knew that the man had worked himself to the bone to give him the best care possible. He was one of the few that saw him struggle, and had been his personal cheerleader through the thick of it. Jack Murdock had been the one to encourage him to think with his head, not with his fists because he saw the fire that he had within him, saw how he was willing to push himself to attain his goals. His dad used to tell him that he was smart, that he was a diamond in the rough. 

But of course, the world had to take away the one pillar that Matt had. The gunshot, the feeling of the blood on his dad’s cooling face, all of it was burned into his mind. In one fell swoop, he had lost everything because his dad threw the boxing match to make Matt proud. And for that, he’d never forgive himself, no matter how many people told him otherwise.

When he had been dropped off at the orphanage, he had been so angry. He had lost his sight, and then God decided he needed to lose his dad as well? So yeah, he had asked that damning question often when he came to the orphanage.

“But Father Lantom once told me that God’s plan for us is like a tapestry, and only He could see the beautiful picture in its entirety. The tragedy of being human is that we only get to see the back, with all the ragged threads and muddy colors.”

The first time he had heard the metaphor, he had scoffed. But as he got older, the more he thought about it, it made sense. Each person was their own thread, their lives woven with dozens of others to create the picture of the world around them. But humanity only ever saw an infinitesimal fraction of the world, only met a small number of people. They couldn’t see the bigger picture, the ever-evolving story of life; they only saw it in the making, not what the parts of the universe that was, is, and will become.

“For the longest time, I focused on that muddy back, angry at the way God’s plan left me in the dark, both literally and figuratively. But now? After all the things I’ve experienced?” 

Matt leaned back against the pews as he thought about his life.

People came and went. His dad, Foggy, Karen, Elektra, Stick, the Defenders, Maggie, Father Lantom. Things happened. He lost his sight, he had his heart broken, he became a lawyer and saved those the world failed. He became a vigilante when the system failed. He saved the lives of dozens of people, and failed to save the lives of another dozen more. His world had burned down in a hellfire, but he rose from the ashes stronger than ever before.

“Now, when I look at the way my life has turned out now, I don’t think I can say I hate it as much as I used to. I’ve got friends that care about me, a job that I’m passionate about. And yeah, it was a struggle, it still is some days. But now I’m starting to understand the plans He had for me.”

Matt kicked his cane back into his waiting hand before he took it apart, knowing that whatever animosity between them had dissipated enough for him not to be perceived as a threat. The two of them sat there in the pews, stewing over his words before he finally got a response.

“How do I know what my purpose is?”

Internally, Matt winced. He sympathized with the guy, but there really was no straight answer to such a question. If the world were that simple, if everyone already knew their purpose, people wouldn’t have the drive to achieve. The world would be forever stagnant if no one tried to figure out their purpose.

“I can’t be the one to tell you that. It’s up to you to decide.”

“What if I have no purpose?”

A cold feeling settled in his gut. “Well, everyone has a purpose, otherwise you wouldn’t be here in the first place.”

“And if I’m not supposed to be here?”

The blood in Matt’s veins turned to ice, and he felt fear at the words. Somehow, even with the text-to-speech, the message radiated a sense of emptiness, like he had given up. Father Lantom had been right, he was lost, and Matt didn’t like the possible scenarios that were lined out in front of him. He gripped the guy’s shoulder tightly.

“You wouldn’t be here if you didn’t have a purpose.” He tried to move away, but Matt held tightly, forcing him to look him in the face. “Trust me. Dying isn’t the answer.”

When Matt was a kid, he had read The Odyssey because the nearby public library only had so many braille books. It was a fascinating story, but the part that still stuck out to Matt even years later had been the part with the sirens. Odysseus had wanted to hear the songs of the sirens, and had ordered his crew to tie him down and cover their ears so he could hear the song. It had driven him mad, and he begged them to let him go. 

The darkness was like the sirens. When Matt had been at lowest, those dark thoughts had been like a sweet and tempting call to him, singing to him to lay down and give up for good. The system had failed and Fisk had manipulated so many people, almost reclaiming his throne before Matt finally pushed him off his tower by threatening to get Vanessa arrested for the murder of Ray Nadeem, an FBI agent.

But that anger coupled with the support of Maggie and Father Lantom had been enough to keep him standing until he crossed paths with Foggy and Karen once more. They were hurt, yes, but like the bonds that tied Odysseus to the ship, they were another length of rope that stopped him from jumping into the ocean to join the call of the sirens of death.

