Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Mayra hates closing shift. Café del Sol closes at ten o’clock sharp, but cleaning up, tidying the register, replacing stock, and prepping for the next day all carry Mayra’s work day well past midnight. She always asks Mrs. Moreno to schedule her for openings or midshifts. Sadly, Mrs. Moreno doesn’t seem to give a shit about Mayra’s preferences. Since the café job pays above average wages in the bare-bones economy of Hell’s Kitchen, Mayra can’t bring herself to hold a grudge against her boss for the lack of safety precautions. Still, Mayra can’t help but wonder how Mrs. Morena herself would feel if she had to walk home alone on these streets so late at night.

On a typical night at the café, Jose would stay to help Mayra close even if he clocks out ahead of her. Tonight, Jose has to run home and watch his nieces and nephews so his sister can start her own shift at the hospital. Jose’s only eighteen, but he’s a sweet young man, and he values his coworkers’ safety. Plus, he and his folks came to the city from Columbia when he was eight. He’s a bit more street smart than the average teen. He always reminds Mayra to stay ready on her walk home. As he heads out the door this evening, he says, “Don’t forget to use Digilante if you need help, Mayra!”

“Okay, Jose! Bye!” Mayra’s too embarrassed to tell her coworker that she’s never downloaded the local-run protection app. Her phone is one of the cheapest models on the market, and Digilante is too sophisticated to run properly on its old interface. When she’s lucky, she gets a text from one of her friends giving her the heads-up about a Digilante sighting or warning.

Mayra focuses on her tasks and tries not to dwell on the fact that, without Jose, she’ll be walking home alone in Hell’s Kitchen at one in the morning. She almost finishes by twelve, but then she realizes she still needs to put all the cash in the safe and lock up the register. She has to slow down and count the bills twice, cursing under her breath when she loses count again. When she finally locks up the shop, it’s twelve forty-five. Her walk home is twenty minutes. By the time she can take a shower, brush her teeth, and do her skincare routine, it’ll be two. And she has the opening shift at five. Mayra sighs and rubs a hand against her face. “Misses Moreno owes me two Saturdays off next month,” she mutters. She pulls her illegal strength pepper spray from her bag and seats it firmly in her left fist. She tightens her ponytail and pulls the end through the elastic, making it hard to grab. Finally, she pulls her bag across her body and tucks it under her armpit. Then, she starts the winding walk home. It’s never quite the same route; Mayra makes sure of that. This time around, she takes the next street over versus her usual starting point.

Mayra makes it three blocks before she gets that creeping feeling like someone’s following her. She turns and watches the street behind her for a hot minute, but no one is there. She flicks the safety off her pepper spray just in case. One she starts moving again, she crosses the street and picks up the pace. Her work shoes are worn out, so she feels the concrete against the balls of her feet. It’s uncomfortable as hell, but she doesn’t slow down. I am not gonna be the dumbass who gets shanked in The Kitchen at ass o’clock in the morning, Mayra thinks to herself, or worse than shanked. She was in middle school when the traffickers moved into town and started abducting young women. She remembers their terrified faces plastered all over The Daily Bugle and The Bulletin. Back then, her mother had sucked her teeth and questioned whether those poor girls had gone out ‘looking for trouble’. That idea never sat right with Mayra—how was it a college girl’s fault if some morally bankrupt asshole saw her at the club and decided she could make him some easy money? Still, Mayra can only imagine her mother’s reaction if all her dire warnings about being out so late at night come true.

The sensation of a presence behind her returns. Mayra spins and looks carefully at the street. It seems deserted—she’s on the wrong avenue for late-night bars or all-night bodegas. She pulls the set of keys out of her pocket and shoves them between her fingers, pointy ends up forming makeshift weapons. She takes a deep breath, then she keeps moving. If she can just make it to her own street, she’ll be fine. There are more streetlights on her block.

The footsteps start about two minutes later. Mayra knows the sound is real because she isn’t the type to imagine things when she‘s uneasy. Once again, she turns around to check the street…

He’s standing about fifteen feet away, facing her with his hands down at his sides.

Mayra’s heard things about The Devil of Hell’s Kitchen. Who hasn’t? Jose and a few of the teens that come around the café for churros like to talk about him. They all talk about him like he’s a mythical beast capable of inhuman feats like lifting cars and flying without wings. Mrs. Morena herself once said she’d seen him sitting unnaturally still on the roof of the Clinton Parish church, watching her until she went inside her brother and sister-in-law’s apartment. Whenever she talks about Daredevil, Mrs. Moreno makes the sign of the cross. She also insists that every good parishioner in Hell’s Kitchen should wear a medal of Saint Benedict to ward off evil. This attitude toward Daredevil used to amuse Mayra. She’s always been certain that he’s just a weird man in a dramatic suit.

Tonight, however…Tonight, on a deserted street in the early morning hours, Daredevil truly looks more demon than human. He’s covered head to toe in blood red armor. He holds two short clubs in his gloved fists. His head tilts to the side in a way that reminds Mayra of a woodpecker listening to bugs in a tree trunk. Despite her daytime beliefs, Mayra finds herself listening to Mrs. Morena’s advice. She makes a shaky sign of the cross, then she touches the saint medallion her mother put on her keychain and promises God that she’ll go to Mass on her next free Sunday if she makes it home tonight.

Mayra summons her courage enough to open her mouth, to try and bark out a warning to leave her alone. Daredevil speaks before she can say a word. “Hi, miss.” His voice is surprisingly warm. “Is it all right if I walk you home?”

It takes Mayra’s adrenaline-addled brain a few seconds to process what he’s saying. The ghastly figure in front of her doesn’t match such respectful words. Once her brain sorts itself out, she stammers, “Oh—um—yeah, I guess?”

“Great.” Daredevil approaches her slowly, then he makes a point of crossing the street. He stands parallel to her, and unless he can move faster than the wind Mayra can sprint away from him if she needs to. “I’ll stay over here,” Daredevil says. “You just keep walking.”

“Uh, okay. Sure.” With nothing else to say, Mayra starts walking again. Silence falls between them, their footsteps a strange duet on the pavement. Daredevil keeps pace with her and keeps his head on a swivel, listening intently to the nighttime noises of The Kitchen.

They’re about five minutes from her apartment when Daredevil abruptly closes the distance between them. Mayra raises her pepper spray and blurts out, “Please don’t—"

“How far is it to your place?” Daredevil asks urgently.

“I’m not telling you that!”

“Okay, but is it nearby? Is it far?” Daredevil’s focus is not on Mayra. He’s looking behind them.

“It’s—it’s about five minutes from here,” Mayra concedes.

“You need to walk faster,” Daredevil says.

“Why?” Mayra asks.

“Can you walk faster or not, miss?”

Mayra doesn’t need more encouragement than that. She ignores her bad shoes and starts to run. Daredevil stays at her heels, keeping pace with her easily. She doesn’t even hear him breathe hard. They make it to her street in record time. As Mayra gasps for breath on her building’s front step, Daredevil doesn’t slow down; he grabs her keys, opens the front door, and brings them both inside. He shuts the door, locks it, and then he hands Mayra her keys. “Get to your apartment,” he says. “Lock all your doors and windows. I’ll wait here until you’re inside.”

“Okay,” Mayra gasps. She’s up the stairs and over her threshold before she remembers: She didn’t thank Daredevil for his escort. She looks out her window to see that blood-red figure vanish over an adjacent rooftop.

It’s dumb, but the next time Mayra has closing shift, she saves a perfectly good horchata one of the customers rejected, putting it in the cooler until she’s done locking up the register. When she’s ready to go, she takes the chilled drink and climbs up the building’s fire escape. Café Del Sol is on the bottom of a four-story building, so Mayra keeps a death grip on the railing as she ascends. Once she reaches the roof, she sets the horchata on the rooftop in plain sight. She places her pre-written sticky note on the cup, and then she makes her way back to street level. Once she’s back on solid ground, she cups her hands around her mouth and yells, “Daredevil! I saved an Horchata for you! It’s up on the roof!” Then she sheepishly slinks away, convinced she’s now the neighborhood crazy. She has no idea if Daredevil likes horchata, if he would accept a mysterious drink laid on a rooftop, or if he’ll even come by this area tonight. She just hopes he takes her note as a sign of appreciation for what he did for her on that night.

When she gets to work the next day, Mayra takes thirty seconds to check the rooftop. The horchata is gone. In its place is an unopened can of Mexican cola. Grinning, Mayra takes the bottle.

“Daredevil walked me home one night,” Mayra confesses to her friends. They’re at Josie’s bar, having a few drinks after work. The only exception is Jose, who’s drinking a can of ginger ale in deference to his age. Mayra’s other coworker Sonya tagged along, as did Sonya’s boyfriend Derek, and Mayra’s cousins Ricardo and Juanita. As her companions lean in to hear her story, Mayra wets her whistle with her blue-collar beer. “It was closing shift, right? I didn’t lock up ‘til twelve-thirty, so I was out on the streets at one. I hear these footsteps behind me, and when I look, he’s just standing there—like a ghost. He walked with me all the way down Ninth, and then he told me to walk faster. So, obviously I started running! Then he gets me in the building and tells me to lock up quick. It was crazy.”

Sonya sits up from her slump on the bar. “My friend Daniela said he walked her home from the club once when she was so wasted she could hardly see.”

“Oh, yeah?” Mayra says. “Is it a thing, then? A thing he does?”

“For sure,” Jose chimes in. “Daredevil’s a real man. He’s gonna protect the women. My older sister, Amira—Mayra knows her—she says Daredevil walked her home from our uncle’s house one night when she was in eighth grade.”

“When the traffickers started up?” Mayra confirms.

“Yeah, I think so,” Jose says. “That was about when people started noticing Daredevil, too. Me and my friends used to look for him. We’d sit on the fire escape and watch the rooftops.”

“Back when he wore the black gym clothes,” Derek says.

“Wait!” Mayra’s mouth drops open. “That guy was Daredevil?”

“You don’t remember?” Derek asks. “He still wears it sometimes. You remember back when that poser went in, killed all those people at The Bulletin? And the douchebag feds tried to pin it all on Daredevil?”

“I lived in Brooklyn for a minute,” Mayra explains herself.

“Well, some jackhole dressed in the Daredevil suit killed a bunch of reporters—”

“And Father Lantom, the priest,” Sonya adds with a shudder. “Mom was beside herself that week.”

“We all were,” Derek says. “But then they arrest the guy, and it turns out it was a crooked fed the whole time. Daredevil was the one who trapped him for the feds, and he did it all in those gym clothes.”

“You know, some people still think Daredevil did all that shit,” Ricardo says, casually.

“No,” Mayra says, immediately. “No way. Why would he waste his time walking girls home if he was a psycho murderer?” She doesn’t mention the horchata-cola exchange out of embarrassment.

“Maybe he just wanted to know where those girls live, chica,” Ricardo sneers.

“Don’t be a creep, Ricardo,” Juanita says.

Ricardo puts his hands in the air. “I’m just saying! The guy is an asshole! He beats the shit out of people on the regular!”

“He beats down traffickers and terrorists,” Mayra snaps. “Not random dudes on the street. And I’ve never heard about him hurting a woman. Not once.”

“I feel like a hooker got it once,” Derek muses. “Didn’t Double D throw one out a window?”

“Nah, that lady came at him first,” Sonya says. “She tried to stomp Daredevil out. I remember Consuelo talking about that once. She used to work across the street from that lounge. Some of the girls there were crazy. Hopped up on stuff, you know.”

“That doesn’t mean they deserved the Daredevil treatment,” Derek says.

“Don’t start no shit, and there won’t be no shit,” Sonya says, wisely. “We all know how it goes down here in The Kitchen.”

 Jose nods. “You don’t eff around unless you really want to find out.”

“No thanks to the cops,” Ricardo snorts. “The dudes who should actually be cleaning up the streets.”

“The cops can’t keep up,” Mayra says, in the police officers’ defense. “Besides, they got to do it all by the book. Daredevil doesn’t have to fool with due process.”

“Yeah, and neither do crooks,” Ricardo says.

“We should be glad Daredevil lives in our neighborhood,” Mayra says. “Can you imagine what this place would be like without him?”

None of her companions gainsay her.

Chapter Text

The High Life is alight with flashing strobes, booming bass, and excited shouts. Behind the velvet rope of the VIP section, the usual crowd of off-duty models, up-and-coming club promotors, and affluent patrons hang around a marble top table. In the center of the table, a heap of empty bottles grows ever taller. When a cocktail waitress comes by to clean up the mess, Aaron hands her one of the hundred-dollar bills a businessman tossed in his bid to impress the models. The waitress smiles at him, and Aaron smiles back. Then he drinks his last shot of the night and adds the glass to the pile on the waitress’s tray.

“Aaron!” a voice calls from the other end of the room, and Aaron looks up. One of the newer club kids bounds around the table and slings an arm around his neck. Aaron can’t even remember the guy’s name. “Hey, are you headed out?”

