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Chapter Text

Matt Murdock didn't have anything against mice. He'd never been personally harrassed by one, but he understood the need to get rid of them. One easily turned into a dozen and with all the mess and digging into food, eviction was necessary. Despite how many rodents he heard daily, it wasn't something he thought about. The only reason mice were on his mind now was because one had moved in under his floorboards, and he could hear it moving around as he laid in bed.

Now, like he said, Matt didn't have anything against mice.

Scrtch-scrtch-tick.

This one, however, was pushing its luck.

It showed up one night, moving in when he was out vigilante-ing and he only noticed the next day. At first, he didn't care. It was alone and hadn't yet realized there was food in his apartment. He had other, more pressing issues than a single mouse. It was a benign little thing - hardly a problem. Most nights, he could ignore the pitter-pattering and scraping or put in his noise-canceling earbuds.

Tonight, the mouse was too loud for earbuds. As he tossed and turned, Matt fumed, wondering what that rodent could possibly be up to. Rearranging furniture? Fuck, it sounded like it. Little mouse furniture.

Enough was enough. Matt threw a pillow at the floor and told the thing to shut up. To his surprise, it did. Matt sighed and finally went to sleep.

From that night on, he noticed a drastic decline in his downstairs neighbour's noise pollution.

How silly it was, Matt thought during a good mood, holding a grudge toward an animal. Especially one that was polite enough to let him sleep in peace.

Oh, how naïve he was.

The mouse quickly reinstated its grudge status when Matt noticed things going missing. It started with the bagels - a hole in the bag he noticed because the scent of bagel was particularly strong. Upon investigation, he discovered there was a complete lack of crumbs. And a chunk discreetly chewed from the middle. From there, things escalated. He smelled the shift in the air, smelled the remnants of another living being in his apartment. Little objects went missing - things even a seeing person might miss. But not Matt Murdock.

The sock was the last straw.

"What's the best bait for mouse traps?" Matt asked as soon as he entered the office.

"Cheese?" Foggy answered, confused. "Why? Do you have mice?"

"One. One mouse."

"How d- nevermind. Let me guess - you can't sleep."

"It's taking my stuff."

Foggy laughed. Karen huffed.

"At least tell me you're using non-lethal," said Karen. Upon his silence, she aww'd sadly. "Matt, no. It's just a mouse. You can't kill it."

"They're pests," said Foggy.

"But they're so cute. It just wants a place to live."

"Karen-" started Matt.

"No, no, she's got a point." Foggy spun his chair around. "Matt, you can't kill it! So cute and fuzzy!"

The lawyer-by-day, vigilante-by-night groaned. "Fine, I won't. Just stop looking at me like that."

"Like what?"

"Foggy, I can feel your eyes fake-tearing up."

Matt bought some glue traps and baited them with peanut butter. When Karen told him glue traps were worse - "They're so inhumane, Matt!" - he assured her that he'd know when the mouse got stuck; it wouldn't suffer. As much as the thing annoyed him, Karen was right: he wasn't going to abandon his no-killing rule for one mouse. (One mouse that must have a vendetta against him. He would not stoop to its level.) What kind of hypocrite would he be, huh?

The traps were set. Now to wait.

And wait.

A week passed. No mouse was caught. When he listened to its movement, he realized it was avoiding the spots he'd trapped. Avoiding the usual routes.

Smart. For a rodent. But Matt was smarter.

More traps, different bait. Traps disguised as the food and objects he'd noticed go missing, even the mate to his missing sock. It couldn't resist now.

Days passed.

Evidently, it could resist.

Foggy teased him about being outsmarted by an animal. Karen was on the mouse's side. Somebody must've told Jessica because he got a condescending text offering her services. Traitors, every one of them.

It all came to a head one terrible Friday night. Matt was already in a bad mood when he got home from work but going out, hearing and feeling New York City, pushed him over the edge. He was annoyed, his brain was overstimulated, and he just wanted to rest. The rooftop access door shut behind him and he threw his helmet into its trunk, about to shed the rest when the distinct sound of scratching and plastic crinkling in the kitchen cupboard caught his ear.

Matt stilled. It was here.

He marched with purpose toward the sounds.

That little bastard wasn't getting away this time. Catching it would be a satisfying end to a crappy day.

The mouse started fleeing before he was even close. It was headed for the other end of the cupboards - a hole in the floor Matt wasn't aware of but now could sense the air flowing from within. He'd have to seal that in the mor-

Mice didn't run on two legs.

Matt cocked his head, listening to the pattern of footfalls. He'd never cared to pay attention, but now it was impossible to miss. He knew what scurrying rodents sounded like. Whatever was in his kitchen, it was no rodent. It was bipedal. A bird? No, not with that speed. Not with that gait. He needed a closer examination.

Matt threw open the cupboard door. The first thing to hit his senses was the scent of corn chips.

The second was the heartbeat.

The creature's heart pounded swiftly in its chest. Air rushed from a mouth that was too upright for any kind of animal, a nose too humanlike. Small shoes hit the baseboard as it ran. Fabric rustled the same way he heard every single day in the street - like clothing.

Matt got lower, needing to be closer, needing to examine this little anomaly. How it moved, how it sounded, how uncannily familiar it was.

The living shape that his senses created was so alike to people that he was too shocked to outwardly react.

The little thing escaped into the floor, and Matt Murdock was left crouching there. Slowly, he shut the door. He took off the suit, dressed his wounds, and went to bed, his mind racing.

His body was exhausted, but he couldn't sleep. Not when he was tracking the creature's movements. Every scrape, every soft thud of a step, the whisper-

Whispering?

"You're fine. He didn't see you. There's no way…"

Whispering. Okay.

Matt pretended he didn't hear anything and put in his earbuds. That was a tomorrow-Matt problem.

Unfortunately for tomorrow-Matt, another problem knocked on his door first. That problem rhymed with Stank Hassle and didn't like to be ignored. Frank did offer coffee when they left so at least it wasn't a total bust. It was a good opportunity to get Matt out of his head; to get a clear perspective of the night before. Matt decided he was exhausted and hallucinating. The alternative was a tiny person living in the walls of his apartment. Delusion was easier.

Delusion was also what kept the borrower from abandoning the apartment altogether.

Call them stubborn, or stupid, but Finch didn't want to leave. Borrowers could only get so lucky. Landing a decent apartment with an oblivious bean was a rare opportunity, and Finch had no intention of giving it up. They would use this good fortune. Even if they didn't deserve it.

Finch shook off the guilt following that thought.

They spent the first week setting up: finding a place to sleep and tidying it up, living off the rations they packed. They got a lay of the land, surveying the apartment and its infrastructure. The excessively bright billboard directly in front of the living room window, the kitchen, and - most importantly - the bean. Light - or lack thereof - was never an issue for him. Not once did he flip a switch or so much as use his phone, which read texts aloud to him. He hardly looked at whatever claimed his attention. Everything added up to limited vision, but they couldn't be sure. It was safest not to risk any assumptions.

Evidence pointed to some damn good hearing when Finch was carving planks of wood out of the floor's innards. They were minding their own business, content with their repetitive, calming task, when something large and loud impacted the ceiling a dozen paces away.

The borrower nearly jumped out of their overalls, giving a startled squeak.

"Shut up," yelled the muffled voice above.

Pretending their soul wasn't just violently expelled from their body, Finch smoothed down their curly brown hair and exhaled shakily, making a mental note to postpone noisy work till the bean was away.

And they did good on that: when the bean was home, Finch completed the quieter, slower tasks. They thought they'd discovered the formula for living under the radar, satisfied to have found a routine that worked.

Then the traps appeared. Finch cursed their luck. The jig was up. The bean set up gross glue traps in outer access points, a couple even getting to the paths Finch took. Finch avoided them and laid low for a bit, hoping the lack of activity would convince the bean they'd skipped town. But more traps appeared. Smart ones, too - they almost fell for a couple. Now, Finch knew a thing or two about a thing or two. They made new routes and took extra care when borrowing. They even started mapping paths to the apartments below. Despite their small stature, Finch had a lot of room for determination. After a life of sticking their hand in the fire, they learned to take the heat. If the bean wanted them gone, he'd have to try a lot harder.

Night fell. The bean was gone. He followed routines - ones he scarcely strayed from. It would be hours before his return.

Finch made their way to the kitchen. They pushed up the trapdoor and strolled through the cupboard. They still had to be careful: just because the human wasn't home didn't mean they could throw all caution to the wind. Leaving evidence was a massive negatory. Finch didn't care for stupid rules, but the rules of borrowing were locked in their brain. They were already careless with the bagels, something they couldn't afford again. Desperation wasn't an excuse for sloppy borrowing - not when it exposed them.

Finch observed the boxes and containers around them, reading labels and calculating risk and reward. There was no chance of getting into that cereal box, but the nutrition bars would be a good grab. The box was short and already open. Finch pushed a can of tuna against it and hopped on. They began extracting a bar only to realize they had no way of getting something so large home without a sled.

"No, that'd be too easy." With a huff, Finch dropped it and shoved the can back into place. "'cause food can never be-" plastic crinkled under their foot "-easy?" Finch inspected the blue packaging. It was an open bag of tortilla chips. They grinned.

The scent of corn chips filled the space as Finch unfurled the bag. They dropped their backpack and started breaking the triangular chips into smaller pieces. Salt-free, too? Hell, yes. They tested the backpack's weight, put a bit more inside, then pulled the strings tight. They slung the strap across their chest. Oh, yeah, this would last them a good while. Finch fought with the chip bag, trying to roll the top underneath like it was before.

"Come on. Stupid fuckin'-" They tried to simultaneously lift the heavy bag and pull the other end.

Over the sounds of plastic popping and crackling in their ears, Finch didn't hear a door open and shut.

DOOM.