“I thought what I was doing was right. But all I got in the end was a knife to the throat by the person I thought I could trust the most in order to save someone that deserved death,” was the response he got. “If that’s not my purpose, then what is?”

The cold feeling in his gut felt like a lead weight as he processed what was just said, and everything began to make sense. The ice in his veins vanished as his blood boiled at the realization of it all. 

This guy- no, this kid, because Father Lantom had guessed he was most likely in his mid-twenties- had his trust shattered by someone, and they had left him a broken husk with no voice to scream his injustices to the world, all for the sake of someone else. He couldn’t condone the kid’s desire for the death of someone else, but he would be a hypocrite if he were to say he had never wished something similar before.

But the fact remained, someone willingly did this to the person in front of Matt. Had willingly disabled him for the sake of another.

Matt itched to ask so many questions. What had he been trying to do? Who was the person that deserved death? 

Who had done the horrific act to him?

A friend? A partner? An ally?

…A family member?

His hands clenched tightly, and the urge to hunt down whoever did this to him burned hotter than anything Matt had felt before. But of course, he had no details of the incident, and prying would only chase the guy off.

Belatedly, he realized he had yet to give an answer. He worked his jaw as he tried to think of what to say.

“Again, I can’t give you that answer,” was his lackluster answer. “I don’t know you or what you’ve been through, but you’re hurt by the one who did this to you. You’re still hurting, you’re angry, and you have every right to be…”

Matt had been angry when he lost his sight. But in the end, it had been a freak accident. He had pushed the old man out of the way when the truck had lost control, but there hadn’t been any obvious ill-intent. Just an accident that changed him forever.

But the person in front of him had looked whoever it was in the eyes, someone he had trusted, and had his world crushed by them. Whoever they were, they no doubt had to have willingly and knowingly participated in the actions that took the man’s voice. There’s no other reason why the person in front of him would be so broken, questioning his purpose to a total stranger.

“But whoever they are, they don’t deserve you. If they were willing to put you before someone else, to permanently disable you as they did it, then to hell with them.”

You don’t keep those people- the ones willing to throw you under the bus- in your life unless you want to continuously be hurt.

The acrid smell crept back up, and Matt’s ears picked up the strangled breathing.

Ba-dum.  Ba-dum.  Ba-dum.

Matt cursed in his head as he realized he might just have pushed a bit too much.  Spiraling was a terrible experience, and Matt needed to pull him out of those thoughts before they consumed him.

“Don’t let your purpose be tied to someone else,” he whispered with fervor. “Think about what you wanted before, and what you want now. Don’t think of whatever this person wanted from you.”

Whoever they were, they had to have been close to him in order to break him so thoroughly.

Matt listened in silence as the guy contemplated. His hand never left the shoulder, acting as a grounding presence for him. He heard his nail idly tapping against the phone as he thought.

“I don’t know what I want,” He finally typed. 

Matt’s heart ached a bit as he squeezed his shoulder. “Then it looks like you have some thinking to do.”

Like he told him before, the only one that can figure out his purpose was himself. 

The person slumped forward in a way that only meant one thing: he was drained. The rosary, which had fallen to the floor at some point, was picked up. Matt could hear the way the beads shifted as shaky hands cradled it with a sort of reverence that spoke of a history between him and the object.

Sensing the conversation was about to reach its conclusion, Matt grabbed his cane and snapped it back together. “No one can tell you what to do with your life. People can help you, guide you, tell you what to do, but at the end of the day, you have the final decision about everything.” 

He stood and turned towards the guy, hands folded on top of his cane. 

“You have to make the life you want. The world can’t give it to you.”

It’s a lesson Matt has told clients before, one he had personally experienced a dozen times over. And now once more, he was imparting the same advice onto the poor soul in front of him. 

As much as he wanted to help him, Matt knew there was only so much he could do. You can give every bit of yourself to help someone, but at the end of the day, that person can only change if they are willing to pick themselves up by the bootstraps and worked for it. He’s said his piece, and he hoped that the guy will take his advice. 

One hand trailed over the wood of the pews as he made his way past the other person. He could feel his eyes on him as he walked towards the door, but a thought forced himself to pause from where he was about to open the door.