“Yeah. I’m drunk enough.” Aaron points to the shot glass atop the waitress’s tray. “That was my last lemon drop.”

“Denny said you needed some of the new shit before you go,” the newcomer says, as he holds out a dissolvable tablet. “He’s doing a survey or something. Like it’s real science.”

Aaron takes the pill. As it fizzles on his tongue, he says, “You know they started posting about Denny on Digilante?”

“So?”

“So, I don’t want to get cross-posted on there. That’s dangerous.”

The new kid laughs. “Dude, seriously? You’re a club promoter. You’re gonna be on people’s socials.” With those parting words, he jogs back to his friends at their own table.

Aaron leaves The High Life right on time, after the influencers’ last selfies and before the last call for drinks. The world tips crazily around him as he fishes in his faux-leather pants for his metro card. Once he locates the card, he leans against the building and takes a second to remember which subway station is safest for sleeping. In Hell’s Kitchen, the pickings are slim as far as safe stations, but he decides he can just train hop tonight. Cat naps on a hard bench beat sleeping under the wrong awning, at least in this part of town.

Aaron only makes it half a block before the world greys out. His head feels like it floated away from his body. He reaches blindly for a wall or light post to anchor himself, but all he touches is empty air. Before he can faceplant onto the sidewalk, strong arms catch him and pull him back onto his feet. The person who holds him upright smells like sweat and the air that drifts over the Hudson. The body against Aaron’s is hard and unyielding, and the hands that keep him steady are full of tensile strength. These sensations remind Aaron of growing up and going to work with his father on the docks. His dad could carry three Aarons’ worth of mooring rope over one shoulder.

“Dad?” Aaron mutters. He’s too far gone on hard liquor and whatever Denny’s club kid slipped him to realize how stupid he sounds. He reaches up and touches the face attached to those strong arms. He encounters a solid jaw and full, chapped lips. “Dad?”

There’s a gust of breath by his ear, and then an unfamiliar male voice says gently, “Not your dad, kid. Sorry.” The guy has a much nicer voice than Aaron’s dad ever did. Smoking for twenty years clogs up the throat.

“Oh.” Aaron’s laugh is muddled. “Yeah. Shoulda known. Dad doesn’t care about me.” He plunks drunkenly at his mesh shirt, trying to work it out from under his armpits. “To be fair to Dad, nobody cares about me.”

“I care about you,” the man says.

Aaron laughs again. “Yeah? Why? You want to screw me?” The time for rationality passed three drinks back. He’s just saying anything at this point, and he would do anything, too. The hands holding him up are insanely strong, but they feel careful. It’d probably be all right if those hands touched him under his clothes. And the guy does have a nice voice. Besides, Aaron could use a place to stay for the night. He’s had worse, and he’ll have worse later, for sure.

“Kid,” the man sighs, “you are very drunk. And high.”

“That’s how they like me,” Aaron says.

He trips over his own feet, but the man doesn’t let him slip. “Let’s get you home,” the man says. “What’s your address?”

Aaron gives him the last address he remembers. It’s his friend Nadia’s place. Nadia’s different from Aaron’s other friends. She doesn’t require alternate forms of payment to lend him her couch for the night. Nadia’s gay, and she’s been where Aaron’s been; her mother threw her out when she was sixteen. Nadia told Aaron he could crash at her place any time. He never meant to test that reassurance so literally, but tonight he will.

Once he has an address, the man says, “Okay, that’s not far from here. We’ll make this quick.” He steps close and wraps Aaron’s arms around his neck.

Aaron lets him. He even leans into that strangely rigid body, and he tucks his face up under that sharp jawline. “Hey,” he says, as sexily as he can.

“Hey, yourself,” the man says distractedly. “Stop that. I’m trying to work.”

Aaron pulls his mouth away from the exposed skin above a plastic neckline. He feels something curl tight against his wrists. “Hey, man, what are you doing?” he asks, uneasily.

“Just hold on.” Suddenly, the man’s body tenses under him, then it curls up like a cat, and then it leaps. Aaron’s feet leave the ground, and he’s airborne. The sidewalk disappears, and the wind rushes into his face as he smashes into the man’s body. “Oh, my god!” Aaron tries to scream, but all he can manage is a tiny shriek. He tries to clutch at the man’s back, but his arms are bound too tightly for him to flex. He slings his legs around the guy’s hips instead, locking his ankles behind his back. As they dangle over the streets of Hell’s Kitchen, the realization slaps Aaron in the face: He knows exactly who this man is. “The D-Devil,” he gasps. “You’re The Devil!”

The quick chuckle in Aaron’s ear doesn’t reassure him. Now that they’re crushed together face-to-face, Aaron’s liquor-washed eyes finally take in his rescuer. He screams again when he looks right into a pair of blank scarlet eyepieces set into a crimson mask. “Maybe that’ll bring you to your senses,” says The Devil of Hell’s Kitchen, with far too much amusement. “It’s a hell of a sober-up tactic, but it’s all we’ve got.”

“No, no,” Aaron gasps, “I’m sorry—I only stole that guy’s credit card to buy food! And—and he had six more in his wallet—he wasn’t going to miss it—”

“Hey.” The Devil frowns as he launches them onto the next rooftop.

Aaron babbles on. “And I only slept in those kids’ apartment one night! I made sure I left everything where I found it! I didn’t steal anything! I had to hide from my ex, or he was going to kill me, I swear—”

“Kid,” The Devil tries to say.

“I’m not a bad person,” Aaron says. He’s embarrassed to feel tears slip down his face. “Please, don’t hurt me.”

“I’m not going to hurt you,” The Devil says. He lands them both on a rooftop, then he lets Aaron scramble away from him. “Be careful. You’re about three feet from the edge.”

Without those steely arms holding him up, Aaron stumbles and falls to his knees. When he catches himself on his hands, he feels the rough rooftop scrape his palms. The flimsy fake leather on his pants’ leg splits open at the knees, but he doesn’t care. He cowers and waits for The Devil to do his job. Aaron could hold his own in a one-on-one against a regular guy, but he doesn’t have a prayer of stopping The Devil that can take on six armed men and win. He shuts his eyes and grits his teeth. This isn’t the first time Aaron’s been beaten within an inch of his life, and knowing how much his ex hates him, it won’t be the last. If he can get past the first punch, he’ll be all right. He usually floats away after that, carried high on a cloud of disassociation until his attacker finishes. It’s how he survives.

That first strike never comes. Instead, The Devil kneels beside him and waits for Aaron to stop shaking. He waits until the liquor in Aaron’s stomach surges up his throat and onto the rooftop. He waits until Aaron’s arms give out and he tips sideways into those red-clad arms. “I’m not going to hurt you,” Daredevil says again. This time--as the back of a rough scarlet glove scrapes drying vomit off his face—Aaron believes him.

In the morning, he wakes up on Nadia’s couch. Aaron doesn’t remember arriving at her apartment, or getting out of his club gear, or changing into some of Nadia’s old clothes. As Nadia makes him some fried eggs and a virgin bloody Mary, she tells him the story. Daredevil showed up on her fire escape last night, and he wouldn’t quit knocking on the window until she got up to take Aaron inside. The vigilante stood out there for another ten minutes until Nadia undressed and changed Aaron, and he still wouldn’t leave until Nadia assured him that Aaron didn’t have alcohol poisoning. Then, the devil in the red suit had vanished into the darkness without further ado, no doubt off to rescue another hapless club kid who had one too many free samples.

“Most exciting thing I’ve experienced in a while,” Nadia says, as she plates Aaron’s breakfast. “And I was here when the Chitauri attacked.”

“I thought he was my dad,” Aarons blurts out. He goes red-faced. “I—I called him Dad.” He puts his face in his hands. “God, that’s so embarrassing.”

Nadia’s hand hovers over the burner knob for a moment, then she shuts off the stove. “Nah,” she says easily, “the only one who should be embarrassed is your dad. He’s the one who kicked you out at fifteen. Makes him a lousy excuse for a parent.”

Aaron feels the shame in his chest retreat just a hair. He can breathe again. “That was four years ago,” he says. “I should be over it.”

“Over your only family cutting you off?” Nadia shakes her head. “Sorry, kiddo, but that hurt lasts.” She hands him the plate of eggs and a piece of toast.

Aaron thanks her and digs into the food, eating ravenously. He’s three-quarters of the way through his meal when he sits back to sip some of the hangover drink. As his lips leave the straw, he muses, “Was I imagining things, or was Daredevil like…really hot?”

“I don’t salivate over dudes,” Nadia says. “No matter how cut they are.”

“Okay, but he was objectively hot, right? That wasn’t the booze?”

Nadia grabs her coffee muff the counter with a sigh. “It wasn’t the booze.”

“Oh, no,” Aaron says, in horror.

“What?” Nadia asks. “What’s the issue?”

“I felt him up, Nadia,” Aaron moans, in agony. “Then he watched me puke. And he was hot.”

“Awkward,” Nadia says, sympathetically. “But it happens to the best of us. especially when we’re young and dumb.”

“I wish he let me fall off the roof,” Aaron says, as he stretches out over the bar in despair.

“Not funny, Aaron,” Nadia says, sharply. Then she sighs again. “He’s too old for you, anyway. And at best, he’s an unexplored bisexual. At worst, he’s a full-blown ladies’ man.”

“How could you possibly know his sexuality from speaking with him for two minutes?”

Nadia sips her coffee with an air of wisdom. “When you reach gay seniority as I have, you too might have such a fine-tuned gaydar.”

“Please, Nadia. You’re not old.”

“I’m happy to be old,” Nadia says. “Age is a badge of honor in Hell’s Kitchen.” She finishes off her own plate of eggs and sits beside Aaron at the bar. “I almost bought it when I was younger. Ran into some evil people back in my grad school days. I wasn’t even partying. I was headed home from my bodega job. You know who saved me?”

“Daredevil?” Aaron breathes.

“Yep. This was back when he first started showing up in the neighborhood. He started causing problems for the gangs.”

“How did he save you?” Aaron asks.

“Snuck into the back of the van where they threw me,” Nadia says. Her fingers tighten on the coffee mug at the dark memory. “He was so quiet, I didn’t realize he was there until his hands were cutting me loose from the zip ties. He dragged me out and hid me behind a dumpster while my abductors tried their hardest to kill him. I didn’t see the fight—thank God. I just saw when he came limping back to help me stand up and run home.”

“Wow,” Aaron says. “How many people in this neighborhood owe Daredevil some kind of debt?”

“Enough,” Nadia says. “Enough for people to refuse to disclose any information about him to the cops…or to Kingpin’s people. I saw a granny face down an enforcer who was three times her size. The guy wanted to know Daredevil’s whereabouts.”

Aaron shakes his head. “That’s—that’s stupid. Nobody really owes him anything. He’s just crazy, right? He likes beating up crooks and causing problems. We just happen to profit from his weird hobby.”

Nadia gives him a look. “Really? That’s your stance on Daredevil? The dude just carried you eight blocks and refused to leave until he knew you’d be okay.”

Aaron shifts uncomfortably. “And?”

“You don’t owe him, per se,” Nadia concedes. Her fingers drum on the bar. “But you could try a little gratitude on for size.”

“I wish he’d just banged me,” Aaron sighs. “Then we could call it even.”

Nadia grimaces. “Aaron. Having sex with somebody who’s falling-down drunk isn’t sex. It isn’t cashing in a favor. It’s rape. And Daredevil wouldn’t do shit like that.” As Aaron flushes in shame, Nadia softens her voice. “There actually are decent men out there who just want to help people like us. Daredevil is one of them.” She chuckles. “Even if he is painfully straight.”

“You really think a guy who runs around in a tight red demon costume is super straight?” Aaron asks, with a laugh. “It seems unlikely to me.”

“Better not get your hopes up, kid,” Nadia says.

“Why?”

“Because I got the hots for Jessica Jones.” Nadia drains her coffee mug. “I figured a woman with her dress sense and a scowl dark enough to scare the subway rats had to be a lesbian.” Her face falls into a dreamy expression. “Damn. Those dark-washed jeans.”

“But?” Aaron prompts.

“But I got a front row seat to her make-out session with a man built like a Tonka Truck, and I very quickly learned the error of my ways. And that was that.” With that, Nadia rises to go clean the stove, and Aaron contemplates the wisdom of his friend’s advice.

Chapter Text

One day, out of nowhere: Chi forgets everything.           

He looks at the cramped, tidy living room around him, and he doesn’t recognize it. He doesn’t know the faces of the people in the picture frames. He doesn’t remember the older lady whose picture is placed on a tiny altar in the corner of the room. He doesn’t even recognize the scent of the incense sticks on the altar itself. The furnishings in the living room and the appliances in the economy-sized kitchen all seem too modern for the times. He remembers living in a house with bare floors and a wood-burning stove. The sounds of a radio station playing from down the hallway, the rainfall of a shower faucet echoing along with the music, and the sound of a young woman’s voice raised in song make him oddly unsettled. In his bewilderment, he ties up his maroon silk robe, puts on his outdoor shoes, and flees this foreign space. It turns out the living room belongs to an apartment on the eighth floor of a narrow building that leans into the wind. Chi forgets to lock the apartment door, and he forgets that he’ll need a key to get back into the lobby. The exterior door clicks shut behind him, and he is lost in a concrete jungle.