They did, however…

DOOM.

…feel the approaching footsteps of the human bean.

Finch froze. Blue eyes snapped wide open, their head flinching away from the plastic. It couldn't be...

Finch bolted.

He's supposed to be out why is he back-

DOOM.

They didn't need to know why he was back - just that he was and he was approaching at an alarming rate.

DOOM.

Oh, fuck, that's actually really close-

The doors ripped open. The hinges didn't even get a chance to squeak.

Finch stumbled. Air caught in their throat. For a moment, Finch was rooted to the floor. Just a moment. Long enough to see the human's form towering beyond the counter, covered in some kind of dark red leather. Long enough to see boots more than capable of squishing the life out of them.

Legs like fenceposts bent as the human came unbelievably closer. Closer than Finch had ever been to a bean. A giant face suspended above them, features blank and expressionless. Not once did the bean look at them.

Finch ran. They didn't look back. When they reached the hole in the floor, they plugged it up and kept going. Keep running.

Only when they reached the safety of their shelter did they falter.

"Oh, shit," they gasped, resting their weight on a nearby post. If their heart didn't outright stop, they were sure it might burst from their ribcage. Finch felt that exploding was a reasonable response. "He didn't see me." The scene replayed in their mind, over and over like a glitched tape. "I'm fine. You're fine. He didn't see you. There's no way he saw you. Just breathe."

Delusion, like they said. It was a powerful thing. It pulled many tricks on the mind. Like convincing oneself that they weren't discovered.

The apartment was quiet. Too quiet, one might even say, if they weren't one Matt Murdock. He never got that phrase. Nothing was 'too quiet'. In his - correct - opinion, nothing was quiet enough. There was always something creaking, breathing, or thumping, even in the smallest hours of the night. But on some front he had to agree: there was a suspicious lack of activity from the critter in the floor lately. Reluctant as he was to admit it, he couldn't deny that it wasn't an animal. Animals didn't mutter to themselves, in full sentences, in English. He wasn't mentally, emotionally, or spiritually prepared to assess beyond whatever that meant. In the moments his mind wandered, however - such as now, sitting and listening to a recording for his current case - he found himself pondering the tiny being regardless.

The peace wasn't an accident. Finch had been avoiding that place, giving themself and the air time to settle. They continued work on their residence, slotting together panels of wood and cardboard to form walls. One room would do for now - they just needed protection from the elements and potential scavengers slinking around. Skies above, if a cockroach tried anything, it was next on the menu. Grind up the little fucker into a smoothie. Finch wished a bug would: it'd be miles better than those godforsaken tortilla chips. Finch gave the wood posts they'd just secured a good push, nodding in satisfaction and moving on to the wall. It would be the last one to seal up their box of a house.

Four days. It'd been four days since Finch was nearly discovered; four days since they stared a bean in the face and got away unscathed. Four days since they got an answer to what they'd only suspected: the human couldn't see. That explained the brilliantly bright billboard, the sensitive hearing, the lack of lights - it explained a lot. Finch had to re-evaluate their approach to borrowing. This human would be extra careful about his possessions - the sock was proof enough - and notice what was out of place. In some ways, this both simplified and complicated things.

But borrowers were nothing if not adaptable.

Finch ventured up to a peephole in the wall and looked out. Nothing had changed except the bean now sitting at the dining table, papers and an electronic box neatly laid out on the tabletop. Casually dressed, he was listening to… a podcast? No, too personal. Finch liked podcasts. There was a crime involved, but this sounded like a conversation Finch would overhear more than something designed to entertain. So this bean worked in solving crimes. A detective?

They listened to the dry as hell audio a scant longer before growing bored and moving on. Hey, at least the bean was preoccupied.

Naturally, they found themself puttering toward the kitchen. Wielding two bent nails tied to their belt, Finch climbed up the cupboard door, using hinges and decorative bevels alike to hoist themself up. Those bagels were good. Were there any left? Nothing but corn chips really wore down a person's capacity to give a damn. They perused the counter, confident that the bean was sufficiently distracted by his work. Finch was disappointed to find the bagels sealed in an airtight container. It was their own fault, slicing up the bag so messily. They pulled a face and resumed their search.

A plate of mostly-eaten pasta sat before them. Fuck yes! Finch scuttled to it, pulling out rolls of tinfoil from their bag. Careful to avoid crinkling, they gathered up all the leftover noodles and sauce that would fit.

Finch squirreled away their haul, licking their fingers clean of evidence and ignorant of the man listening to their heist just a few metres away.

Matt stopped paying attention to the tape some time ago.

The sounds of Hell's Kitchen couldn't drown out the little inhabitant in his walls. A scent had blown into the room, vaguely familiar with hints of tortilla chip. He sat straighter and listened, idly shuffling papers and tip-tapping his fingers on the table. He found himself unable to be anything other than impressed as they scaled his counter like a mountain climber. Whatever was left from dinner became his visitor's latest plunder. That was fine; less waste, right?

He was disappointed when they returned to the walls. He wound back the recording to get some work done, but found himself consistently distracted by his small neighbour's goings-on. This discovery was just so unique, so strange - how could he not be curious? He heard them venture out again, across the apartment now. Into his bedroom. What could they be doing?

Oho, if Matt found any more socks missing-

He turned in his seat, about to rise, when he heard:

"You hafta to be shittin' me."

The voice, quiet in size only and bold beyond that, was the mildly annoyed tone of someone who'd been inconvenienced. Matt had heard it before, in the late hush of the night, when no one else would. Muttered curses and remarks that blended into the creaking and groaning of buildings and chatter and sirens of the city. One voice that Matt Murdock had tried very hard not to think too much about.

"When is enough too much, huh?" the voice griped. "Does he think I'm just gonna lay on one? 'Oh, felt silly today, stepped on the massive rug of glue.' How 'bout I drag this onto your floor, see how you feel walkin' in a minefield?" They growled. "UGH. Beans."

Well.

There was no denying it anymore, was there? A tiny person was living in the walls of Matt's apartment.

Matt leaned back, processing. He'd tried ignoring it - for the sake of his mental health and faith - because it was insane. It was impossible. It shouldn't be.

And yet…

Matt wanted - needed - to investigate further.

He got up, quietly, light on his feet. He didn't make it two steps before he heard a swear and the tiny person retreated once more. Into an electrical outlet, by the sounds of it.

Hm. He couldn't sneak up on them - not this time. They heard him- no. Matt quirked his head, considering. They felt him approaching. Like Matt, they could feel vibrations. Vibrations that alerted them of a threat. It only made sense.

Heh, 'threat'. Regular ol' Matt Murdock was the threat this time, not his alter ego. Wasn't that something?

The next time Matt encountered his new neighbour, he was trying - and failing - to fall asleep. There was too much on his mind for sleep. Frustrated, he huffed and flopped over, restless, his thoughts racing. Sounds of the city were extra distracting tonight. He considered getting up and making a cup of tea - maybe that would calm his mind.

Noises from the kitchen drew his scattered focus. He sat up, listening to the scuffing and tapping that he'd come to recognize as his uninvited houseguest. Three visits in one day. Were they always this proactive? Well, he did interrupt their attempted heist of his bedroom. Matt scooted to the edge of the bed. He would make that tea, actually. As he stood, he remembered sneaking didn't work last time. Right. Heavy-footed. However, he had a hunch that this attempt would yield a sneakier result.

Aided by socks, Matt softly padded through his apartment. Tiny - the name he assigned his little visitor - was fiddling with some kind of packaging on the top shelf. And as he got closer, lo and behold, they did not startle. His theory was correct: the further Tiny was from the floor, the weaker their pallesthesia became. Their ability to detect vibrations just wasn’t as sensitive as his own. Once he stepped foot into the kitchen, Matt dropped the Daredevil act and let himself be known. He grabbed a mug and turned on the kettle. Tiny's pulse quickened; their breath hitched. He gave them time to hide before he opened the cupboard for a tea bag. He quickly realized the box wasn't in its usual spot - his own doing, unfortunately.

"Stupid tea bags," he muttered for Tiny's sake; an 'I'm not looking for you, I swear!' assurance as he searched the cabinets. For extra sauce, he added, "Always misplacing them."

Would he forgo tea? He did start the kettle… as much as he got a kick out of playing the part of oblivious blind guy, causing Tiny undue terror wasn't his end goal. He wanted to test them, their cockiness, not scare them. Tiny may be a thief, but they were just trying to survive. Why else was food their number one haul? Matt dedicated his life to helping people in need. Wasn't Tiny part of that demographic? Weren't they someone in need? Unless small people were running drug cartels and trafficking rings, Tiny was innocent.

Doubt and guilt crept in. Maybe he was pushing the bit too far.

Matt was just about to get up and leave when something square and coarse pressed into his fingers.

He faltered, then pinched it, rubbing his thumb over the material. Its strong, earthy scent gave it away.

A tea bag.

Small shoes lightly retreated. Matt withdrew his hand. He held the sachet of dried herbs, cogs turning in his mind. He tilted his head.

Tiny handed him a tea bag. That…

Matt found himself puzzled and oddly touched. It was for their own good, to avoid getting found, but he couldn't not appreciate the nice gesture. He easily smelt where the tea was, of course. But Tiny didn't know that. Huh.

Maybe he was being too harsh about the sock.

The kettle's bubbling pitch rose to a squeal. Wincing, Matt shut it off. He dropped the tea bag into the mug and poured steaming water over it.

What a strange experience. He wondered what Tiny was thinking. Their heartbeat eased into the fluttering pace that he learned was its resting rate. It was the trait that had him most convinced his roommate was a rodent of some sort, though the way they squeaked when startled was a close second.

Matt threw out the tea bag and took the mug to his room, leaving Tiny to their task.

The next day, he casually slipped questions about tiny people into a conversation with Foggy. (It was not casual and quite random, actually.)