“You survived, you have a second chance. You’re angry, yes, but that’s good. It means you have some fire left in you. Take that and figure out who you are… but just be careful not to let yourself burn out, okay?”

Matt knew anger like no one else. In fact, his grandmother used to have a saying about the Murdock boys:

Be careful with them Murdock boys. They got the Devil in them.

The Devil was that anger. It was that fire that forced him to get up and fight back at the injustices of the world. It produced a high like no other, made him feel invincible, like he could take on a dozen thugs at once. But it was also deadly. It clouded the mind and burnt the soul away until exhaustion and emptiness took its place. 

Anger was good, yes, but being angry all the time was a recipe for catastrophe. He had learned his lesson a long time ago that anger wasn’t always the answer.

He hoped that his words were making a difference. He’d hate to see someone else go down the same destructive path he almost went down.

Matt looked back and aimed a reassuring grin in the direction of that slow heartbeat as he opened the door. “I know I just met you, but I can tell you’re a fighter. I’m positive you can find yourself.

“And who knows? If you’re still in the Kitchen by the time you do, feel free to give me a call. I’d like to share a drink with you when that day comes.”

As the door closed behind him, Matt prayed to God that that day would eventually come, that He'd give the guy strength to continue to fight for another day. He could see himself in the kid. Angry and brash, but willing to fight back, if the scars were anything to go by. Matt could only imagine what changes he could make when he finally found his purpose, and he hoped he could be privy to the knowledge.

Hurried footsteps approached him, snapping Matt out of his reverie, and he was quickly engulfed in a hug by Maggie. He grunted as the pain in his ribs decided to re-announce its presence, and she quickly let go

“Are you alright?” she whispered to him. Her hands roved over him, checking for injuries. Matt pulled the hands away and held them between his own.

“I’m fine, my rib was already cracked from last night,” he reassured her. “Why don’t you walk me to the cross-walk if you’re so concerned?”

He held out his arm, and Maggie looped her own through it before guiding the two of them. Matt kept his cane close to his body as they leisurely walked down the busy sidewalks.

“Are you okay?” she asked again. “I was so worried when I saw him holding you like that.”

“I’m fine,” he told her again. “I had it handled.”

“Matthew.” Her voice wavered slightly. “That man wasn’t normal.”

“I know.” The heartbeat, the smell, the strength.

“No, Matthew. His eyes were glowing.”

Matt cocked his head to the side. “Glowing?”

The fabric of her habit swished as she nodded. “They were a bright green, an inhuman, radioactive green. I was so worried he was going to hurt you.”

Or kill, was the unspoken half.

“I’m fine,” he reassured her. “Besides, we live in a world where aliens exist, and people with superpowers walk down the streets everyday. So what if his eyes glowed? That’s nothing compared to the things we’ve seen. I’m a big boy, I can deal with being manhandled a little.”

Maggie let out a noise of consternation, and Matt could feel the weight of her stare. “What did he want anyways?”

Matt shrugged. “He just needed someone to talk to, and I gave him some advice.”

When they got to the crosswalk, Maggie let out a long sigh. “Every day I worry about you, Matthew. You need to be careful.”

Matt had to bite his tongue to prevent himself from snapping at her. A part of him wanted to tell her off; she hadn’t been there for most of his life, had kept the connection between them a secret, so she had no right to try and mother him now. But the rational part of him reigned in that temper, reminding himself that she was only doing it because she cared.

“I know, and I will. I promise. Cross my heart.” He adjusted the cane and pressed the walk button.

Maggie didn’t seem fully mollified, but she nodded her head nonetheless. “Then that’s all I can ask.” 

She reached out and readjusted his tie before smoothing out the wrinkles in his jacket. Then she turned and left. Matt listened to her steps fade as she made her way back to the church. The crosswalk beeped, signaling it was safe to cross, and Matt tapped his cane from side to side as he crossed. It wasn’t until he was halfway back to their temporary office above Nelson’s Meats that Matt had a sudden realization that almost made him stop in his tracks.

He never got the guy’s name.

But as the warm rays of sun reflected off his sunglasses and the sounds of the world around him came together to create the familiar symphony of Hell’s Kitchen, Matt didn’t find himself concerned. Instead, he smiled as he navigated through the familiar streets.

He was positive that they would meet again.

After all, the Lord worked in mysterious ways.