It's nighttime in this frightening world. Glaring lights from billboards, overhead lamps, and passing cars make Chi squint into the shadows. Towering buildings rise up all around him, obscuring the skyline. These cold, grey facades make Chi think of jagged slate cliffs robbed of any natural beauty. They look like daggers plunged deep into the earth. There are so many people on the street hurrying underneath these buildings. None of the people look familiar. They barely give him a glance as he stumbles along, trying to get his bearings. His sandal catches on a stray crack in the sidewalk, and he falls to one knee. Before he can push himself up, someone’s hip bumps into his shoulder, and he sprawls onto the pavement like fruit from a grocery sack.

Chi manages to get back onto his feet. He rubs at his knee as it bleeds, then he decides to find a street sign to help him navigate his surroundings. He heads for the nearest intersection. On the way there, he gets distracted by the sweet-oily smell of fried dough. The pastry shop on the corner is close to the intersection, so he doesn’t go too far out of his way to peer in the window. The pastry case is bare except for a few stray doughnuts. Chi pushes the door open anyway.

“Sorry, sir,” the man at the counter says, “we’re closing in five.” It takes Chi a moment to recall that he can speak English. He tries Vietnamese first. “Um, sorry, sir,” the man says, again, “I don’t know what you’re saying.”

At last, the right words come to him. “My mother would make the best doughnuts,” Chi says. “I could eat ten of them.” 

The man smiles. “My mom taught me everything I know about food. What would we do without them, huh?”

The memory hits Chi like a tidal wave. “She died,” he says, and the pain is fresh. “Nineteen seventy. Heart attack, we think. We weren’t sure.”

“Sorry to hear that,” the storekeeper says, as he wipes down the counter. “You want a doughnut for the road, sir? I’m about to lock the door.”

“We had to bury her at night,” Chi says, “so the marines wouldn’t see us. They would have thought we were up to no good. They would have shot us or worse. Because we were boys, you know.” He looks hard at the man’s rich, dark skin and clean uniform. “Were you ever a soldier?”

The man pauses with his hand in the pastry case. “Not so much,” he says as he pulls out a cinnamon sugar doughnut. He hands it to Chi, who takes it gratefully. “Just got into some bad shit as a kid. I almost did time for it, too. But I got my head screwed on straight in the nick of time. I got to thank my big sis for that. She slapped the stupid right out of me.” He makes his own scrutiny of Chi, and he seems to detect some flaw in Chi’s appearance. “Hey, sir. Are you feeling okay? You look like you got dressed in a hurry. Is everything all right?”

“Thank you for the doughnut,” Chi says. “I don’t want to keep you open late. I’ll come back soon.”

“Hey, wait!” the man protests.

Chi backs out of the door and keeps on walking down the street. He forgets about his plan to read the street signs. Instead, he just goes where his feet take him. It makes no difference where he goes, after all. He doesn’t know this city. He passes a jewelry store, a hat store, a bail bondsman office, two pawn shops, four churches, and too many restaurants to count. At the gilded window of a lush private bank, he stops to peer in at the dark wooden bookcases and green glass lamps. “Their machines are outdated,” he mutters to himself as he eyes the ATM and countertop computers. “We upgraded our entire system years ago. Some ritzy bank this is.”

The shadows darken even further as Chi takes his wandering stroll. He glimpses the time in a shop window: It’s past eleven. Despite the late hour, Chi isn’t tired at all. He feels a pressing need to keep walking. Maybe if he walks long enough, some corner of this big city will stick out to him, and he’ll be able to go home. He crosses many streets and battles a couple cars for space between intersections. The cars honk angrily at him as they speed off into the night. Chi misses the motorbike he used to drive. As he wends his way through the city, the streets start to change. Elderly brick replaces crisp concrete, cracks appear on the sidewalks, and fire escapes zigzag toward the pavement like witches’ fingers. The number of people that jostle Chi on the sidewalk dwindles. The air moistens with the presence of the nearby glinting river. Without knowing it, Chi runs into a dead end: He comes upon a series of bleak, weathered warehouses that butt against concrete docks. Wind funnels over the water, whooshing like giant’s breath over the buildings. Chi stops walking before he gets to the river’s edge. He knows better than to get too close to moving water when he’s all alone at night. Besides, this river smells.

His walk lost its charm a few blocks back. Chi surveys the buildings around him and tries to locate a landmark that would help him find his way back to his home. He doesn’t see any familiar lines in the warehouses, and the roofs are no help either. He recognizes the faraway spire of the Empire State Building, but his immediate surroundings are all foreign to him. He decides to try and walk toward that one familiar waypoint when the wind stirs the edge of a shape on the roof of one of the warehouses above him. Chi freezes in place and stares hard at that shape.

There’s a man up on that roof. Chi can make out the shape of his head and shoulders as they rise above the peak of the metal sheeting. The long, thin silhouette in front of the man’s head makes Chi’s stomach lurch. That’s a rifle. Chi would know that shape anywhere. He’s seen it many times, rearing up from the forest floor like the head of the world’s deadliest snake. The man on the roof has a rifle pointed somewhere at the streets below, and judging by his stillness and silence, he knows just how to use it. That isn’t some amateur marksman up there. Chi must warn the people of this village about the danger lurking above them. He opens his mouth and screams, “Look out! Look out! There’s a soldier! He’s got a gun!” He looks around to see if anyone might be in reach of the bullets. “Hide! Hide! There’s a soldier with a rifle up there!”

When he checks the soldier’s position, Chi is alarmed to find the man gone. The roof is empty. He spins around and around, trying to trace the threat hiding in all the darkened corners along the street. He searches for a weapon, for a rock or a broken bottle. Even a piece of lumber would be better than nothing. By the time he finds a little piece of jagged glass wedged against a warehouse wall, it’s too late. The scuff of a solid sole behind him makes Chi turn quickly, and he beholds the tall figure of a man dressed in black fatigues, combat boots, and a bulletproof vest. The man heads straight for him from across the road. His walk holds too much confidence, and his face holds too little expressiveness. Chi has met men like this before.  

“Get lost,” Chi calls, with as much vehemence as he can manage.

The man doesn’t leave. He asks, “Were you the one yelling?”

“Get lost! I don’t want to talk to you!”

“What are you doing out here?” The man asks. “It’s eleven at night, and this is Hell’s Kitchen.”

“Are you deaf?” Chi asks, rhetorically. “I told you to leave me alone!” He clutches the piece of glass tighter in his hand. Against this man, such a makeshift weapon would probably be worthless, but it still gives him a sense of safety.

“I can’t leave,” the man says, matter of fact. “It’s damn near midnight, sir. And this is Hell’s Kitchen. And you’re out here near the docks screaming about guns.”

“I don’t know what Hell’s Kitchen is!” Chi says.

The man blinks. “Do you know where you are now?”

“I don’t care!” Chi snaps. “I want you to leave me the hell alone!”

“Okay.” The man rubs his forehead. “This might be a real problem.” He steps a bit closer to Chi, but Chi jumps back immediately.

“You’re a US Marine,” Chi says. His body quivers with the urge to run, but he knows better. To a man like this marine, if the enemy runs, that’s an admission of guilt. Chi hasn’t done anything wrong, so he stands his ground.  

The man looks surprised. “How did you know—”

“I don’t like Marines,” Chi says, roughly. “I don’t trust Marines. Get away from me.”

“Sir—”

Chi brandishes the piece of glass clutched in his fist. “I said get away from me!”

The man holds out his hands in a conciliatory gesture. “Look. You’re right. I’m a Marine. But I’m not here to hurt you—”

“Bullshit,” Chi snaps. “Liar! I saw you—I saw you up on that building! You had a big rifle! You’re here to kill the villagers!”

The man’s face loses all expression, but it’s not from anger. Chi knows the look of a man trying to bury his memories behind a locked jaw and hard eyes. He’s seen it many times. The marine keeps his hands out. “I’m not armed now, right? Do you see a gun anywhere?”

“I know you people,” Chi scoffs. “You have knives. You have gas. You don’t need a gun.”

The marine shakes his head. “You seem like you need some help, and I want to help you. Do you know where you are?”

“I don’t need your help! I’m just fine!”

The man gestures to the darkened buildings around them. “This part of town isn’t safe. It looks sketchy, right?” Chi can’t deny this point, but he doesn’t answer. “That’s why I have a gun,” the man says. “This is a dangerous borough. Dangerous people are out here causing trouble. Does that make sense? I’m not here to kill innocent people. I try not to do that.”

“You killed my people,” Chi says. “How am I supposed to believe you?”

The man walks a bit closer. “We need to take you back to your house or apartment. Do you know your address?”

“Like I’d tell you where I live!” Chi doesn’t know his address. He doesn’t even know if he lives in this city. Either way, he’s not telling this Marine anything.

The marine gives a deep, weary sigh. Then he reaches into his pocket and pulls out a phone. He swipes around on the screen for a minute, then he makes a call. “Red,” he says into the phone, “I need you to come over to the docks. There’s an old man here, and he’s…” He looks at Chi for a moment before saying, quietly, “he thinks I’m active duty…from Vietnam.” There’s a moment of silence as the man on the other end of the phone speaks, then the marine says, “Yes, obviously, there’s more than a little confusion going on here. And he won’t let me get within ten feet of him. We’re twenty minutes out from Towers’s big heroin bust. He needs to go home, Red.”

“Who are you radioing?” Chi demands. He looks around, expecting to see a whole squad of Marines descending over the rooftops in full battle gear. All he sees is the cold, pale moon above him, and all he hears is the river as it laps against the sides of the docks.

“I’m not going anywhere,” the marine says impatiently into his phone. “I’ll keep an eye on him. I’m not about to leave a guy with Alzheimer’s out here alone on the docks, Red. Come on.”

Alzheimer’s. That word rises in Chi’s mind like a buoy on rough seas, bouncing and weaving around on a tenuous tether of memory. He thinks at some point he had a good idea of what that word meant, but it’s unclear now. It seems like he fears that word—he hates it—but he doesn’t know why. If this hard-eyed marine knows it and uses it, it can’t be good. Nothing good ever came from a marine’s mouth, not in Chi’s experience.

“Just get here,” the marine says, “and fast.” He hangs up the phone. When he turns back to Chi, he stands with his arms folded and his head tipped to the sky. He sighs again. “Look, sir. We got to get you home before things kick off here by the docks. It would really help if you could tell me what block you live on.”

“Go to hell,” Chi says. He doesn’t know why he says it. He rarely says such rude things.

The marine just snorts in amusement. “Pretty feisty for a guy your age.”

“I could kick your ass,” Chi retorts, boldly. It’s a lie. Chi couldn’t have ever kicked this marine’s ass. It’s why his older brother Nguyen sent Chi to Saigon and then stayed behind to fight. Chi still wonders what happened to Nguyen. Did Nguyen ever make it out of Vietnam?

The marine falls silent as Chi’s thought descend into memories of his homeland. The tall, hard-angled man sits on the seat of a nearby forklift and watches Chi with his fathoms-deep eyes. When Chi starts to feel uneasy and he begins to pace on the docks, the marine lifts his chin and starts singing a song Chi knows well. The marine sings, ‘Beautiful Noise’ by Neil Diamond. He carries the melody alone for a moment until Chi finds himself singing along.

They’ve just come around to the third chorus when the marine stands and jumps off the forklift. Chi startles and gets ready to run away. “Thanks, Frank,” a voice says from behind Chi. “I’ll take it from here.”

Chi spins around to see a demon standing behind him. It’s shaped like a man, but so are many creatures from legend. Its blood-red armor, gleaming red eyes, and pale skin remind Chi of a poisonous insect. The demon must be one of the spirits that make this part of town so dark and imbalanced. When he turns back to the street, Chi watches the figure of the marine fade back into the shadows. Perhaps the marine is also a spirit, a stranded soul haunted by war and grief. The ghost marine was right, as ghosts usually are. Chi needs to go home now. He doesn’t want to stay in this spirit-infested borough one more second. This place is full of guns and ghosts and grinning demons. If only he knew where home is.

With trembling fingers, Chi takes the cinnamon sugar doughnut from his robe pocket and holds it out to the demon. “Please,” he says, with as polite a tone as he can manage, “this is all I have. It’s not much, but please take my offering and go in peace. When I return home, I’ll place more offerings on my porch for you.”

The demon says, “A doughnut?” He sounds confused.