"You mean, like… fairies?" Foggy cautiously asked.

Sort of? Matt didn't know whether Tiny could be considered a fairy. They certainly didn't seem like the fairy type, not with the kind of language he heard them utter. Did fairies say 'fuck'? Would that break some kind of fairy law?

Karen told him about a book series that she'd been obsessed with as a kid: it contained many smaller magical beings. Brownies, for instance. Matt settled on definitely not that one. What favours was he receiving? Aside from the tea bag - an isolated incident - absolutely none.

Matt wasn't convinced they were a magical creature. Really, they just… seemed like a normal person, albeit smaller. They hummed to themself, snickered at their own dumb jokes, and swore a hot streak that would impress even Castle and Jones. Matt was pretty damn sure they'd been building a house under his floor, though he noticed all the loud busywork was put on pause when he was home, most notably when he was sleeping. Another nice gesture that was also for their own self-preservation.

Maybe they were a mutant. Or maybe they were mutated, like him.

When Matt got home, he discarded the glue traps. It felt wrong to leave them now that he knew it was a person he'd been trying to catch. Guilty, he started leaving crumbs in easy-to-reach locations. It wouldn’t hurt him any - his grocery budget wasn’t gonna tank because of some scraps. If chips and leftovers were what they were after, then they had free reign over the countertop. That didn’t stop him from being cheeky about it, though - if Tiny was getting confident, he might as well play along.

He found Tiny’s courage something to marvel at. Roaming a giant’s home? Without fear? His vigilante persona was literally named Daredevil and he was impressed.

However, bravery and foolishness were not mutually exclusive. That’s when the cockiness came in.

Matt was minding his business, washing the dishes, when Tiny wandered out. Brows hitching up, he continued sponging the plate. Surely, they wouldn't-

Oh, but they did.

Unwavering, Tiny climbed up the counter they same way as before. They walked up to the pan on the stove and hooked a leg over. Matt fought hard not to chuffle. This was getting out of hand. Matt remembered an adage about not feeding animals or else they'd grow dependent. Had Matt inadvertently done exactly that? Animals that were accustomed to people often didn't see the danger. Tiny was certainly no animal, but the absence of caution they displayed in the moment was, frankly, ridiculous. It was a massive leap from the times they would flee his presence. He was starting to think he'd played too ignorant.

A smirk tugged at his lips upon hearing the leftover eggs being pilfered. When he turned to fetch the pan, Tiny was already hopping to the floor and disappearing behind the fridge.

Stealing right behind his back. When was enough too much, indeed.

Chapter Text

Finch didn't consider how they survived ‘stealing’. It was borrowing - they only took what they needed; what wouldn't be missed. Finch didn't borrow with malevolence. Well, not much, anyway - it was easy to resent the humans that had so much while borrowers struggled. And there were definitely things a borrower didn't need to survive, per se, but dammit, couldn't a person want nice things? The beans wouldn't miss a strip of fabric or the odd bauble. It would go to good use, anyway!

It was laughably easy to borrow from this bean. Finch was reasonably cautious in the beginning, but they quickly learned that they could get away with a lot. Borrowing food in the same room? Easy squeezy, done and did. The only threat was making too much noise, but Finch padded the soles of their boots so that was a great big non-issue.

Was Finch balancing too close to the proverbial ledge? Oh, yeah.

Were they gonna keep doing it? Oh, yeah. The adrenaline rush was crazy.

What reason had they to stop? The bean wasn't aware of them and got rid of the traps - Finch must've been doing something right. They were on the hottest borrowing streak in their life. Now, obviously, they didn't take too much, but Finch wasn't worried about their next meal and that was every borrower's goal. An honest-to-dirt stock of food. Finch got so lucky with this place.

The tell-tale guilt came back. Faces flooded their mind: faces they were supposed to protect and cowardly abandoned. The grating snarl of grinding metal, of brick and wood falling and the screams-

Finch snatched up their thimble bucket. Shower, they decided. It was time for a shower.

Later when Finch went out, there were strawberries on the counter. Fucking strawberries. How could they resist? Sure, the human was right there, but when would Finch get another opportunity like this?

The human's name was Matt. Finch overheard it from a phone call with another man. 'Froggy', they believed that one was called. A bean with a proper name.

Finch crept into the open, not bothering with that time-consuming ducking and hiding nonsense. His back was turned. Voices from the radio filled the apartment. Finch had the advantage. It was fine. It was fine. Hairs on the back of their neck stood on end and their nape vaguely prickled. A borrower's warning system, triggered by a bean's proximity, and just another sense to bombard their brain with information.

Was the man's head twitching their imagination?

Finch reached the countertop and grabbed a strawberry. They backpedaled. For such a large being, he moved with such ease and speed. It was easy to forget how big a human was till they were in the same room. Finch stuffed the strawberry in their bag and climbed down. They took a final peek at the bean before slipping into the crack behind the fridge.

Finch was learning how much they could get away with. They were testing the waters. Taking food right out from under his nose? Oh-ho, no other borrower would dare. But Finch did. They froze, statuesque, when he moved around the apartment. A dangerous but thrilling game of lights on-lights out. He lumbered and stomped like one of those gigantic movie monsters that terrorized cities. His steps shook the floor, even when Finch was safe in their shack under it. And when Finch was above... they could feel their bones rattle with each thundering impact. The random smirks he sometimes wore were unsettling. Like he was sharing a private joke with himself. Finch tried not to think about it.

Matt was making tea.

Matt. It felt odd not referring to him as simply 'the bean'. A name was personal; it was a connection. It was unsettling.

Matt was making tea. Finch wanted one of those sugar cubes, normally sealed in a jar with a lid too heavy to even consider lifting. They peeked out from behind the fridge. The bea- Ma- he was standing there with a kettle, pouring water into a tall mug. Finch swallowed. If they were human, he would be one of those skyscrapers that reached for the clouds.

He turned around. Finch jogged to the discrete handholds they'd made in the side of the counter. Even a sighted bean wouldn't notice the indents - they made sure of that. Finch had yet to make the same accessibility for the island, but it was top of the to-do list. They climbed, unable to see the bean. They heard crinkling.

When Finch peeked over the countertop, a sleeve of cookies was in the bean's grasp. Finch's vision tunneled. Damn. Fresh cookies…

No, stop, bad! Get the cube, get out. You have food at home.

Finch pulled themself up and over the edge. They watched the bean closely, looking out for sudden movements or changes on his face. The open jar stood between themself and Matt.

Easy. No problem. Just don't make a sound and everything will be fine.

The bean in question was fighting to contain his astonishment.

Matt's intrigue piqued. Tiny was getting braver. With every moment spent in his presence, they grew more confident. It nearly drew a chuckle out of him. Tiny was cocky - cocky that they were getting away with all this, and that he remained ignorant during their escapades. That's why he could only sense a bare trace of fear on them: they were underestimating him. They were assuming a blind man couldn't possibly know when someone was stealing food and office supplies right under his nose, even making a ladder in his furniture. That was vandalism. Matt tracked Tiny's soft steps on the countertop, closer and closer, as he placed a few cookies on a plate. Did they think he was that oblivious? Matt was honestly a little offended.

He wondered how far they would go if he kept up the act.

He walked away - suddenly, he needed something from the fridge - and they took the opportunity to scale the jar and snatch a sugar cube. He heard shuffling fabric as they stored it somewhere - it seemed to be a mini duffel bag. They paused next to the plate of cookies and walked away with a sharp exhale. Tempted, but deciding they didn't want to risk it. Priorities.

Matt returned to fish out the teabag. Tiny froze. A fawn response. Matt was familiar with it. It never worked. This time, though… he let it slide. He felt bad scaring the little guy. Then again, they had the audacity to steal right in his face. A little surprise would be good for that ego they were sporting.

Tiny snuck away, down their makeshift ladder and into the floor once more. He heard the release of breath followed by a relieved giggle. Alright, it was kind of endearing, letting them get away with shit. Matt would never deny his soft spot for those in need. Matt allowed himself a secret smile. He broke a piece off a cookie and dropped it next to the fridge. He didn't know there were so many weak points in his apartment. He should probably get that checked out.

Despite cleaning up the glue traps, there was one the bean forgot about. Maybe there were others. Maybe it was intentional - awfully convenient that it was in a spot Finch rarely traveled by, and also very conveniently below a drop with poor visibility.

How did Finch know this?

They were stuck in the damn thing, that's how.

"No, no, fuck," they hissed, lifting either leg. The glue was unfairly strong and the edge too far. They didn't have any rope to throw. The nails that Finch climbed with were useless, and the rubber bands tied around those too pliant for any length.

Regardless, Finch detached the rubber bands from their belt. Clutching them tight, Finch threw a bent nail at the edge of the trap. The metal recoiled and dragged straight into the glue. Finch swore a vehement streak. They tugged, but the elastic had zero resistance. It was stuck just the same as Finch. Their single remaining nail burned like a rod of fire in their clammy palm. They desperately searched for some kind of ledge. Furious tears shone in their eyes.

When they'd dropped down and felt the floor squish under their feet, they were merely annoyed. Then they heaved and pried and pulled till sweat coated their face and the severity of the situation dawned on them. They were stuck. They hadn't felt so helpless since that building came down. That fucking building. Anger rolled in their gut for being so careless and stupid and not trying hard enough.

The glue was like one of those tar pits they'd heard about: the ones that trapped mammoths and dinosaurs and preserved their remains. Finch had never seen a fossil. To humans, dinosaurs were the titans that walked the earth. Finch would've liked to see a skeleton of a creature to earn that title.

Finch was going to die here. The human had doomed them. Really, how long would it be until he remembered the trap existed? If he remembered it existed. Finch always pictured a brave or exciting end: eaten by a bird, in battle against a rat or spider, run over by a car. Here, slowly wasting away... hm. Acceptance washed over them.