“It’s a pitiful offering, I know,” Chi says. “I’m sorry. Please don’t be angry. I’ll set a whole feast out for you when I get home. Please keep your anger away from my family, spirit.” He doesn’t dare to call this demon what it is, not to its face. That could greatly anger some demons. The demon’s head tips forward, and it takes the doughnut with gentle fingers. It barely touches Chi’s skin. Chi bows deeply as the demon hesitates with the doughnut held in its hands. “Please eat this offering, and go in peace,” he says again, in case this demon needs extra deference to leave him alone. Spirits are temperamental and unpredictable beings.

“Thank you,” the demon says, and takes a bite of the doughnut. “What’s your name, sir?” it asks, as it eats.

“I’m nobody important,” Chi defers. “Just a bank teller.”

“Do you live around here?” the demon asks.

Chi can’t answer. He suddenly needs to be home. He looks around at the warehouses and scaffolding. He stares out over the river. “I don’t know where I live,” he finally admits. He’s horrified to feel tears brim in his eyes. Showing weakness to a demon could be a fatal mistake!

The demon finishes the doughnut off, then it comes forward and kneels in front of Chi. It takes Chi’s hand as gently as it took the doughnut. “I’ll take you home,” it says, in a steady voice. “And you don’t have to leave me any offerings. I serve the people here in this city. It’s my honor to take you home.”

Chi has no choice but to accept the demon’s offer. “If you would be so kind, spirit,” he says, and bows again. He sniffles and tries not to cry. “I’ve been walking for hours. My knees hurt.”

“Let’s find where you belong.” The demon stands. He leans in close, breathing in and out like a meditating monk. It almost seems as though the demon is scenting him like a hunting hound would its prey. Chi bears this odd behavior as bravely as he can. When a minute passes and the demon doesn’t move, Chi shuffles anxiously from foot to foot. “I think you live on the Lower East Side,” the demon says in surprise. “No wonder your knees hurt.”

“Is it far?” Chi asks. “Can you spare the time to guide me? If you’re too busy, just give me directions. I can make it.”

“I’m not busy,” the demon says, with a smile. “Let’s get you home.”

The demon leads Chi on a strange journey. First, they walk on the oppressive streets of the place called Hell’s Kitchen. The demon’s straight-backed posture dissolves into a catlike stalk the further they go into the shadows. No one bothers them, but Chi knows that’s because the demon’s aura fairly crackles with defensive energy. He must be a powerful entity, Chi muses. Once they cross a bigger intersection, the demon puts Chi’s hand in the crook of his elbow and leads him underground. They descend a set of stairs and walk into a fluorescent-lit subway station. The demon makes no effort to hide himself other than to stick to the darkened side of the platform, so Chi finds it odd that the people around them seem oblivious to the demon’s presence. They all glance at their watches or tap away at their phone screens.

One young woman looks up and watches Chi and the demon with an intrigued look her face. She stares at them until the next subway car pulls up and the demon ushers Chi onto one of its plastic bench seats. The young woman stays on the platform, but she waves to Chi as the car launches itself over the ground cables. Chi wants to wave back, but he’s too wary of upsetting his eldritch companion to make any sudden moves. The subway car screeches along the ground at a worrisome speed. Chi clutches the seat under him with both hands and tries not to make any noises. The demon sits ramrod straight beside him, but he reaches over and puts Chi’s hand back in the crook of his elbow. Chi can’t help but clutch at the rigid, chitin-like armor that covers the demon’s arm.

They ride the subway for what seems like hours, but the voice that crackles through the car from an unknown source informs Chi that it’s only been an hour or so since the ghost of the marine sent the demon to find him. Finally, the demon stands and takes Chi along with him as he steps out of the subway car, onto another platform, and up another set of stairs. When they emerge onto sidewalk level, Chi is bewildered by the change in scenery and the different rhythm of these streets. The demon stops outside a laundromat, then he leans in and puts his face close to Chi’s own. The heat of the demon’s breath on Chi’s skin feels like dragon fire against the cool morning air. “We’re close,” the demon tells him. “Does anything look familiar around here?”

Chi examines the street. In the distance, he sees an edifice that niggles some hidden part of his brain. He points to the boxy, irregular shape. “That’s a museum,” he says. “I think it’s close to my house.”

“All right. The New Museum it is.” The demon leads him toward the museum. They take side streets and avoid any bright lights, but they make a fairly straight path in that direction. The demon stops twice more to smell the air, then he smells Chi one more time. When he guides Chi forward, he gains a bit more purpose in his stride. Chi doesn’t know how it happens, but once they turn another corner, he suddenly knows the street name, the numbers of the buildings around him, and the direction of the apartment he shares with his daughter. He’s so relieved to be near home that he breaks away from the demon.

“Dad!” A woman’s voice cries.

Chi looks up to see his first familiar sight in what feels like days: His youngest daughter Nguyen is running down the street toward him. Her long hair bounces in her wake. She’s dressed in sweatpants and a baggy T-shirt. Somehow, this fact consumes Chi’s mind. “Nguyen,” he scolds her, as she flings her arms around him, “you can’t wear that kind of thing outside! Your mother would be so embarrassed!”

“Dad, where have you been?” Nguyen sobs into his shoulder. “I’ve been so worried!”

“I took a walk,” Chi says. “There was a nice young man in a doughnut shop.”

“It’s midnight!” Nguyen says.

“So? I came back, didn’t I?”

Nguyen shakes her head. “You disappeared at seven! Where have you been all this time?!”

“I just told you,” Chi says. “A doughnut shop. I would show you the doughnut I bought, but it’s gone. I had to make an offering to the neighborhood demon.”

Nguyen wipes her face, then she looks hard into Chi’s eyes. “A demon, Dad? Are you seeing demons?”

“No, not usually. This one showed up behind me by the docks. When I made him the offering, he said he’d bring me home. I think he could smell where I came from.”

“Oh,” Ngyuen breathes, and her eyes widen. “Dad, this demon wear red? Did he have horns on his head?”

“You’ve seen him too?” Chi asks. He’s a bit relieved to know that someone else can confirm the spirit’s existence.

“No,” Ngyuen says, “but I’ve heard of him. He’s not a demon. He’s a person. He just dresses like that.”

“What kind of person would dress like that?” Chi scoffs. “He was a demon, Nguyen.”

“At any rate, he protects the neighborhood,” Nguyen says.

“That’s what that ghost told me, too,” Chi tells her. “But I didn’t believe him. Couldn’t trust him.”

Nguyen frowns. “Ghost? What ghost?”

“The ghost of the US marine. He was down by the docks, too.”

Nguyen’s face tightens. “Dad, we’re in New York City. We’re in America. There aren’t any war ghosts here, okay?”

On this fact, Chi has to put his foot down. He knows what he saw. “He was real,” Chi insists. “He had a gun and a bulletproof vest. He told me he was protecting the city. He told me I wasn’t safe down there.”

“Well, if you ever need help again, you ask the guy dressed like a demon, all right? He’ll bring you back to me.” Nguyen loops her arm through Chi’s, and she steers him toward the front steps of a tall apartment building. Amongst the grey metal, brick, and concrete, Chi thinks he glimpses a flash of scarlet high above the streets. Nguyen thinks she knows what she’s talking about, but she didn’t even notice the demon as it flew across the night sky. And really, what normal man could fly over eight-story buildings? So what does Nguyen know, anyway?

Chapter Text

Mickey never makes it home from the after-school program at the library.

His dad works a lot, but he still tries to keep Mickey safe. Dad usually sends the next-door neighbor kid, Cerise, to come get him, but Cerise had a dance rehearsal at her own school this afternoon. Mickey’s dad had asked him if he felt okay to get home on his own, and Mickey had confidently answered in the affirmative. After all, Mickey walks to and from the library every day with Cerise, he knows the route well, and he’s nine years old. He’s not a baby.

When he leaves the library that afternoon, Mickey makes sure his Avengers-themed backpack is zipped up tightly. He puts the small amount of cash his dad gave him in the bottom of his shoe like Cerise taught him, and he tucks the rickety old cell phone he inherited from his cousin into the innermost pocket of the bag. He waves goodbye to his friends, and then he sprints out the library doors. In his mind, he imagines himself as Captain America on a mission to save somebody from danger. He dodges other pedestrians and vaults over a fire hydrant. One elderly lady yells at him to slow down before he busts his butt on the sidewalk, but Mickey ignores her. He keeps up this blistering pace for all of three blocks before he slows down, panting. As much as he’d like to be, he isn’t Captain America.

Mickey’s four blocks west from the library and eight blocks south of home when a man walks up to him and keeps pace alongside him. “Excuse me, buddy,” the man says, with a smile, “do you know where the nearest ice cream store is? If you show me where it’s at, I’ll buy you whatever ice cream you want.”

Mickey thinks hard about whether he should ignore the man and keep walking home. His dad would tell him to ignore a stranger who tries to talk to him, especially if it’s a strange man trying to talk to a kid. His stomach growls at the prospect of a fresh ice cream cone. His dad only takes him out for ice cream for Mickey’s birthday, or if he gets a good report card at the end of the school year. Getting a free treat for the price of a quick detour is a temptation Mickey can’t resist. He points down the block. “There’s an ice cream place down the street. Me and Dad go there sometimes.”

“Could you walk me there?” The man asks. “I’m not from this neighborhood.”

Mickey’s dad tells him not to talk to strangers, but he also tells Mickey to be nice. Dad likes it when Mickey is helpful to the neighbors. Mickey thinks he should probably help this man out. He turns from his route, clutching the straps of his backpack nervously. “O-Okay, I can help you.”

The ice cream store is within sight when the door of a parked car swings open, and another man jumps out of it. The man behind Mickey grabs him by the arm and drags him to the car. His backpack is yanked off and tossed into a sewer drain. The man inside the car pins Mickey’s legs when he kicks at him, and he slaps a hand over Mickey’s mouth when he screams. Mickey bites him savagely, but the man holds on, cursing the whole time. The other man—the one who tricked Mickey—jumps into the driver’s seat, turns the car on, and speeds away from the curb. Mickey fights until the guy holding him down ties him with heavy-duty zip ties, binding his limbs so tightly he can barely move. Mickey still screams.  

The two men are bad guys. They trade loud, profanity-filled sentences back and forth, talking over Mickey’s shrieks. They drive into Hell’s Kitchen, then they slam the car to a stop. Mickey tries to roll out of the backseat before they can catch him, but the first man grabs him by the waist and throws him over his shoulder. “We know who your dad is,” he snaps at Mickey. “If you try to get away, we’ll shoot your dad dead. Don’t mess with us.” Terrified, Mickey stops struggling. He knows these men are mean enough to hurt his father.

The two bad guys carry him into a darkened building. They force Mickey to put on new clothes. These clothes look nothing like his own Avengers t-shirt, camo pants, and black sneakers. They’re plain white clothes right out of a crinkled plastic wrapper, and they smell like plastic. Next, the bad guys make him rub strong-smelling deodorant everywhere, not just under his armpits. His whole body starts to smell like the lunch ladies at school. Then, they spray him down with bug spray, and Mickey gags as the chemicals swirl around him.

The room into which they toss him reeks of bleach, vinegar, and some other nose-burning smells. A single halogen lightbulb shines in the middle of the room. In that little bubble of light, Mickey sees a bare mattress dropped on the concrete floor. “Get on the mattress,” one of the bad guys barks at him. As Mickey finally starts to cry, the man yells, “Shut up and get on the fucking mattress!”

“Maybe take it easy,” the other bad guy says, but the first man just snarls at him.

Mickey obeys the first man, but he can’t stop crying. The mattress smells stale and as bleach washed as the rest of the room. “Stay there until we tell you to move!” the first man yells. Then the bad guys slam the door shut, leaving Mickey crying alone in the empty room.

“I’m sorry, Daddy,” Mickey sobs, as he curls up into a ball. “I’m sorry. I was bad. I wanted ice cream. I broke the rules, and the bad guys got me. They’re gonna get you, too. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” He puts his hands over his ears and hopes he can block out the echoing noises of the building around him. He shuts his eyes and imagines his bedroom. He pictures his own twin bed bedecked with his green Hulk bedspread and his favorite Iron Man sheets. He opens the imaginary bedroom window as he kneels on his imaginary bed and looks down on his home street. Below his window, his best friend Jeremiah waves and yells at him to come play. His dad knocks on his bedroom door and calls him to supper.

The men leave Mickey alone in the darkness with his daydreams for what feels like days. When they finally come back, the meanest of the two waits outside while the nicer one opens the door and comes inside. The man turns on the light, then he crouches beside the mattress with a Styrofoam container in his hands. “This is your dinner,” the man says, as he puts the container on the mattress. “Eat it.” Mickey doesn’t move. “I know you’re hungry,” the man says. “Eat the food.” When Mickey just cowers against the wall, his captor flips open the lid and shows him the contents. There’s a scoop of mac and cheese, a pile of chicken nuggets, and a packet of ketchup. “Don’t you like chicken nuggets?”

“I want to go home,” Mickey says.

“You’ll be okay with us,” the man says, unconvincingly. “You don’t need to go home yet. Just eat the food.”

“No. I want to go home. Please let me go home.”

The man stands up. He leaves the food on the mattress, but he turns the light off on his way towards the door.

“Please!” Mickey can’t help it. His voice rises into a scream as he says, “Please, let me go home! I want to go home! Dad’ll be so mad if I don’t come home!”

“Shut up!” yells the other kidnapper. He looms in the doorway to Mickey’s prison and shouts curse words until Mickey falls silent, curling back up into a ball on the far side of the mattress.

Mickey hangs in a suspended state. He’s too terrified to sleep, but he’s too tired to stay alert. His eyes drift shut several times, but his body jerks him back into consciousness before he can fully succumb to his exhaustion. Every time he jolts back upright, he fights the urge to cry out. He hopes that if he keeps quiet, the bad guys will leave him alone. The scent of mac and cheese from the Styrofoam container mixes with the smell of bleach, nauseating him. His stomach growls, but he doesn’t touch the food. Something inside him tells him to leave the food where it sits. If he eats the food, something bad might happen to him. His body also tells him he needs to pee, but his body shakes so hard at the thought of leaving the mattress that he ignores the urge. If he rolls off the mattress, he might not be able to find it again in the pitch black of his prison, and then he would have to crawl around until he found it. Mickey imagines all the rats and bugs that might be somewhere in the darkness. He stays where he is.

So much time passes, and the darkness is so complete that Mickey can’t help but fall into a half-doze. The creak of a door from somewhere beyond his prison wakes him. Mickey whimpers before he can silence himself, then he shoves himself into the corner of the room. He clenches his hands into the mattress and waits for another noise. The scuff of a shoe echoes from beyond the room’s closed door. Mickey’s heart pounds. He shoves his hands over his mouth. He hears the doorknob turn, and then the door itself swings open. He waits for the light to flick on and reveal his captors, but whoever just opened the door doesn’t turn on the light. Before Mickey can figure out what this change in the routine means, he senses a presence near him, and then the mattress dips with another person’s weight. Mickey flinches hard as a pair of hands land on him. These hands are much gentler than the grip of the other two bad guys, and despite his struggling, they pull him towards their owner with inexorable care.

As his hips leave the mattress, Mickey’s voice tries to pitch into a scream. The gentle hands that scoop him up from the stale mattress press him closer and tuck his face into a solid collarbone. “Shhh,” says a soft, kind voice as it vibrates through his skull. “I know it’s scary, but we have to be quiet.” The voice sounds nothing like his own dad, but Mickey knows a nice man when he hears one. He bites back the noises of terror. His hands shoot out and clutch onto the man’s shoulders. The clothes he wears are strange; they feel like plastic, steel wool, and leather all rolled into one. “I’m here,” the man says, still hushed. “And as long as I’m here, nobody’s going to get you. I’ll keep you safe, okay?”

 Mickey nods. His fingertips brush up, trying to find the man’s ears or hair. He needs to feel a part of his rescuer that resembles a human. Along their quest, his fingers encounter a hard surface cupped against the man’s skull. With a tiny gasp, Mickey moves his hands to the top of the man’s head. Yes, as he suspected; that’s a helmet, and it has horns. Mickey tries to speak. “D-Dare-Dare—”

“Yeah, it’s me,” Daredevil says, as he lets Mickey puzzle out the shape of his helmet. “What’s your name?”

“M-Mickey.”

“Okay, Mickey. You know me?” Mickey nods. Of course, he does. “You know I’m going to protect you?” Daredevil asks, and Mickey nods again. “Good.”

There’s a clatter from somewhere above them. Daredevil tenses up. He stands and shifts Mickey in his arms, freeing up his right hand. Mickey helps by clinging tightly to Daredevil’s shoulders and wrapping his legs tight around his waist. Daredevil lays a feather-light finger to Mickey’s lips in a mute order to keep quiet. Mickey doesn’t need the reminder.

“Mike,” says the voice of one of Mickey’s kidnappers, “you left the fucking door open, man!”

“Did not,” says Mike, from further away.

Daredevil hisses under his breath. Mickey flinches at the noise, so Daredevil shushes him and whispers, “Sorry, Mickey. Sorry. It’s okay.”

“What if he’d gotten out, huh?” the first man says. “He’d have run right to the pigs, and we’d be locked up by morning.”

“I said I didn’t leave the door open, man,” Mike says, with irritation. “I don’t know. The lock must not have caught.”

There’s a moment of silence, and then a sudden bout of swearing. Mickey can’t help but whimper in terror. The bad guys are going to come into the room and find them. Daredevil squeezes Mickey tighter and cups the back of his head with one hand. “Shh,” he says, again. While the two men curse, Daredevil starts tapping on the walls around them. “No ducts,” he mutters. “Small vents—"

“We didn’t leave the fucking door open!” the other kidnapper yells.

“Son of a bitch,” Mike hisses. “It’s The Devil! It has to be The Devil—"

“No,” the first guy says. “Can’t be! We followed all the steps! Fumigated the kid to within an inch of his life!”

“It didn’t work,” Mike says. “It didn’t fucking work!”

“Nevermind!” The other guy bangs something against the wall. “Let’s lock this shit down!”

“The Devil, man!” Mike says. “We can’t fight The Devil—”

The other kidnapper scoffs. “He’s long gone, dumbass. He took the kid and split. No way Old Red’s sticking around to beat our asses with a kid in the mix. We might as well torch the place and get some new ID’s.”

Mickey huddles against Daredevil. What if the bad guys burn the building down around them? Then the first guy says, “We can’t burn it down. Right now, we got no charges. If we torch a warehouse, we’re going down for arson. The pigs are too wise to that game. We’ll clean it and cut out.”

There’s a lot of noise next door. The tangy, nose-burning smell of bleach drifts into the room. Mickey slumps against his protector in relief, but his peace of mind is short-lived. Daredevil sets Mickey down, still motioning for him to stay quiet. Then Daredevil takes Mickey’s hands and seals them over the child’s ears. After a moment, the reassuring hands on his wrists disappear. Mickey lunges after the only safe adult he’s seen in what feels like days. Daredevil comes right back and puts a hand on Mickey’s head. “Hey,” he whispers, “I’ll be right back, honey. I’ll be right back. Stay here. Keep your ears covered.”

Mickey drops to his haunches, curling up into a vertical ball. He closes his eyes again. While he hunches down and waits, he hears the door to the room bang open. A bar of light shines across the floor. There’s a high-pitched scream of fear that penetrates the barrier of Mickey’s hands, digging into his ears. The wall closest to him thuds a few times, then another shout echoes through the building. Mickey squeezes his hands tighter against his head. “Daredevil,” he whispers through a choked throat. “Daredevil—are you okay?” There are more noises from the other room, but he tries to block them out.

At last, Mickey waits in breathless silence for minutes that seem like hours. All at once, that bar of light shines on the floor again, and the horned silhouette of his protector appears in the doorway. Daredevil kneels beside Mickey, and Mickey latches onto him immediately. Daredevil pulls Mickey back into his arms, and he stands up. He turns Mickey’s face into his chest. “We’re leaving now, Mickey. Don’t look around until I tell you it’s safe.”

It’s dark when they emerge onto the street. Mickey wonders how long it’s been since he got dragged into the car. “Dad’s gonna be so mad at me,” he whispers. “I’m so late.”

Daredevil rubs his back. “He won’t be mad, kiddo,” he says. “He’ll just be happy to have you home.” Mickey hears a difference in the man’s voice—a thickness, like there’s a lozenge stuck in his throat--but he doesn’t know what it means.

“They threw my backpack in the sewer,” Mickey says. “It was really nice. It had all my snacks for school in it.” For some reason, that’s what finally sets him off again. He starts crying, and he can’t stop. His tears smear all over Daredevil as he carries Mickey up a fire escape and onto a rooftop.

“It’s okay, kiddo,” Daredevil says. “You’ll be okay.”

Those words sound much more convincing when the vigilante says it than when his kidnapper did, but it still doesn’t make Mickey stop crying. “I lost my backpack,” he wails, as Daredevil pulls a long, metal tube from one of the holsters on his legs. “Dad won’t be able to get me a new one until next year! It’s out of the b-budget!”

“It’s going to be okay,” Daredevil assures him. “Your dad isn’t worried about your backpack.” He tucks Mickey’s head back under his chin. “Close your eyes and hold on tight. We’re going to get you home as fast as possible.” Then he jumps off the roof.

At the moment, Mickey is too overwrought to care that Daredevil can swing around the city like Spiderman. He laments the loss of his backpack all across the borough. Daredevil keeps one hand on Mickey’s back at all times. His kind voice in Mickey’s ear keeps him calm enough to hang onto the vigilante’s suit. The cold wind blowing in his face dries Mickey’s tears. Finally, Daredevil careens around one more building, then he angles his feet down and drops them toward the street. The cable they hang from whirs one final time, then it releases from the brick above them and retracts back into the tube in Daredevil’s hand. They touch down on a sidewalk Mickey recognizes. Their landing is on a side street around the corner from Mickey’s home.

Daredevil sets Mickey back onto his own two feet, then he crouches down and turns Mickey in the right direction. “Is that your street?” Mickey nods. “Okay. There are police officers waiting for you near your apartment. Your dad is there, too. You’ll be safe when you walk home. I can’t walk you all the way to your door. I can hear somebody else calling for help, so I have to go. Do you think you can make it home by yourself from here?”

“Daddy’s there?” Mickey asks, just to make sure.

Daredevil smiles. “Yeah, he’s there.”

That’s all Mickey needs to hear. He doesn’t wait to see if Daredevil really does leave. He sprints toward his apartment, and he doesn’t look back. The street is lit by the overhang lights and the shine of parked patrol cars. Mickey sees his dad illuminated in red, white, and blue, sitting on the stoop of their building with his head in his hands. A few police officers are gathered around him. One of them is kneeling beside his dad. Another officer stands facing the street. As Mickey peels around the corner and races towards them, the watching officer shouts to the people on the stoop, “Hey, hey! He’s back! He’s back!”

Another officer shouts, “Oh, my god! He’s back!”

Mickey ignores the officers. “DADDY!” His throat hurts from how forcefully he yells. “DADDY! DADDY!”

“Mickey!” His dad leaps off the stoop, ducks around the police officers, and meets him on the curb. He grabs Mickey by the armpits and pulls him into his arms. “Mickey,” he sobs, as he rubs his own tears all over Mickey’s face. “Oh, thank God—thank God—”

“Daddy,” Mickey cries into his dad’s neck. “Daddy, I’m sorry—I t-talked to a stranger—”

“I’m so sorry,” Dad cries back. “I should never have made you walk home alone—”

“But I talked to strangers, a-and you s-said never to talk t-to strangers—”

“It’s not your fault, baby,” Dad says, as he squeezes Mickey tight. “It wasn’t your fault. It’s Dad’s job to keep you safe, and I didn’t—and I’m so sorry, Mickey—”

“Mickey,” a police officer cuts in, “what happened to you?”

Another officer asks, “Can you tell us who brought you home, son? Was it the same person who took you off the street?”

Mickey shakes his head. “No. It was Daredevil!”

There’s a moment of surprised silence, and then the police officer says, “Daredevil? Daredevil took you off the street?”

“No,” Mickey says, “Daredevil saved me!”

“So, what happened before that?”

“Two guys grabbed me and pulled me into a car,” Mickey says. “They took me to a dark room. They took my clothes, too.” He pulls up the white shirt on his chest. “They made me wear this, and then they made me lay down on a mattress--”

“Oh, god,” Mickey’s dad sobs into Mickey’s neck.

“We should go inside for this,” one of the other officers mutters.

“Let’s get the story, and then we’ll search the area again,” another one says.

“What happened then, son?” The first police officer asks this question very gently.

“Then they left me there alone for a long time,” Mickey recounts. “They didn’t come back for a while. When they came back, they tried to make me eat, but I didn’t want anything. Then they left again, and then Daredevil came in and saved me.”

“But Daredevil isn’t here now,” the police officer points out. “How did you get home?”

Mickey points to the side street around the corner. “He dropped me off there. He said you guys were waiting for me, so I’d be okay to run home by myself.” A flash of red in the corner of his eye makes Mickey look up. He points to the rooftops. “Look! It’s Daredevil! I told you; it was him!”

Mickey’s father and the police officers all look up immediately. They all see the tail end of Daredevil’s swing onto the next rooftop. They stare, open-mouthed, as the vigilante disappears into the night. Mickey’s Dad looks down at him and smoothes his hair back. “Daredevil saved you,” he repeats, in awe. “Daredevil saved my baby.”

The police react differently. They scramble off the stoop and chase after the vanishing red figure, yelling into their walkie-talkies. Only one officer stays behind to escort Mickey and his dad back into their apartment. The lady officer installs them both in their living room, then she takes their final statements and taps away at her phone in a solid two minutes of silence. Mickey droops more and more into his Dad’s arms as they sit on the couch until he’s all but asleep. When the police officer leaves, Mickey’s dad doesn’t take Mickey to his bedroom. Instead, he holds him in his arms on the couch, cradling Mickey like he used to do when Mickey was a baby. They both fall asleep like that, and they don’t wake until morning.