Time passed. Not once did their grip on that nail loosen. They could do nothing but think and wait and wait and think. Every choice and regret hit them in succession. Was their life flashing before their eyes? It felt far longer than a flash.

Finch was replaying their biggest regret on loop when the front door shutting knocked them out of it. Oh, goodie, the orchestrator of their demise was home from work. Abruptly, Finch realized they never got to try one of those cookies.

Something was different when Matt got home.

He couldn't put his finger on it. He put his cane away and shrugged off his jacket. There had been a tangible shift in the atmosphere. Wary, Matt walked around and scanned his apartment. No new scents - nobody had broken in. Matt tried to ignore it and spread out the papers from their case on the table. He was trying to take his dedication to his job seriously this time - letting Karen and Foggy down again wasn't something he could stomach. Foggy, especially, had hurt too much to bear.

Matt was too distracted. Finally, he realized what was wrong.

Tiny was silent.

It wasn't uncommon - there was the odd time they went down to another apartment, a result of Matt lacking in the goods department. Nothing worrying.

Suspicious, Matt did another sweep. No, he found. Tiny was still here. They were... quiet. Not moving. Somewhere under the stairs to the roof. Their heartrate was elevated. Their breaths were quick, stuttering, with an undercurrent of sniffles. They sounded all too much like someone Matt wouldn't second guess saving out on the street.

Tiny grunted under strain. There was a strange noise under their feet, like mud.

Matt jolted as if electrocuted. He forgot a trap.

What followed was Matt lunging for the loose floorboard. He tried to estimate how long they'd been stuck. Since he left this morning? The pungent scent of glue wisped into the air and guilt twisted inside him. How could he forget? Were there others? How long had Tiny been there?

There was still food in their stomach. The smell of strawberry and wheat cracker was fresh on their breath. Matt felt a tinge of relief, replaced by guilt again - not nearly as long as he'd feared, but any length of time was too long.

Tiny's reaction was one of their squeak-yelps and a subsequent stabbing.

Matt hissed, "Ow," and flinched back when something sharp stung his finger. Tiny made another motion to defend themself and Matt withdrew his arm. "You know, most people don't attack the person trying to save them," he said, mildly put out. He understood he was an actual, literal giant here, but give him some credit.

Alright, so he should have announced his intentions first - that was on him.

Matt said, "I don't want to hurt you. I'm trying to help."

"The hell you are!" Tiny bellowed with all the ferocity contained in their little body. It was an unexpectedly Herculean amount. "Who set the traps in the first place, huh? Then you come in tryin' to snatch me up like a damn claw machine. 'Help' my ass!"

"I'm trying to help. I'm sorry about the traps - really, I am. I thought I got all of them out. I'm truly sorry. Will you let me fix this? Without stabbing me again? Please?"

A contemplative silence fell over the two. It was only respectful to ask: as someone who'd been stabbed and shot and hit more times than he could remember, Matt could handle a poke or two. But he didn't like being grabbed without his consent - why would someone who's just a few inches tall?

What even was that weapon, a nail?

...He should update his vaccines.

"You don't plan to lock me up and reveal me to the world for fame and wealth or ship me off to scientists that'll experiment on me?" Tiny asked suspiciously.

That was... shockingly specific. And all completely valid concerns. "No."

"Liar."

"I'm not. In God's name, I swear I'm not lying. Would I be trying to gain your trust if that was my goal? Why would I bother?"

"I guess... you just don't want me to stab you again."

"Oh, for- I owe Foggy several apologies if this is what he deals with."

Tiny agreed to let him help after admitting they were prepared to die anyway - ouch - and that being captured by a 'bean' - what? - really couldn't be worse. A win was a win and Matt didn't argue, reaching under the floorboards to rescue them.

It was a surreal experience for both parties. Feeling a tiny, human body fit in his hand, and for Finch, a massive hand wrapping around them. They were stiff as a board, bracing against fingers as wide as their torso. For every borrower, this was the worst case. This was the nightmare that made children hide under the covers. A human had discovered them - was holding them. Finch resisted the urge to bite and scrap and do anything in their limited power to free themself. A second hand pressed down on the edges of the trap and then Finch was being pried off. The glue was reluctant to let them go and threatened to claim their boots as a prize. Finch squawked and fought to keep them.

"Shit," they blurted. "Oh, sewers. Fuck me running. Mother of termites. Pissberry."

The glue released. Matt lifted both borrower and trap out of the floor and got up from his prone position.

He was holding a tiny person. He could hardly believe it, but feeling was believing. All of his focus lasered in on the small being. How their chest rapidly expanded and fell, the thrum of their terrified heart against his thumb and ears. How delicate their bones were as his fingers closed around them, thin as a bird's. A bag was slung diagonally across their back, the items inside pressing into his palm. Their clothes were handmade, stitched together with large thread - thankfully with textures that didn't make him gag. Were those overalls? Or maybe a jumpsuit. Buttons on their flat front dug into his thumb - small, yet still bigger than their hands. And their hands... they were miniscule. Teeny fingers pushed at his own, digging into the creases of his skin and their prints indecipherable. Shoes scraped the underside of Matt's fist, sharp points on the toe of each boot threatening to scrape him up like the furniture they were fashioned to dig into.

Everything about them was fascinating. But he couldn't help noticing how pronounced their ribs were.

Finch remained tense as Matt carried them to the kitchen. Trapped in his clutches, they could do nothing but let him. What happened now? The cautionary tales never got this far. Being caught was the ultimate end for all those stories, with the killing and torture reserved for the footnotes and overactive imaginations of listeners. Finch weakly struggled, knowing they couldn't possibly escape but not wanting to just sit and take it.

"Here. I'm putting you down," Matt said. He lowered his hand and released Finch before walking away. "Just a second."

Finch tried to book it. Their shoes peeled off the countertop like prickly burs and they cringed at the sound and sensation. Taking a single step was a harsh, sticky ordeal. "Damn," they muttered under their breath.

"Going somewhere?" asked Matt, more lighthearted than he had any right to be.

Finch shot a glare at him over their shoulder. It didn't matter that he couldn't see it. All the better, actually: they could show as much vitriol as they liked without repercussion. "Yeah, chuckle it up, twelve stories. I wouldn't be here if you didn't set that shit up."

Matt disposed of the trap and sought out a roll of paper towel, which he ripped and ran under the tap. "You're right. I'm sorry." He placed the damp paper towel near them. "For the glue."

Finch accepted it and glowered the whole time. The warm water rubbed the glue off their soles. A train of curses filled their brain that were one lapse in self-control away from becoming external. One thing had been itching at them; they decided to voice that instead.

"How'd you know where I was? How did you even know I was stuck?" Realization struck. "Or how I even exist. I didn't think of that. Fuck."

Finch watched his features wrinkle and strain before relaxing. Matt said, "That's on you for assuming a blind man won't notice someone stealing right in front of him. Really, it's insulting."

"Stealing? Heh, no, no, it's called borrowing. We borrow things. There's a clear distinction. Beans steal, borrowers borrow." Their eyes widened.We. I just revealed our name. They played up the aggression, rising to their full, diminutive height. "So I got a little carried away. And what about it? You gonna put me in a jar, huh? Oh, no, I borrowed some food. You got plenty! You gonna miss some crumbs? Some string? A bottle cap here or there?" They scoffed and planted their hands on their hips. "You try to survive and suddenly you're stealing. Yeah, lemme go get a human job real quick in your human economy to pay my human bills for my human house. I'll get right on that."

Matt, who was prepared to argue the definition of stealing vs borrowing, was left sufficiently gobsmacked. The lawyer in him wanted to correct their language; the empathy in him knew that they were right. He'd concluded on his own that Tiny had no other options. Many people rarely did. Hearing it made the legal voice pipe down, and also make the connection that Tiny wasn't the same species as him. Which... yeah, should have been obvious. Were they a fairy?

"I'm not mad about the stealing," he said. "Sorry, 'borrowing'. Which isn't the right- anyway. I'm annoyed about the sock but- but that's it. I even left some crumbs around for you. Once I figured out you weren't a mouse. I really don't have a problem with you living here. Well, there's- no, nevermind. You probably don't care about that." He frowned in thought. Would a tiny person living in the walls even know about Daredevil?

Finch's whole face furrowed. "Oh... kaay. That's- wait, actually? Like, actually? You're not lying?"

Matt huffed. "Again, why would I be lying?"

Finch threw their hands in the air, giving them a frustrated shake and gesturing wildly. "I don't know! You could still switch up on me! I can't trust you. Avoiding beans is how I made it this far. I'd be dead or imprisoned or dead if I didn't. I can't trust you. How am I supposed to believe you?" They ruffled their hair and growled. They pulled their bandana down around their neck and played with the smooth fabric, pacing. "I thought I'd be some kind of pet or- or- or experiment. Or dead. I'm so confused. I'm so confused. It's all so confusing."

Matt didn't respond at first. He let their confession sit in the air, giving it the room it deserved as he thought it over. A pet. Something distinctly sub-human; lower than personhood, undeserving of self-determination. Or an experiment - even lower. That was how the world perceived Tiny. That was how Tiny believed he perceived them.

Matt loved nothing more than proving expectations wrong.

"What's your name?" he asked.

Finch scowled up at him, then exhaled harshly. "Goldfinch. I go by Finch."

"Hello, Finch. I'm Matt. Would you like something to drink?"

"...what do you have?"

Chapter Text

Finch wasn't avoiding the apartment because they were scared - they were being reasonably cautious.

Finch had quickly downed the plastic bottle cap of apple juice that the human offered and then swiftly retreated under the floorboards. After an indeterminate amount of time spent staring blankly at a wall, trying to tame their whirlwind of thoughts and feelings, Finch's mind cleared enough to realize that their second climbing nail was missing. Checking the vacant spot where the glue trap had been meant precisely one thing: their climbing tool was still in the man's possession.