From that day forward, Mickey’s favorite color is red. He wears red shoes and red socks. He gets a red toothbrush. He buys red-colored snacks at the school cafeteria. He colors his school binder and backpack with a red permanent marker, drawing little devil horns on the sides. His teachers are a bit concerned until one of them asks, “Is that Daredevil, Mickey? Are you a big Daredevil fan?” When Mickey nods, all the other teachers say, “Oh, okay,” and that’s that.

Mickey’s dad never mentions that one horrible day until Mickey’s next soccer game. While the kids all cluster around the coach for juice boxes and orange slices, the soccer dads stand around the water cooler and talk. The conversation moves along at its usual friendly pace until the midway point of the water break. Mickey overhears Benji’s dad say, “I mean, the guy’s a nutjob! With all the shit he’s done, I can’t believe the cops have let him get this far without a one-way trip to Rikers. That, or an involuntary admission to a psych ward—”

“Come on, man,” Enrique’s dad says, with an awkward laugh. “You haven’t got any goodwill in your heart for the guy who stopped those dirtbag human traffickers from taking all those girls? He’s a good guy. I may not agree with every move he makes, but he’s a good guy.”

“Good guy?” Benji’s dad repeats incredulously. “The man beats people to a pulp! He’s in with guys like The Punisher and Luke Cage! He’s a crook in a fancy red suit. He’s no better than the men he puts away—”

“Yes, he is.” Mickey’s dad cuts into the conversation with a firm contradiction. Mickey stops drinking from his juice box and looks at his dad’s face. Dad is deadly serious as he turns toward Benji’s father. “He’s nothing like those men. He’s a hero.”

Benji’s dad snorts. “Daredevil, a hero? Yeah, sure. He’s a regular Captain America.”

“Where was Captain America when we were all fighting off looting gangs and debt collectors during The Blip?” Mickey’s dad asks, sharply. “And where was Daredevil?” Benji’s dad clears his throat, but Mickey’s dad continues. “Captain America was off doing whatever it is ‘heroes’ do, and Daredevil was here. Daredevil was on the streets getting the shit beat out of him like always, only he was doing it even more alone than he was before The Blip.”

“So, he’s done some nice things for people,” Benji’s dad says. “So has Wilson Fisk—”

“It’s funny how we all criticize him and have all kinds of opinions on how he runs his gig,” Mickey’s dad cuts in, “yet none of us volunteer to help him clean up the streets. None of us are putting in the work to fix the community so Daredevil can retire.” He looks at the other fathers. “Are we?”

“Hey, hey,” Enrique’s dad says, “let’s drop it, all right? This is a kids’ game.”

But Mickey’s Dad isn’t finished. “If it weren’t for Daredevil…” He takes a deep breath. “If it weren’t for Daredevil, my kid wouldn’t be here playing this game. Do you understand? Daredevil saved Mickey’s life. And I’m not going to sit here and listen to anybody talk shit about him.”

There are noises of incredulity from the other fathers. “What?” Benji’s dad asks, in shock. “Robert, I had no idea—you never said anything about that—”

“It just happened a month ago,” Mickey’s dad says. “You know, because Daredevil never stops. He’s been at it for longer than my boy’s been alive, and he just keeps at it. I guess he’ll keep at it until he dies.” He laughs grimly. “And look what he gets for all his trouble: His own neighbors comparing him to Wilson Fisk.”

“I didn’t know about Mickey,” Benji’s dad says. “I didn’t know.”

“But you knew about all the other kids Daredevil’s protected,” Mickey’s dad shoots back. “So, maybe think about that the next time you start talking about how Daredevil might as well be one of the sick bastards he takes down.”

 Some nights, Mickey slides open his bedroom window and leans out over the light-spotted darkness, peering at what parts of the skyline he can see. One night, he feels particularly brave, so he calls, “Daredevil? Are you around?” There’s no answer, but he keeps going. “Are-are you okay? Did the bad guys get you? Daredevil?”

Mickey waits so long for an answer that he nearly gives up. He slides his window halfway shut when he hears a voice call from across the street, “I’m okay, Mickey. I’m okay.”

With a gasp, Mickey flings the window back open. He searches the street frantically for that flash of telltale red, but it’s nowhere to be seen. “Daredevil!” he calls, again.

“Hi,” Daredevil calls back.

“Do you live around here, Daredevil?” Mickey asks.

“Not really,” Daredevil says. “I came over to return your backpack. It’s on the stoop. No one will bother it tonight. You can get it in the morning.”

“What?” Mickey yelps. “Really? You found my backpack?”

“It’s very waterlogged,” Daredevil says. “You’ll probably have to get a new bag, but your stuff is all there. I had to throw out your snacks, though. They were spoiled.”

“That’s okay! Thank you, Daredevil!” Mickey’s so excited, he wants to run down and grab his backpack now, but he doesn’t want to wake up his dad by opening the front door. His dad doesn’t sleep well these days.

“Go to sleep, Mickey,” Daredevil calls. “It’s late, and it’s a school night.”

Mickey knows he should listen to the vigilante’s advice. He moves his hands up to shut the window, but he hesitates. There’s one thing he would like to know so he can sleep well again. He works up the courage to ask, “Do—do you know if the bad guys—are the bad guys gone?”

“Those men that hurt you won’t ever hurt you again,” Daredevil says, so quietly that Mickey has to strain to hear him. “They went to jail. They’re not going to come back for you. You can sleep, Mickey. No one’s coming to hurt you.”

Mickey’s throat closes up. He feels tears of relief well up in his eyes. He nods, and then he closes the window, locking it tightly. He curls up into his new red duvet and sleeps dreamlessly for the first time in weeks.  

Chapter Text

Peter Parker wakes to the sound of keys jangling at the deli’s front door. As he rolls his head on his pillow, he inhales the smells of refrigerated yeast and preserved meat. He rubs his eyes and sits up just as Mister Bartolozzi enters the storefront with his arms full of packages. “Morning, Pete. Sorry about the early wakeup call. Got to get the bagels started.”

“I get it, Mister B.” Peter stands and rolls up his old duvet and sheets. He stuffs his pillow into the center of the pile like the stuffing in a dumpling.

 You want a cup of coffee?” Mister Bartolozzi asks, out of the kindness of his heart. “Making a pot for myself.”

“If you’re offering, sure. Thank you.” Peter puts his bedroll in the little cupboard Mister Bartolozzi cleaned out for his things. He goes into the deli’s single-seater bathroom and freshens up. Once he’s changed into his daytime clothes, he goes back out and accepts that cup of coffee from the deli owner. “Mister, B,” he says, earnestly, “I really can’t thank you enough—”

“Don’t mention it, kid,” Mister Bartolozzi says. “Drink your coffee and shut up.”

Peter laughs. “Okay, okay. God forbid anybody be grateful, huh?”

“You’re keeping the rats out of the storeroom. Maybe that’s my idea of earning your keep.”

Peter drinks his cup of coffee while Mister Bartolozzi begins his early morning work prep. He reaches into the fridge and pulls out an enormous sheet of unbaked bagels. The muscles in his arms stand out like ropes. Peter briefly entertains the whimsical idea of Mister Bartolozzi putting his good heart and hard-won muscles to good use on the streets. Then he shakes himself and comes back down to Earth. He washes his coffee mug, packs his backpack for the day, and leaves Mister B to do his job in peace.

At this hour on a Saturday morning, Queens is still a bit sleepy around the edges. Peter pops into the best late-night corner store and buys some dollar-a-cup coffee, along with a leftover hotdog and a soft pretzel from the night before. He nods his goodbye to the bodega clerk, who gives him a bleary-eyed blink and a thumbs up.

The subway station is desolate at this time of day. A passel of workers in hard hats and steel-toed boots flow around Peter as he hops down the stairs. Once he makes it to subterranean level, Peter notices a woman sitting cross-legged on the platform with her back to a support pillar. She’s got three layers of worn clothes on, and a big parka is bunched up in her lap. The reusable grocery totes at her side are stuffed to the brim with recyclables. Peter tries not to stare at her, but something about her hair and face reminds him of his aunt. When she catches him looking, she asks, “You got a smoke, kid?”

“Sorry, no,” Peter says. He holds up his pretzel. “You need any food?”

The woman reaches her hand out with a smile. “Thanks, baby.” As he hands her the pretzel, she says, “You’re a nice kid. Bet your mother is proud of you, huh?” Peter smiles back, but he can’t say anything around the lump in his throat. He just steps onto the train.

Peter shuffles past a young woman in a hijab and a beautifully embroidered pantsuit. She’s way too put-together for such an early commute, but Peter respects it. As the subway car doors close, a man in a business suit walks by and makes a beeline for the young woman. She moves politely to the side, but the man stands in front of her and stares at her for an uncomfortable length of time. She does her best to ignore him. As the train starts moving, the momentum brings the man’s body into contact with hers. When the young woman moves further back, the dude follows.

“Hey, buddy,” Peter says, as he sips his coffee, “you ever heard of personal space?” The man ignores him, but the young woman throws him a pleading glance. Her eyes are wide, and her hands are clenched onto her backpack in a death grip. That’s good enough permission for Peter to get involved. He stands up.  “Are you aware you’re not allowed to touch her, dude?” Peter asks loudly. “Are you doing that on purpose because she’s Muslim? That’s a weird-ass thing to do!”

The other occupants of the subway car start looking around. A few older women mutter disapprovingly from their spot against the far wall. Another young woman pulls out her phone and starts filming the scene. From further down the car, a man calls, “You anti-Muslim, man? That’s messed up!”

The man’s face turns bright red. He backs off the young woman so quickly, he nearly stumbles. The young woman darts around him and comes to sit near Peter. Peter glares at the other man until he sits down in a single seat on the other side of the car. “Thank you,” the young woman says, in a quiet voice. “I would have said something, but…I’ve been threatened before. It’s scary being stuck in a subway car with a guy like that.”

“No problem,” Peter says. He keeps his patented New Yorker glare on the other man, who avoids his gaze. “I don’t know why some guys have to be such assholes. I really don’t.”

 The young woman smiles at him, then she reaches into her backpack and pulls out her headphones. She puts the headset on and scrolls through her phone. Peter keeps sipping his coffee while keeping tabs on the weirdo across the car. When they reach the 50^th Street Station, Peter waits until the young woman steps off the train before he exits. He keeps himself between her and the man who harassed her as they all walk up the exit stairs onto street level. When he’s certain she’ll be safe, he turns on his phone’s GPS, locates Clinton Parish Church, and starts walking.

If he hadn’t promised Mister Murdock weeks ago that he would show up today, Peter honestly would have bailed. As he sits down on the church steps, his body twinges. He’s vaguely sore from sleeping on the floor in Mister B’s deli. His cup of coffee sits uneasily in his stomach from all the uncertainty in his immediate future. To top it all off, the subway incident has put a bad taste in his mouth. Spiderman can’t trounce a guy on the subway just for being a creep, but that doesn’t mean Peter Parker didn’t want to do it anyway. He’s really not in the mood to go door to door in Hell’s Kitchen. What if he runs into another asshole like the guy on the subway? He might not be able to hold himself back the second time—

A yellow cab pulls up to the curb with a familiar silhouette in the backseat. As the cab door swings open, Peter puts his hands up to his mouth like a funnel and calls, “Hey, Mister Murdock!”

“Peter!” Matt Murdock’s voice rises up from the street. The older man waves in Peter’s general direction as he exits the cab. His sightless gaze misses Peter by several inches, but it’s the thought that counts. “You’re early!” he calls.

“Just a little,” Peter calls back, as he stands up from the steps. “I stopped to get a coffee, so I didn’t want to be late. You never know.”

“Thanks for coming,” Matt says, with a smile. “That was quite the trek on a Saturday morning.”

Peter shrugs. “It was okay, really.”

“Hm.” Matt’s smile falters slightly. Before Peter can wonder why, the older man turns back to the cab still parked on the corner. “Peter, I need to introduce you to someone—"

“Hi, there!” A dark-haired girl exits the back of the cab with a refined sort of enthusiasm. Her blue eyes spark with livewire intelligence. Her complexion glows against her quintessential New Yorker outfit of a black coat, black slacks, and a black shirt. She doesn’t carry a purse, which makes Peter think she’s probably around his age. A lot of girls he knows forgo purses.

After he pays the driver, Matt says, “Peter, this is Kate Bishop. She’s along for the ride today.”

“I can introduce myself, Matt,” the girl says, then sticks out her hand for a shake. As Peter takes it, she says, “Uh—Hi, I’m Kate Bishop, and I’m along for the ride today.” She looks down at their handshake and says, “Wow, you’ve got a firm grip, dude. Are you a rock climber?”

“No,” Peter says, and then he internally curses. He could have used the rock climber excuse to explain away all kinds of arachnoid tendencies! “I’m—uh—I just open…A lot of jars.”

“Nice,” Kate says, without a hint of mockery. “That kind of skill comes in handy. Nothing’s worse than craving chips and cheese dip and not being able to open the queso jar.”

Peter laughs nervously, then he changes the subject. “So, how do you and Matt know each other?”

“He’s my defense attorney. He was supposed to get the police to drop these annoying charges for me,” Kate says, with a toss of her deep brown hair. “But he failed me—”

“Did I fail?” Matt asks.

“I was still charged!” Kate says.

“Because you actually robbed a bank. I couldn’t change facts for you—”

“Some lawyer,” Kate scoffs.

“I got her sentence reduced to forty days in county,” Matt tells Peter, sourly. “Which I then sweet-talked Judge Lawson into converting to community service. After she robbed a bank—”

“I robbed a mob bank,” Kate retorts, breezily. “And I only stole evidence. No money.”

“Which is why I took your case at all, Kate,” Matt says. He sighs. “Well, the rest of the crew isn’t here yet. I’m going to the bodega for some cash. I’ll be back in a minute.” He walks toward a corner store, leaving Peter and Kate alone on the steps of the church.

Peter stares at Kate in amazement. “Wait, seriously? You broke into an outfit bank by yourself? And survived?”

“I broke into a Fisk holding,” Kate says, with relish. “And I walked away with a couple bruises. Not even a black eye.” Peter feels…many emotions in that moment. “It was my finest hour,” Kate tells him, under her breath. “I’d do it again, no matter the charges. Don’t tell Mother Teresa Luther King over there—”

“I can hear you, you know,” Matt calls, as he finishes his work at the ATM.

The trio sit on the steps and exchange brief city memos as they wait for Matt’s other friends to arrive. Topics such as when the city’s going to fix the hole in the interstate, what new musical is on Broadway, and how often dogs get lost in Central Park are safe and familiar. Peter falls into the conversation with ease, happy to push aside his iffy mood as much as possible. He finds it easy to talk to Kate, at least about trivial stuff. Matt mostly lets the younger people talk. Peter notices that the elder vigilante stretches his left leg against the church steps with care, suppressing a wince with a tightening of his mouth that Peter knows well. He wonders how Daredevil acquired this injury. He hopes it isn’t serious.

Peter can see two men approaching from the east, talking amiably with each other. The two guys are headed right for the church. As far as looks, the men are polar opposites. One is a casually dressed, bald black man with a body like an armored truck. One is a lithe, tousle-haired white dude rocking Birkenstocks, slouchy tweed slacks, and a shirt that can only be described as pirate-esque. Peter recognizes them by their unique looks alone. He’s not overly familiar with the duo, but he knows they are in fact a part of Matt’s vigilante ‘crew’.

As the two approach the church, the white guy catches sight of the trio on the steps. He grins and waves his arms, calling, “Hey, Matt! Hey, Matt’s acolytes!”

“Hey, Danny,” Matt calls back. He adjusts his pose slightly so the leg he favors sits more casually on the steps.

“Did he just call us acolytes?” Kate asks Peter under her breath. “Is this a cult thing? Are we about to join a cult?”

“The cult of eighties film fashion, maybe,” Peter says, with a snort. Then he adds more reassuringly, “Don’t worry, Kate. Mister Murdock’s Catholic. No cults for him.”

“Oh,” says Kate. “Well, that’s up for debate. But I was just checking. Weirder things have happened to me.”

“Weirder things than joining a cult?” Peter asks.

“Yeah. Totally.”

“Same,” Peter admits.

“What’s up, Matthew?” the black man calls, with good humor. “You need some Ibuprofen, man? You’re moving that leg like a granny with a bad hip!”

Once he’s caught out on babying his injury, Matt gives up on trying to be subtle about it. As he works his hand over said hip, he calls back, “Not all of us can be indestructible, Luke.”

“Yeah, I know,” the man named Luke calls back. “But you ain’t even close! You might as well wear a ‘fragile’ sticker on your back!”

“I’m guessing those guys are your gym bros?” Kate asks Matt, dryly. Based on this comment, Peter gathers that Kate is unaware of Matt’s alter ego. He mentally rehearses all the ways he can evade any references to Daredevil or vigilantism in general.

“That’s correct,” Matt answers Kate. He can’t hold back a wince this time as he stands up to greet his friends. Peter frowns at the elder vigilante’s bad leg. He tries to focus as Matt makes quick introductions all around.

“Who else are we waiting on?” Kate asks.

“Leo and Zach Lieberman,” Matt says. “They should be here any minute. They’ve made the neighborhood rounds with me many times. They know the drill.”

Peter introduces himself to the two newcomers. He’s in the middle of a discussion with Luke about the latest in Harlem hip hop when yet another cab rolls up to the curb. The car barely parks before two kids around Peter’s age jump out. The taller of the two, a boy, nearly sprawls out over the curb with all the grace of a newborn foal. The girl who’s with him yanks him back onto his feet, smacks his shoulder with a huff of irritation, and turns back to pay the driver. “Um, are they Leo and Zach?” Peter asks.

“That’s them, all right,” Luke says. “Don’t worry. They’re always like that.”

“That’s super reassuring,” Peter says flatly.

Luke laughs. “One time, I watched Zach set fire to Leo’s hair by accident. He was trying to light the pilot switch in their fireplace.”

“Leo wore her hair short for the next two years,” Matt adds.

“Are we sure they should have access to other people’s houses?” Peter asks, nervously.

“It’ll be fine, Peter,” Matt says. “They made this run with me every Saturday through the entirety of The Blip. They know what they’re doing.”

“You guys mobilized during The Blip?” Kate asks.

“What else were we supposed to do? Wait for disaster relief? In Hell’s Kitchen?” Matt snorts. “Not likely.”

Kate whistles. “You’re really brave, Matt. My mom wouldn’t let me go past Gramercy Park for three whole years. Everything was so chaotic.”

“Matt!” Leo yells loudly, as she and Zach sprint up the church steps.

“Leo!” Matt yells back, just as loudly. Peter flinches in surprise, and the elder vigilante says, “Sorry, Peter,” at a normal volume.

“Oh, Lord,” Luke says. “Here she comes—"

“Matt!” Leo bounds up the steps and slings an arm around Matt as she sits beside him, nearly knocking him off his seat. Matt tolerates this manhandling without a word of protest. Peter automatically braces the elder vigilante from the opposite side and eyes Leo warily. “Matt, why don’t you ever hang out with us anymore?” Leo asks, as she releases Matt from her hug. “Dad’s a terrible garage assistant. You were way better.”

“I have a job, Leo,” Matt says.

“You have a job seven days a week?” Leo asks, sarcastically. “Why don’t you ever come by after mass? You used to come around every week!”

“He doesn’t want Dad to grill him about the criminal underworld,” Zach offers, from the foot of the steps. “It’s awkward, Leo. Come on.” He tells Matt, “I’ve explained that to her like eighty times.”

“The criminal underworld?” Kate repeats, with some confusion. “Your dad wants Matt to tell him about the criminal underworld?”

“Yeah,” Zach says. He peers at Kate’s puzzled frown, and his own eyes get wide. He clearly just arrived at the same conclusion Peter had minutes before. Zach hastens to say, “Because Matt’s worked with a lot of ex-cons, you know. Defense attorney and all.”

“Kind of like you, Kate,” Peter interjects, sweetly. “You’re an ex-con.”

This comment sufficiently derails the conversation. Kate’s head rears back and she says, with full offense, “I am not a convict! I only spent one weekend in jail! That’s a detainee, not a convict!”

“You went to jail?” Leo asks. She leans forward. “For what?”

“That’s none of your business, Leo,” Matt cuts in, before Kate can proudly recount her crimes for the second time.

“It is my business! You brought her along to Saint Matthew’s Day!”

Luke dramatically sticks a finger in his ear. “Uh, could you repeat that? Saint what, now?”

“It’s what we used to call these house calls,” Zach explains. “Actually, we called it The Feast of Saint Matthew, but that got to be a mouthful.”

“I have asked you time and again to stop calling it that,” Matt sighs. He puts his hand over his face.

“Uh, wow,” is all Peter can manage.

Kate grins. “That’s so cute!”

Matt groans and sinks down onto the church steps, stretching a hand toward the sky. “This is it. This is how I die. Out of sheer embarrassment.”

“He loves it,” Leo says.

“I hate it,” Matt says, dead serious.

“I can’t with you people,” Luke says. He taps Matt lightly on the shoulder, then he hauls the other man upright. “Let’s get a move on before it gets hot out. What’s the plan, boss man?”

“There are fourteen houses on the list today.” Matt fishes in his slacks pocket, then he holds out a paper printed with addresses. “Father Guisse called ahead and confirmed they would all be home today. He left the food and water in the northern transept.”

“Would you translate the church geography for all of us godless heathens?” Danny asks, dryly.

“No biggie,” Leo says. She stands and starts sprinting up the stairs. “I know where it’s at. I’ll be right back.” Zach follows his older sister at a similar pace. They both return a moment later, their arms laden with plastic shopping bags. “There’s another load back there,” Leo reports, as she sets her burden on the steps.

Kate stands. “I can help.”

“Sure,” Leo says. “Follow me.”

Peter would also offer his assistance, but the same feelings that threatened to ruin his mood earlier have crept back into his heart. Rather than ruin the vibe with his attitude, he stays quiet for a moment and lets Kate, Leo, and Zach bring out the food and water. When the last bag sits on the outside steps, he stands up and asks, “How are we going to organize this supply run?”

“Fourteen houses,” Danny repeats. He pulls his own envelope out of one of his pants pockets. “I brought my usual contribution. We can give everybody a hundred dollars, or we can divide it up per capita by household. Whatever you think, Matt.”

“You carried fourteen-hundred dollars in your pocket?” Peter asks, incredulously. “No wallet, no nothing? In Hell’s Kitchen?”

Danny grins. “Peter, I want you to take a good look at my friend Luke and then ask that question again.”

“Danny’s being modest,” Luke says. “He doesn’t need a bodyguard. He can fend for himself.”

“I wouldn’t feel safe with either of them,” Matt interjects, mildly. “Just saying.” Peter laughs.

Luke rolls his eyes. “That’s because of the three of us, you’re the true menace.”

“Mister Murdock? A menace?” Kate asks, in surprise. The girl truly has no idea who Matt really is. Peter stops laughing immediately.

“Oh, he’s got you fooled, huh?” Luke asks. “You wait and see, Kate. You wait and see.”

Kate turns toward Matt. “Are you a party animal, or something?”

“Nothing that exciting, I assure you.” Matt lies through his teeth with a smile on his face. Peter wonders how often he has to deceive a new acquaintance.  

“Matt,” Luke says, as he holds out one large hand, “the addresses, please.” Matt hands the paper over. “Okay. This is a pretty easy walk. We can start by making a square and hitting the outer houses first, then we can move inwards.”

“We’re walking?” Kate asks, surprised again.

“Hell’s Kitchen ain’t that big, geographically,” Luke says. “We can cover the whole borough in three hours.”

“That’s assuming Matt doesn’t stop to debate theology with every granny this side of Forty-Ninth,” Danny says.

Matt puts a hand to his heart. “No debates! I already promised you I’d refrain!”

“At this point, man, you should just stop making promises,” Luke says.

“That’s what he said last time, too,” Danny tells the youngsters. “And then I was sitting on Misses O’Leery’s couch, getting attacked by her Pomeranian while Matt argued with her about the existence of Purgatory.”

“You liked Annie Oakley,” Matt says.

At Kate’s confused look, Danny says, “That’s the Pomeranian.”

Leo perks up. “Wait, I remember a dog with that name!”

“Yeah, all that sounds about right,” Zach agrees, nostalgically. “I remember the first time we went on a food delivery with Matt. It was right after The Blip. We got drafted into a water balloon fight with some kids who lived on opposite sides of the street.”

 “Who won?” Peter asks.

“Nobody,” Zach says. “This grumpy old man who lived in the brownstones came out to yell at us. Then he sprayed us all with his hose.”

“Yeah,” Leo sighs. “He ruined the Easter bread Sister Maggie sent with us. But we still ate it, because Matt didn’t want to tell her what happened to it.”

“What a codger that guy was,” Zach says.

“A shriveled old coot,” Leo agrees.

“Guys, don’t insult that sad old man,” Matt interjects. “That punitive hose was clearly all he had to live for.”

“Wow,” Kate says, admiringly. “I can’t believe I’m saying this, but: You guys had some fun times during The Blip.”

“I mean, our parents got dusted,” Zach says, as casually as one might mention the weather. “But we’d been through that before.”

Kate’s eyebrows rise. “Your parents have vanished more than once?”

“In a manner of speaking,” Zach says. Then he hurries to say, “Anyway, when it happened again, we figured out the best strategy was to keep laughing. Otherwise, we’d never stop crying.”