That was fine. Finch didn't need it anyway.

Over several days, Finch visited the other apartments in search of supplies, peeking through air ducts and other vantage points to assess what they had to work with. Unorganized homes were gold mines and Finch took advantage of the mess to sneak goodies into the walls. They had yet to search the trash outside, which was a shame, really - humans threw out all sorts of bits and bobs. Finch added an elevator to their mental to-do list, which was sure to be buried in the laundry chute of their mind.

Finch stopped for a moment to admire the sewing pin they had found. The metal was longer than their arm and came to a fine point that glinted menacingly at the right angles. Finch slashed at the air, testing its weight in their palm. It felt alright - till their bad shoulder twinged. Ow. Too much. They sheathed the pin in their belt and rested a hand on the bright red pommel of their new sword. They envisioned themself as a knight: Goldfinchius the Mighty - littlest of knights, slayer of giants and cobwebs! Finch laughed to themself. In their dreams.

Night fell, and so did the rain. It pitter-pattered atop the roof and Finch knew they had to check the gutter outside. They adorned a plastic poncho and a beer bottle cap as a helmet. If the gutter wasn't draining properly, it could flood their pipe system and rot the wood. Rain collection was tedious and risky, but the extra maintenance was worth it: Finch tasted every chemical in city water and they couldn't stand it.

Droplets tink'd off their helmet and rolled down their poncho. What amounted to a human's light drizzle was a pelting downpour to Finch. They hoped it didn't get worse while they were out here. A fat raindrop burst atop their helmet and threw off their balance; Finch cartwheeled their arms to catch themself. Gravel clattered under their rubber boots.

Lightning flashed; Finch's surroundings lit up white. After so long in the dark, it was blinding.

An afterimage of the skyline seared Finch's brain. A gigantic silhouette stood against the city lights.

Finch's blood froze.

No. No, they were seeing things. Nothing else was up there. It was just their mind playing tricks. Who would be out at this hour? In a storm? It was just another high-rise.

Thunder rumbled. Finch swallowed. Only me.

FLASH.

For a single, blinding moment was an imposing figure revealed to Finch. Shadows clung to its form, painting an undeniably human shape against the gloomy night sky. It stood as a horrific statue overlooking the city, huge and tall and monstrous.

When darkness returned, Finch still identified its silhouette amid the street lights and pink glow of the billboard below.

It wasn't far at all - lurking just on the other side of the roof. Finch prayed it hadn't noticed them.

FLASH.

Up high, eyes glinted like stars in the clouded sky. The statue's head was turned, the corner of its gleaming gaze angled directly at Finch. Illuminated for a brief second were a pair of horns sprouting from its forehead.

In the dark, the gargantuan shape moved.

Finch choked on their own spit as they ran - they ran faster than they ever had in their life.

Finch stumbled on loose chips of gravel. Tripping over their own feet, Finch glanced over their shoulder.

Finch squeaked when they saw the horned giant closer, even larger.

DOOM.

Heavy soles crushed the gravel underfoot, threatening to do the same to Finch if they let that thing catch them. Rain cascaded down its monstrous red body, resembling tears - or blood - in the ambient glow of Hell's Kitchen.

DOOM.

Finch dove into their rooftop passage and could've kissed the comforting, confining brick walls. Their heart hammered in their chest as they shoved a chunk of brick into the exit.

"The hell was that?!" Finch squeaked out, strangled as their voice was. A combination of cold air, damp clothes, and adrenaline had them shivering like a brittle leaf. The fresh memory played over and over in their head, dredging up feelings of helplessness, of being trapped, crushed - and thick fingers closing around them. With their own trembling fingers, Finch slipped off the bottle cap and the strap under their chin. Finch shook their scraggly wet tendrils of hair. They still felt the quakes of that thing's stride in their jellied legs. Only the intense, crawling discomfort of being soaked was enough to kick Finch into action. Finch rushed home to change. The gutter could wait.

Finch was halfway home when they remembered the sewing pin attached to their hip; never once did it cross their mind to use it.

Finch couldn't possibly erase that experience from their mind. A gargoyle come to life - a thing of the night pulled straight out of those tall tales meant to scare children away from humans.

Finch had to know more.

They packed a bag and threw on their old cloak. It had traveled with them through thick and thin; the stains and wear it suffered over the years only improved its camouflage.

Finch hiked all the way to ground level. Snippets of lives seeped through the walls, private happenings that Finch overheard as they descended floor to floor. These snippets kept Finch entertained throughout their long descent, taking their mind off. Their limbs simmered with heat when they reached the bottom floor, aching from the long climb, and Finch gave their bad shoulder a rest before they moved on. They sat, taking a long drink from their water bag. That elevator would've been handy, huh? Finch used to walk for ages without tiring. Indoor life was catching up to them.

The world outside was the same as it had ever been. Honking traffic and yelling humans mixed into a cacophony of blaring noise that made Finch grateful for the fuzzy mufflers they'd slapped over their ears. Nothing had changed. It felt like stepping into a dream - or perhaps stepping out of one. Finch put up their hood and scurried across allies and sidewalks disguised as an innocuous piece of runaway trash. Hiding under garbage bins, ducking behind poles, even hitchhiking on oblivious beans' shoes or luggage were familiar motions that Finch practiced with ease. Habits and instincts that Finch learned on the streets reawakened - unused, but not rusty. The rush, the hunt for answers, was exhilarating. It was also terrifying, and it gave Finch the will to push onward.

Finch found a storm drain with small markings etched into the rusted metal. They dropped through the closest gap and trekked through underground Manhattan till they found an old subway maintenance tunnel. The same marks were scratched into brick at eye-level. Finch searched around for a discreet entrance. Failing that, they called out. Maybe someone was listening.

Finch hollered, "Hello? I'm looking for information. Is this still a network outpost?"

Echoes responded. Somewhere, a leak went drip...drip...drip. Finch gathered another breath.

"It is for now," said someone above. Finch craned their their neck to see the stranger perched up high on an electrical box. The stranger hooked a strip of cloth around a thick cable and dug their heels in, riding the cable to the ground. The stranger landed and tied the red cloth around their waist. "Till the beans chase us out again," said the stranger, wearing a blithe smile that complimented her mauled eye and cheek. Her pale brown skin was gashed pink by scar tissue on the left side of her face. A wide-brimmed hat sat low over her long, dark hair - but not low enough to hide her scars. She asked, "What kinda information?"

Finch opened their bag and rooted inside. "Anything you might know about a human bean that patrols rooftops. Dressed in red, and it had these horns." Finch hooked a finger next to their temple to demonstrate. "Stood there all creepy-like, almost like a statue. I wanna know more about 'em." They presented a blueberry-sized bundle wrapped in tin foil and stated, "This is for you."

The other borrower's brows arched. She flapped her hand dismissively. "Oh, no, yeah, I know exactly who you mean. You, ya poor soul, have met the Devil of Hell's Kitchen. You can put that away."

"Sure? It's croissant."

"...fresh?"

"Borrowed this morning."

"Ooh - okay, wait, I'll take it."

Finch passed the food into her eager hands. The woman unwrapped it and ripped out a chunk of the fluffy white inside that she proceeded to bite into. Humming appreciatively, she enthusiastically nodded and pointed at Finch, then at the croissant, and then gave Finch a thumbs-up.

Finch impatiently, but politely, waited before asking, "What is the Devil of Hell's Kitchen?"

The stranger spoke around her mouthful: "Some sorta vigilante. Goes out at night and beats the crap outta other humans. Leaves 'em for dead." She motioned vaguely with her free hand. "I've seen him on newspapers. Us here in the Kitchen know him. You must be new in town, eh? Some luck you have, meeting the Devil!"

Finch swiftly clarified, "We didn't meet. There was no meeting." Clearing their throat, they said, "So, this guy is, like, one of those superheroes?"

The woman see-sawed her head, making the brim of her brown hat wobble. "Meh, of a kind. Humans define their heroes as less 'violent' and more 'legal'. Cops don't like vigilantes, vigilantes don't like cops - but who actually likes cops, y'know? Ha. Yeah, our scouts here in the Kitchen keep an eye out for Devil-man. He never leaves. The Kitchen's his territory, or something. I hear he's one dangerous motherfucker. Pfft, good thing he didn't spot you." Cheerfully, she proclaimed, "Otherwise, I never woulda gotten this morsel!" She didn't notice Finch's thin, stretched smile or hear their internal screaming. She said, "Thanks, by the way - it's great. Oh, do you want to sign our guest list?"

Finch blinked. "Guest list?"

"Yeah! It's something new we're spreading around to the other outposts. We like knowing who's around and connecting folks who aren't involved with the network. Wanna add your name?"

Finch used to be part of the network.

Finch showed her another thin smile. "Sure."

"Great, cool, awesome. Follow me. And, hey, watch your step: we haven't cleaned up all the rat shit yet."

The woman - Mulch, her name was - guided Finch deeper into the tunnel toward a service room. Mulch explained its decrepit, abandoned state was due to those monster tremours way back that had collapsed tunnels and severed important wiring. The borrowers patched it up and got old computers running that let them monitor subway activity and keep electronic records. Crawling under the locked service door, Finch saw this feat with their own eyes. Mulch lent them a hand, pulling Finch upright while Finch stared at the humongous computers situated atop a massive metal desk peppered with rust spots. Mulch led them up the rickety bridge connecting to the desk, where a pair of borrowers manned a keyboard and mouse. Another pair were talking over a bed of sticky notes.

"Yo, team! We got a visitor," Mulch announced, rallying the others' attention. Finch squared their shoulders and put on a smile. "Everyone, meet Goldfinch. They're new in town. They were curious about the Devil of Hell's Kitchen."

Finch was welcomed by happy greetings and comments in the same vein as Mulch's stories about the vigilante. To summarize: he was scary as hell and Finch was lucky he didn't spot them.

Oh, Finch was lucky, alright.

"Nice to see a different face around here," said the man operating the computer mouse. His cheeks rounded and dimpled with his grin. His blonde hair defied gravity, sticking up like he'd gone a few rounds with a power outlet. Rigid white lines crawled up the exposed skin of his right arm, suggesting to Finch that there was some merit to that description. A red cowl scarf sat snugly under his pointed chin. His name was Boon, Finch would learn. He said, "It gets old seeing the same-old boltheads everyday."

Sitting on the keyboard, the other man scoffed and waved blondie off with his single remaining arm. Lockley, Finch would know this man as. His thick, dark hair sat in chunky braids that were neatly tied back by a length of red fabric. Over his front sat a metal plate that had been carefully dented into shape - a literal chestpiece of armour. Finch was so jealous.

The pair of borrowers that had been conversing off to the side joined the group. Both were women. The first to introduce herself was light-skinned. Her name was Sage. Her head was shaved down to bristles and a red bandana was tied around her neck. Her voice carried in monotone, but she looked friendly, even coming in for a fist bump that Finch returned with a much more natural grin.

The second of the pair - and the final borrower of the team - was a dark-skinned woman. Her hair coiled so tightly that it hugged her scalp. A decorative metal wire looped through her ear, creating an intricate shape that Finch could only imagine the nightmare of taking out. If Finch tilted their head, it almost resembled a snake. Or maybe a snail? Strapped to this woman's back by a leather sash was a bright yellow Number 2 pencil. A strip of red cloth was braided into a bracelet around her wrist. She introduced herself as Keyra. She appeared to be the organizer and planner of the bunch; she was very proud of the directions that she'd left around and was ecstatic that her markers led Finch here.

"She has this whole system set up," Sage bragged to Finch. Sage was Keyra's life partner, Sage also bragged.

Sage's clothes were stained by grease and her leather gloves well-worn. A decent-sized hammer hung from the waist of her faded brown overalls. Sage worked wherever she was needed, she said - she was a borrower of many trades and skills.

Boon and Lockley managed the computers. Boon had good - and bad - experience with wiring and electronics in general. He wore gloves similar to Sage's; his, notably, bore singe marks on the fingers. Truly, everything about the man screamed 'electrical hazard'. Finch fully expected their hair to frizz up in his proximity.

In contrast to Boon's easy demeanour, Lockley wielded a dispassionate, ever-annoyed air with the patience of a hunter. The empty sleeve of his red shirt was tied and tattered. He didn't say much, not bothering with any pleasantries or small talk; he was content to sit back and observe. Keyra and Lockley were twins, Finch was told. Finch noticed similarities immediately: beyond the obvious, the twins had the same dimpled chin and matching resting expressions that bordered on pouting.

The group invited Finch to stay for a meal. Finch hesitated; the group chorused with encouragements and playful ribbing and reassurances that Finch wasn't obligated to stay. Ultimately, Finch agreed; these people weren't too bad company. Jovial cheers followed the group of six as they relocated to an alcove embedded in the brick wall, where Lockley tended and served a batch of stew that was calmly bubbling on top of a thick metal nut. Mulch tore apart the sizable amount that remained of the croissant and passed the portions around for everyone to dunk in their stew. Mulch winked at Finch. Finch didn't know what to do with that, so they smiled.

They all sat on cushions and various seats in a broken circle. Stories went around. Mulch asked Finch about themself and listened raptly when Finch got on tangents about their projects. Sage was impressed by their rain collection system; Boon bemoaned the group's own lack of one, expressing his distaste for the long walks to the closest faucet.

Lockley asked to see Finch's sewing pin. The group ooh'd as he marveled at the weapon and showed off a few moves.

"Short, quick jabs," Lockley advised, demonstrating in the centre of the circle. "Imagine you're poking holes in your enemy - because you are. Aim up, like this - 'specially when you're cornered; you get more force than a straightforward jab. Then there's a backwards grip - and remember to thrust with your whole shoulder."

Finch rolled their right shoulder, saying, "What if I don't have full range of motion?"

"Twist your upper body - or change your grip." Lockley raised the tied-off stump that remained of his right arm. "I would demonstrate, but I'll need a hand."

Keyra snorted. Sage aimed a dry look at her partner's brother. Boon and Mulch guffawed.

"You can laugh," Lockley said to Finch, holding out their sewing pin.

Finch looked at it, considerate. They took the pin, saying, "I wouldn't want to laugh at an unarmed man."

There was a beat of silence.

Lockley broke it with a snort, concealing his grin behind his fist. "Good one," he said. Finch returned the grin.

There came a lull in the conversation. Everyone's bowls were empty and they all took a moment to rest and digest.

"You got any family back home, Finch?" Mulch asked.

Finch's knee stopped bobbing. Their fingers tightened around their empty bowl. "No," they said.

Finch hated how quiet the room got.

"Me neither," Mulch said without any of the weight such a statement should have. Finch looked closely at her, pondering how a stranger could be so familiar. Mulch met their stare with a raised eyebrow and a strange tug of her lips

"My mum died a couple years ago," Boon said, scraping the bottom of his wooden bowl with his spoon.

"Lost my little brother, way back," stated Sage. Keyra's arm was wrapped around her waist; Keyra pulled her closer. Sage squeezed Keyra's knee and said, "Cat got him. You know how it goes."

Lockley continued stirring what was left of the stew. Keyra looked at him, holding her brother softly in her gaze before focusing on the group again. "Our parents," Keyra said. "They drowned when we were kids."

Finch looked around the room, at people that had opened themselves up so that Finch wouldn't feel that grief alone.

It left a bad taste in their mouth.

Conversations picked up traction once more. Finch observed for a while, warming up enough to join in again. Finch's quips and dry remarks were rewarded with laughter; they even got into witty, good-natured arguments with some of the team that boiled down to whoever had the most creative comebacks. Finch came to this placd looking for answers and found people that they connected with. Worries receded into the back of Finch's mind, their terrifying encounters with humans temporarily forgotten in the presence of these welcoming strangers.

"Wait, what's your full name again? Goldfinch?" Boon said, his cup nearly spilling as he used it to gesture.

"That's me," Finch replied. They sipped from their own cup.

"Yeah, yeah! I thought I recognized it. I remember a buddy'a mine talkin' about a 'Goldfinch' a while back. I thought somebody lost their pet bird! You were at that fish factory when it went down, right?"

Finch choked on their water. They coughed. The room closed in around Finch and Boon.

"What?" Finch croaked on instinct. They shouldn't have - they heard him just fine.

"The fish factory demolition," Boon clarified. "A few months back. By the water? Uh, duh, by the water. Were you-"

"I'm getting some air," announced Mulch, slapping her thighs. She stood up. "Finch, you wanna come with?"

In a daze, Finch shot to their feet, mumbling some reply that they didn't remember speaking. Finch followed Mulch out of the alcove in the bricks. They crossed a rickety bridge onto the computer desk. Finch heard cut-off voices drifting from the alcove; Finch hoped they weren't giving that poor man too much trouble.

"I, uh- thanks," Finch said to Mulch. They focused on taking deep breaths. Their eyes trailed the map of subway tunnels that was taped to the side of a monitor.

"No problem," Mulch said. She wandered around the table, kicking her heels with no real destination in mind.

Finch sat on the edge of the keyboard. They wrung their hands, fidgeting and tucking strands of wayward hair underneath their headband. They didn't realize their leg was bobbing till they made a conscious effort to stop it.

Out of the quiet, Mulch spoke. "Boon is... an honest guy. Sometimes, too honest. But I'll tell ya, there isn't a mean bone in his body. I betcha he's in there begging to come out and apologize. He... hit a little close to home, didn't he?"

Finch exhaled, deflating like a balloon. Their shoulder began to ache again. They rubbed their thumb into the muscle. "It's fine," Finch mumbled.

"Okay," was Mulch's response. Finch looked over. Mulch was smiling a crooked smile, her brows raised. "I don't believe you," Mulch said, "but if you say it's fine, then it's fine. Do you need a ride home?"

The question made Finch squint and flounder on the spot. "I, uh, no - no. I walked. I can walk."

Mulch huffed out a little chuckle. She rocked on her heels, hands tucked into the pockets of her olive green jacket. "Alright, lemme ask again: would you like a ride home? There's a rookery up top where the pigeons roost. We have some trained birds if you want the scenic route. Quicker and safer than crossing the street."

"I..." Finch fumbled to find their words. "I've never flown before."

"Hah, yeah. Thought so. You don't hafta worry about a thing - I've been flying birds since I was a kid. I won't let anything happen to ya. But it's okay if you don't want to. Or if you don't wanna go at all - you just looked like you needed to get out of here."

It took surprisingly little contemplation before Finch was saying yes.

It was then that Keyra joined them: her entrance was heralded by the unmistakable squeaking of unstable infrastructure. Keyra stepped off the rickety bridge, catching the last part of their conversation. "You're leaving?" she said, disappointed.

Finch winced. They swiveled around to face Keyra. Finch's cloak was folded and draped over her arm. "I'm sorry," Finch said. "You've all been so kind-"

Keyra shook her head, both hands slicing through the air and swinging Finch's cloak. "No, stop that. You're not allowed to apologize. We're glad you stayed as long as you did, Finch. It was so good to meet you. Just-" Keyra stepped closer. "Boon wanted me to tell you he is so sorry. A million sorries, actually. He wasn't thinking." The final bit sounded like Keyra's own words, spoken with the ire of a tired friend.

Finch's angular features softened. "Tell him it's alright. I forgive him. I know he wasn't trying to... well. Thanks for the food. Tell your brother he's a great cook. It was delicious." Keyra smiled. Standing up, Finch declared, "I'm going to ride a bird."

Keyra's eyes bulged and her smile dropped. "Oh, god. You couldn't get me on one of those winged rats if it killed me."

Finch motioned for their cloak. Keyra passed it into their waiting hands.

"Hey," Mulch decried in defense, "they're not so bad!"

Keyra clasped her hands together, holding them in front as if to pray. "Finch, you brave soul. It was so nice to meet you."

"They're not dying," protested an exasperated Mulch.

"We'll always remember you."

Mulch groaned. "You're ridiculous. Don't listen to her, Finch. She's afraid of heights."

"No, no, I am fine with heights - my problem's with the birds going out of control and dropping out of the sky or hitting a building or getting swooped by a falcon or-"

Mulch flapped her hand. "Y'okay, yappity-yap, enough outta you. Come on, Finch."

Keyra sighed harshly. "Please be safe. Come back if you can, yeah? You know where to find us."

"I will," Finch replied, making final adjustments to the grey-brown cloak draped around their shoulders. "Tell the others goodbye for me." Finch ventured down the first bridge after Mulch, waving farewell. Keyra waved till she disappeared from Finch's view.

Finch crawled under the service door. Mulch was waiting on the other side to pull them up. Her palm felt hot in Finch's hand. Mulch avoided looking them in the eye and cleared her throat, releasing Finch's hand. She fixed her hat and pointed down the tunnel.

"This way," she said. "It's not far. Fifteen, maybe."

They walked in relative silence, the crunching of their boots bouncing around the cavernous tunnels. Mulch whistled a tune. Finch changed their stride to match the rhythm. It was a playful, wandering tune that reminded Finch of the working songs they used to hear, before... before.

"So... you're a pretty good builder, huh?" Mulch said. "Made your own house and plumbing?"

"'Plumbing' isn't what I'd-" Finch stopped, seeing Mulch's imploringly raised brows. They said, "Yeah. Yeah, I'm a pretty good builder."

"We've been needing someone to help us fix up the place. If you're interested in that."

Finch huffed. "I saw. Those bridges are gonna give someone a nasty fall."

"Some day. Sage says it's fine." Mulch looked skyward. "Sage also said the ladder was fine, and what happened there? Poor Lockley bruises his whole ass. He wouldn't stop bitching about it for months just to annoy her."

Amused, Finch replied, "I'll see what I can do next time I visit. I'll have to scrounge up supplies."

"That would be great. What do you need? Screws? Tacks? Glue?"

"Gl- do not tell me you guys are using glue to hold your infrastructure together."

Mulch didn't answer, looking anywhere except Finch with wide, innocent eyes.

Finch sighed and said, "Shit, alright. I'll come by next week with some things."

"Ugh, you're a saint. Hey, give me a time and I'll swing by. Sage and me made this saddlebag for the birds, and I'm telling you, it's a game changer."

The two trekked above-ground and re-entered the sunny concrete jungle of the city. Mulch led them behind buildings, through chain-link fences, and up a gutter to a fire escape. Mulch and Finch helped each other overcome each step of the fire escape. On the step above, Finch would hook their single climbing nail on the metal beams supporting the stairs or the gaps peppered across the grated floor; Finch was able to lift Mulch no problem. Decades of physical labour made Finch's arms exceptionally strong, adding to their naturally broad shoulders. Mulch's jaw went slack when Finch lifted her with just one arm, the right clutching the line attached to their belt. Finch knew the loose coveralls hid it all; they derived some satisfaction from Mulch's gawking.

"Holy shit," Mulch mumbled. Her jaw shut with a click! of teeth and she hauled herself over the edge. Finch unhooked their climbing nail and bent at the knee, threading their gloved fingers for Mulch to step on to.

Finch heard fluttering wings and cooing before they even reached the top of the building. A dilapidated greenhouse stood alone on the roof, plastic sheets billowing outside broken windows. Shadows bobbed on the other side of the dirty, misty glass. Several pigeons flew out an open window. They perched on an antenna. Finch admired the shine of their colourful feathers in the sun. They were beautiful animals.

"Follow me," Mulch said in sing-song, motioning toward the greenhouse. She scaled a wooden board leaning against the greenhouse door; she used nails buried in the wood as rungs. Then she slipped between a crack in the greenhouse doorframe. Finch wasn't far behind.

The greenhouse did not smell good. Dust particles floated through the air, glowing white glitter swirling in the sunlight. Pigeons perched along the shelves, every surface littered with whatever the pigeons deemed acceptable nest material. A few of the birds were sitting on various farming supplies: a wheelbarrow, watering cans, clay and plastic pots. A couple dirt-filled wood pallets had green shoots peeking through the topsoil. A pot was growing a healthy young sapling.

"Wow," Finch said. "You garden?"

"From time-to-time. I guess I'm up here the most, though." Mulch hopped from the shelf to a stepladder, then jumped across the gap to another shelf. The pigeons sitting there startled, their dappled wings squeaking with urgency. Mulch gripped her hat, bracing herself against the sudden gale of beating wings. She told the birds off for spooking, exclaiming, "You see me every day! Buncha headless chickens."

One of the pigeons cooed in reply. Mulch took mock offense, crying, "Don't talk about my mother like that!"

Finch laughed. They jumped across to join her and Mulch headed for the toolbox several strides away. Mulch pulled a latch open and Finch rushed over to release the other latch. Together, they lifted the toolbox's lid. Inside were standard tools: screwdrivers and allen keys and the like - hey, Finch could use some of those - but Mulch was after the balled-up mess of straps and buttons and velcro. She painstakingly untangled what Finch realized were makeshift saddles. Mulch pursed her lips and whistled. Three clear notes, ascending in pitch.

Wings fluttered; feathers squeaked. Three birds alighted on the shelf and bobbled toward the borrowers. Mulch greeted the birds by name. One of them pecked at her hat; Mulch yelled and Finch giggled. Mulch grabbed the bird by the beak and told it off.

"You raise 'em by hand, feed 'em," Mulch griped, passing part of the saddle to Finch, "and they still don't respect you." She had Finch hold the chestpiece while Mulch trotted around affixing straps to the most docile bird of the trio. It cooed contentedly. "Mothball has always been such a polite little lady," Mulch was saying, doing up fastenings under the wings, "haven't you? Yes, you have. Good bird." Mulch patted Mothball's neck before ducking down to connect the straps under the pigeon's round belly. Mothball pecked at Finch's hands.

"She's looking for food," Mulch said, now on the bird's back. Finch wondered how she got up there so quick. "She smells it on ya. Greedy girl. Alright, I'm gonna need you to hand me the reins - thank you. And we're all set! Come on up. There's a stirrup right- yeah-ha, look at you! You're a natural."

Finch settled in behind Mulch. Finch pulled tight the seatbelt loop that kept the pair of them from falling off the bird.

"You ready?" Mulch asked, smirking at Finch over her shoulder.

"Not at all," Finch answered truthfully.

"You don't hafta worry about a thing! Mothball's a smooth flyer." Mulch clucked out of the corner of her mouth and hooted, "Giddyup!"

The pigeon launched into the air and Finch latched onto Mulch's shoulders. They were not secured at all to the bird besides the single belt around their waists. Finch keenly felt the lack of safety features as they flew out a window. Finch's eyes were cinched shut. Every fluttering beat of the pigeon's wings had Finch convinced they would simply slide off and plummet to the pavement below. Their cloak billowed where it wasn't strapped in; Finch pulled the cloak tight around themself.

Mulch whooped jubilantly. At the top of her lungs, overpowering the wind and the squeaking of Mothball's wings trying to drown her out, she hollered, "Oh, get a look at that view! Ain't nothing like it!"

Finch peeled open their eyelids. They raised their head and instantly lost their breath to the cityscape stretching beyond their eyes. Towers of shining glass pierced the sky and massive, swooping bridges connected the city across glimmering rivers. Millions of tiny cars filled the streets and even tinier humans milled like a colony of ants in their maze of metal and concrete. A plane flew over the water. Boats rocked on the blue currents.

"Oh, wow," Finch breathed out, losing it to the wind.

"Beautiful, isn't it?" Mulch shouted, turning her head. Finch dodged the brim of her hat. "City looks much different up here."

"It all looks so... small," Finch loudly remarked.

"Puts another perspective on everything, doesn't it?"

The pigeon's flight smoothed out. Finch relaxed their grip as the threat of falling receded to the back of their mind.

Mulch didn't need to overpower the wind anymore. At a reasonable volume, she said, "Even the humans - we're all just small, little people living our small, little lives and pretending we're bigger than we are. I come up here when I need a reminder."

Finch mulled over her words. "Yeah... I can see why you like this. Keyra's missing out."

Mulch scoffed in vindication. "See?!" Standing on the stirrups, Mulch rose off the bird's back and cried to the sky: "Suck it, Keyra! Flying is cool and awesome!"

"Sit down!" Finch urged, frantically patting Mulch's arm. "You're gonna fall-"

"I'm not gonna fall," Mulch reassured. She sat anyway. Finch fixed the seatbelt keeping them attached. Mulch said, "Alright, Finch, point us where to go! You see home from here?"

Finch scanned the city. Near instantly, Finch spotted a familiar street and identifiable buildings. They pointed past Mulch's shoulder. "That way! I'll tell you when we're close."

"Aye-aye, cap'n," Mulch replied. She tugged one of the reins and clucked. Her pigeon veered accordingly. Finch admired how well-trained the animal was, then admired how amazing of a person Mulch was to hand-raise and successfully train not just one, but three birds. Suddenly conscious of how heavy their hand felt on Mulch's shoulder, Finch moved it to clasp the seatbelt instead. Briefly, Mulch glanced behind her and then faced forward again.

The flight was over almost too quickly. Finch pointed out the apartment building and Mulch brought Mothball in for a landing. The pigeon madly flapped its wings as it slowed their descent, blowing the borrowers' hair every which direction. Finch caught the wide brim of Mulch's hat before it could achieve lift-off.

The landing wasn't graceful by any means, but Mothball got it done. Finch extrapolated themself from the saddle's circular seatbelt, taking Mulch's hand when she offered. One boot hooked in the stirrup, Finch dropped onto the gravel. They looked around, taking in the rooftop; it didn't look nearly as scary in the daylight.

"Hey," Mulch said, a rare severity taking over her demeanour. "If you ever feel unsafe or if that Devil's got you spooked, I'm here to help. If you need another place to stay, I got you."

Finch considered her offer. Finch said, "Thanks, but I'm gonna stay right here. I've put this much work into calling this place home. Be a shame to leave it all when I just got settled."

"I hear you," Mulch replied, sighing. "I get it. Still braver than I ever could be. The Devil shows up at my doorstep? Uh-uh. Peace. I'm out." Mulch leaned forward on her arms and said, "So, next week, noon?" She smiled out of one corner of her mouth; an imploring smirk, like she already knew the answer - or hoped she did.

Finch gazed up at her. Her hat blocked the setting sun, highlighting the sheen of her cascading black hair and the edges of her olive green jacket. Mulch's hazel eyes gleamed in the shade.

Finch said yes.

Mulch's smirk spread to the rest of her face, turning into a genuine smile of glee and squishing the scar on her left cheek. "Alright, then! Cool, awesome. Be seeing you, Goldfinch of... wait, what was your street name?"

For some reason, Goldfinch couldn't remember. They shrugged, saying, "You'll find it again. If you ever want those rickety-ass bridges fixed." Finch stepped away from the restless pigeon, giving Mothball a few pats to the neck. Finch grimaced as the full force of the sun beared down on them. No longer shielded by Mulch's hat, they cupped both hands over their eyes. Still smiling, Mulch tipped her hat. She clucked her tongue and gave the reins a flick with another shout of, "Giddyup!" Mothball eagerly jumped into the air. Finch braced against the rippling draft of the bird's squeaky wings.

It was only as Finch watched the bird and its rider growing smaller and farther in the great, blue sky that Finch remembered they didn't get to sign the guest list.

"Aw, man," Finch moaned, genuinely disappointed. "I've never signed anything before."

Matt Murdock really did it this time.

He'd grown accustomed to Tiny- no, to Finch's activities under the floorboards. He hadn't expected it, but the small sounds of their presence became habitual - reassuring, almost. Both started their wake-up routines at the same time; Matt would listen to Finch rustling around below as he brewed his morning tea, occasionally being treated to Finch narrating their plans for the day. Matt was fascinated.

Nowadays, after Matt... caught them, Finch had become that much quieter. He rarely heard so much as a squeak. In fact, Finch was rarely home at all. Days ago, Matt had placed the bent nail that drew his blood under the fridge.

The nail still hadn't been touched.

If he paused on the stairs and listened close, Matt could hear the recognizable pitter-patters of tiny boots somewhere within the building. Correctly, Matt concluded that Finch was avoiding his apartment. He expected this, but a large part of him twinged with guilt. Matt would never forgive himself for that. The memory of a tiny, scared body squirming in his palm still made him shudder. Matt's hand clenched around the stairway railing. This is what he wanted: for his new neighbour to be gone. The traps worked as intended.

That was before he learned they were a person. Matt shouldn't have forgotten that trap.

It was raining when Matt put on the suit. Stepping outside, Matt craned his neck to feel the cool droplets on his exposed face. Ozone filled his nose, the pleasing scent of petrichor overpowering the usual exhaust and garbage. He walked to the edge and rested his gloved hands on the brick barrier that lined the perimeter of the roof. He tasted electricity building in the air before it snapped and released. Thunder rumbled down to the core of his bones and pressure filled his head as if he were under gallons of water. Each drop of rain that hit a surface was an endless pulse of sparks that lit up his senses. The imagery that his brain conjured was indescribable, but if he tried...

Memories before the accident rose to mind - unforgettable, yet faded with time - of grass rippling in the wind, rising and falling in cresting waves. This was how he perceived the world when it rained. Unlike pavement, the gravel underfoot was confusing, too many unpredictable gaps and edges for the rain to give him a solid picture of the stationary ground. Matt's hands fell at his sides as he simply existed, letting the rain pitter-patter over his armour.

Matt did not consciously register the other pitter-pattering blending among the falling raindrops. It was only as he stood there, listening...

Duh-dun, duh-dun.

...that Matt heard a very quiet, very sharp inhale behind him.

Duhdun-duhdun-duhdun.

And a teeny, tiny heartbeat racing faster than a rodent's.

Matt turned an ear toward the small form so far below, his own heart leaping. Quickly, he searched for something to say - anything. An apology? Matt wanted to clear the air - and he should mention the nail. Matt aimed his body toward Finch - not recognizing his error when the tiny form booked it the way they came.

Cursing internally, without thinking, Matt took a step in pursuit - and another. His lips were parted, but no words came out. He tasted the fear pumping through Finch's veins; he worried for their heart.

Matt stopped, realizing far too late what he was doing.

His final, thoughtless step hit the roof - before he did any more damage. He tracked the messy clattering of Finch desperately trying to get away; their puffing breaths as they slipped through a crack in the brick wall and sealed it behind them.

Matt dropped his head in shame, berating himself for being so stupid. What did he expect?! He was masked. He should have left them alone; should have pretended he didn't notice. How could Matt think confronting them now would end well? As Daredevil, in the dark? Finch ran from him like- well, like the Devil himself was on their tail. Matt rubbed his jaw. He considered poor Finch's perspective and his gloved fingers involuntarily curled. Matt turned his focus toward the city.

He needed something to punch.

Matt went straight to bed after washing the blood off his raw knuckles.

The morning after, the silence that filled his apartment wasn't unusual.

Taking the stairs because the elevator would never be fixed, Matt stopped for a moment. Underneath the clamour of other residents, he could not parse out the very distinct sounds of the smallest one.

Matt tried not to think about it. Work took his mind off the state of his roommate/squatter until he arrived home and habitually stopped midway up the stairwell.

Finch was not to be heard.

Uneasy, Matt climbed the last steps and unlocked his apartment. The mechanisms in the lock were louder than anything else. He shut the door gently, easing the handle into position. Slowly shedding his coat, Matt hooked it on a peg and toed off his shoes. He waited, listening for any tap or scrape that might indicate another presence.

Once, Matt might've been relieved for the emptiness of his home.

Matt sat down, his laptop and papers from work sprawled across the glass tabletop. He drummed his bandaged fingers on a steaming mug of tea. The bandages were a combined effort on Karen and Foggy's parts. The moment Foggy saw the evidence of Matt's nightly hobby, he didn't like it, going off about safety and self-care while Karen begrudgingly accepted that Matt was going to beat up thugs and pervs regardless of what they thought. She peeled the non-stick backs off the bandages while Foggy held Matt's bruised and callused hands with an iron grip. Foggy dabbed at his cuts with a damp cotton ball, taking a sadistic pleasure in Matt's wincing and weak attempts to escape the stinging, foul-smelling disinfectant.

"Reap what you sow, Matthew," Foggy had said. "Now stop moving or I'm gonna pour the whole bottle. You big baby."

Thinking back on those moments had Matt smiling. Sipping his mug of flowery tea, the warmth was a balm to his hands and spirit. He cradled the mug, resting it on his perched knee and absently rubbing the smooth ceramic over his chapped lips. The new cut on his bottom lip stung, but the heat felt nice. He was doing his best to ignore the endless cacophony of blaring traffic and yelling outside his window; Foggy told him absolutely no going out tonight, and though it pained him to his core, Matt would listen. He did too much listening.

In his head, Matt heard Claire's voice telling him that was the exact opposite of his problem. Another voice, this one unfamiliar, told him not to worry. Easy to say, harder to implement. Matt took another sip.

The unfamiliar voice spoke again - and this time, Matt realized it wasn't in his head. Lifting his chin, he tipped an ear toward the roof, a contemplative frown wrinkling his forehead. A pigeon cooed - and then another voice spoke.

Matt's spine snapped straight as he perked up like a dog whose just heard its favourite toy squeak. He knew that voice.

Finch was back.

Exhaling, Matt's shoulders slumped as the worry he'd been trying to shove down left his body. He didn't know why he cared so much that Finch was home, safe and sound and not scared off for good. Matt eavesdropped, curious about this other person. What did Finch call their kind...? 'Borrowers'? Was this borrower a friend, family, or perhaps something else? Where did Finch go to meet her? Who was she? And were they riding a pigeon?

So many questions, so little answers. Matt drank his tea.

Matt was wrong: Finch was scared. What context he gathered from their conversation clued him in that they'd gone for help - running from the Devil. Shutting his eyes, Matt sighed into his mug. He was relieved to hear Finch wouldn't be moving: Matt had another chance to make things right.

Matt set down his mug and focused on work. He kept an ear out and found himself smiling as he (un)intentionally eavesdropped on the pair up above. Whoever the stranger was, there were zero doubts in his mind that she liked Finch. And if he was reading those cues right, she'd just asked Finch on a date.

He was pretty sure Finch had no idea.

Matt's fingers felt over the upraised dots on his laptop keys as he typed, though by now he knew them from memory. He took his hand off the keyboard to skim the copy of their client's breached contract. As he did, Finch's final resigned statement reached him through the ceiling.

Matt took a pause, his fingers hovering over the braille. Never signed anything, huh?

Matt concealed his smile in another sip of tea. He just got an idea.