“Matt wasn’t laughing,” Leo says. She leans obnoxiously onto Matt’s shoulder, then she grabs his cane and rattles it. It’s clear Leo hasn’t noticed Matt’s bad leg or the wince he tries to hide as she messes with him.

“Hey—” Peter moves instinctively, to stop Leo and to steady Matt, but the elder vigilante holds out a hand to halt him. Matt then shifts his weight, calmly reclaims his cane, and whacks Leo smartly on both shins. Leo winces dramatically and hops around on one foot.

“Matt was mostly crying,” Zach joins in. “We had to boost his morale.”

“Crying is a totally normal response to stress,” Luke says. “I’m just throwing that out there. Matt cries. Danny cries. I cry.”

“Yeah,” Danny says. “Sometimes you have to pick: Crying or screaming. One of those options is far more socially acceptable.”

“There’s also my favorite option,” Zach says, cheerfully. “Punching inanimate objects like they owe me money.”

“We all have major trauma we can’t un-live,” Leo cheers. “Hooray for the Trauma Troupe!”

“Can it be?” Kate asks, in wonder. “Have I actually found my people?”

“You found your people while fulfilling community service requirements?” Matt says. “Yikes.”

“You love to try and embarrass me, Matthew,” Kate says. “You haven’t yet realized that I have no shame.”

“Well, that’s what happens when you grow up on Park Avenue,” Matt retorts.

Peter frowns mid-grocery bag pickup. “Hey, Kate. It’s kind of disrespectful to call Mister Murdock, ‘Matthew’.”

Kate blinks. She turns to Matt with her own grocery bags swinging on her arm. “Did you train him to say that?”

“Peter grew up on Thirty-Second,” Matt says, smugly. “See the difference?”

“Whatever! Just because I have a charming, casual air about me—”

“Charming and casual?” Luke asks. “Is that the new definition of, ‘smartass’?”

“Okay!” Kate points at Luke. “How is that not disrespectful?”

“Because I’m your elder,” Luke says, as they all descend the church steps. “By a large margin.”

“So, you can call me a smartass because you’re older than me? What kind of Dark Ages logic is that?”

“The logic of the streets,” Luke says. “I earned respect purely by surviving past my teens and twenties. Once you’re standing where I’m standing, you can demand respect from the younger ones, too.”

“Isn’t respect earned, not granted?” Leo asks.

“That ain’t the way I was raised,” Luke says. “Respect is something you give. It’s less about them and more about you.”

“Hm,” Leo says. “Sounds like a good way for people to walk all over you.”

Luke shrugs. “You do you, Leo.” He rattles his own grocery bags. “All right, people! Let’s get this show on the road!”

Zach and Leo know the route so well that they take the lead. Zach takes Matt’s grocery bags despite the older man’s protests, and Leo tucks Matt’s arm into her elbow, talking his ear off as she paces them. Watching them is like looking at a snapshot from their professed Blip constitutionals. Peter can’t help but wince a bit whenever Leo misses the pause in Matt’s stride when his hurt leg acts up, resulting in her lurching forward and Matt rushing to compensate. The younger vigilante wonders why Matt refrains from telling Leo to pay attention or to slow down. To avoid further irritation at the Liebermans’ antics, he diverts his own focus to Kate, Danny, and Luke. Luke stays quiet for the most part. Kate and Danny apparently run in similar circles. They start throwing out street names, storefronts, and subway stops with which Peter is only vaguely familiar. They start a “seven degrees of separation” game where they guess whether they might have a mutual friend. The game takes them all the way to the first place on Matt’s list.

The building is old but well-kempt, and the doorbell buzzer still works just fine when Matt presses it. They’re admitted into a fluorescent-lit hallway, and they all tromp up to the fifth floor. When Matt knocks on the door to Unit 5H, a diminutive Filipina with grey-shot hair and laugh lines greets them all cheerfully. Her name is Isa, and she offers them all a glass of milk, then she opens a packet of cookies from her near-empty pantry.

 Isa switches between Spanish, English, and Tagalog so often that Peter can’t keep track of the conversation, but somehow, Matt seems to know exactly what she’s saying. They both stop mid-sentence to cross themselves at one point, and Matt accepts a prayer card that Isa presses into his hand. For his part, Peter just offers to set up the food in the pantry, and Isa gives him permission with a pat on the cheek. Kate, Danny, and Luke eat their cookies while staying politely silent. Leo and Zach also listen respectfully, but they keep throwing the others amused glances, as if to say, ‘See? This is what we did for five years.’ Finally, Peter puts away the last can of soup, Danny stealthily lays a stack of cash under his empty glass of milk, and Matt closes out the conversation with many a ‘Dios le bendiga,’ and, ‘Good to see you, Auntie Isa’. They eject themselves back onto the street, and Danny asks, “I guess she was doing well?”

“Her family is coming to see her soon,” Matt says. “All her kids left over a decade ago to find work in Canada. They only make it back here twice a year. Her oldest daughter is having a baby soon, so she wants me to pray for her. I told her I would.”

“She seems like a really nice lady,” Kate says.

“Everyone on this list is a good person,” Matt says. “Some of them are a little rougher around the edges than Isa—”

“Like that crusty old man with the punitive hose,” Zach stage whispers, and Kate laughs.

“—But sometimes our attitudes are shaped by how the world treats us,” Matt finishes, and lightly whacks Zach over the back of the head. Zach stumbles and slides onto the pavement like he’s been shot. Luke jumps over him.

The next stop is a basement apartment crammed into the subterranean storage room of a former pharmacy. The front stoop still has a mosaic with the defunct business’s name and a mortar and pestle. They all half-trip down the creaky wooden stairs. “Well, this place isn’t up to ADA standards, is it?” Luke asks, rhetorically, and Matt laughs.  

The basement tenant is a hollow-cheeked young man with a rail-thin frame and lank hair named Osiris. He welcomes them all and admits them into his dimly lit apartment. “Got a migraine,” he explains. “I have to keep the lights low.” Unlike Isa, he doesn’t offer them any food or drink, but he seats them in his tiny living room and passes around a tray of ginger candies. Once he inquires about Matt, Foggy Nelson, and Karen Page’s health, he offers to do tarot card readings for his guests. “That was my gig,” he explains, “before I got too sick to work.” Unsurprisingly, the vigilantes in the room all respectfully decline. Surprisingly, Leo accepts. She sits on the floor with Osiris while he shuffles a gold-leafed deck of cards. When he’s done, Leo picks cards blindly, Osiris flips them over, and he expounds on their symbols and meaning. From Osiris’s descriptions, Leo’s fortune is a wild ride.

Peter only half listens to the fortune, more concerned with the pictures on the walls. The Osiris in the photographs is hardly recognizable compared to the present-day man. When the reading is over, Leo thanks Osiris with a hug, Luke puts the groceries in Osiris’s pantry, and Danny hides a wad of cash in the pile of ginger candies. Matt gives their love and says their goodbyes like he did with Isa, then they all stumble up the same shoddy stairs. Once they’re down the street, Kate asks Matt, “Do you know why he’s sick?”

“Yes,” Matt says, “but I can’t tell you. He doesn’t want people to know. His family disowned him for it.”

Kate stammers, “O-oh, I’m sorry! I wasn’t trying to be rude!”

“Fuck his family, then,” Leo says, with feeling. “He’s a cool guy.” Peter can’t help but nod in agreement.

“I gave him five hundred,” Danny confesses. “I’m going to have to ration the rest of the cash. I figured he needed it.”

“You did the right thing,” Matt says. “We’re the only support he has left.” He tilts his head up. “I’m going to have to send Foggy and Karen around to see him. He loves them.”

“Don’t let him tarot read for Karen,” Danny says. “The world isn’t ready to see that woman’s future.”

Over the next few hours, they pass through ten more residences in a similar fashion to the first two. The people they visit come in all shapes and sizes, but their common denominators are sparse pantries, small living spaces, and social isolation. Most of them greet Matt like he’s their best friend, but some of them regard the entire group with hardened eyes and a tightened mouth. One hard-bitten man even stops them all at his threshold, only willing to allow Matt inside. Peter tries to protest—the man looks one wrong word away from punching somebody in the mouth—but Matt pats him on the shoulder and enters anyway with three bags of groceries in his arms. Just as Peter feared, he hears shouting and cursing a minute later. When he tries to go inside, Luke holds his arm and says, “Just give it a minute, man. Let Matt do his thing.”

Matt emerges unscathed a few minutes afterwards without the bags, holding a business card in one hand. “Ed has schizophrenia,” he explains to the anxious group. “He’s going through a paranoia episode.” He pulls out his phone and hands Leo the business card. “I’m going to call the social worker assigned to his case.” Without being asked, Leo takes his phone. She fiddles with it for a moment before dialing the number and handing it back. Matt talks to the social worker for a few minutes. He lags behind the others, letting Luke take the lead.

“I didn’t realize Matt did this kind of thing,” Kate admits to the group. “On the weekend, too? After working on these kinds of cases all week? He really is Saint Matthew, isn’t he?”

“It’s what we all should be doing,” Danny says, quietly. “We should all support the people in our neighborhoods. Humans are supposed to stick together.”

“It’s hard to hold the neighborhood down when we’ve got yahoos like The Hobgoblin trying to blow it up,” Luke snorts.

“True,” Danny says. “But we can try, right?”

“Maybe the best way to support the community is to get rid of people like The Hobgoblin,” Zach suggests.

The topic is veering uncomfortably close to vigilantism. Peter skips ahead, then he turns and asks Luke, “How much further to the next place?”

“We’re almost there,” Luke says. “It’s Mrs. O’Leery’s. She lives off the next intersection.”

Peter perks up. “You mean we’re going to meet Annie Oakley?”

“We sure are. Try to contain yourselves, kids. Annie Oakley’s not the most welcoming of pooches.”

Matt catches up to them outside Mrs. O’Leery’s modest little brownstone. As usual, he knocks on the door, and he’s greeted by an elderly lady whose head only comes up to Matt’s shoulder. Danny bounds up her steps and cries, “Mrs. O’Leery!” He opens his arms wide.

“Oh, Daniel!” says the tiny old lady happily. “It’s good to see you! It’s been forever since we talked!” She shuffles forward and tips herself into Danny’s hug.

“I missed you!” Danny says, as he gives her a gentle squeeze. “Me and Luke took a different route last month. Matt keeps hoarding all the good houses for himself.”

“Danny just couldn’t wait to see Annie Oakley again,” Matt says, with a devious smile. “He’s been talking about it all afternoon.”

 “Y-yeah,” Danny says, with a lame attempt at enthusiasm. He shoots Matt a stealthy glare. Matt obviously pretends not to notice.

“Oh, you’re such a sweetheart, Daniel!” Mrs. O’Leery pats Danny’s cheek, then she opens her front door wide. “Come in, everyone, come in! I’ll put on some coffee!”

Annie Oakley isn’t nearly as terrifying as Danny and Luke made her out to be. She’s a tiny honey-colored Pomeranian with a bark like an airhorn. Every inch of her fluffy body tenses up at the intrusion of seven foreign bodies into her home. Although she only stands as tall as Peter’s calf, she still stands her ground and rebukes the invaders. Peter drops down onto his haunches and makes kissy noises at her, cooing nonsense words until he calms the savage beast. Annie Oakley is highly suspicious of him, but she lets Peter lightly rub her ears. “There’s a good baby puppy,” Peter says, as his heart feels like it expands inside his chest. “You’re a nice doggie. Yes, you are.”

“Witchcraft,” Danny mutters at him from the couch. “You’re a witch.”

“Daniel,” Luke says. “All the kid did was treat Annie Oakley to a little TLC.”

“Affinity with animals is a sign of witchcraft. Everybody knows that.”

“Uh, if it matters,” Peter says, in amusement, “I’m not a witch. I would know.”

“That’s what a witch would say.”

“Ignore him,” Luke says. “He also believes fortune tellers are real.”

“But witchcraft is real,” Kate points out, from her spot on the living room floor. “Ever heard of The Scarlet Witch? It’s literally in her name.”

“I’m pretty sure some enhanced people can tell the future, too,” Zach says. “Or the closest approximation of telling the future.”

“I’m pretty sure the ladies in Chinatown that give people marriage advice aren’t all enhanced,” Luke says, dryly. “Of course, I could be wrong.”

“I thought we weren’t debating theology or philosophy,” Matt says, as he comes back from the kitchen bearing a tray of coffee cups.

Mrs. O’Leery walks behind Matt with a steaming carafe of strong-smelling coffee. Danny makes room for the elderly woman on the couch, and as she sets the carafe on the coffee table, she sits with a sigh of satisfaction. “It’s so wonderful to have such a full house,” she says. “You young people take me back to when my Lawrence and I were newly married. We had get-togethers with all our friends from college every couple of weeks. It was lovely.”

“What did you do when you hung out?” Leo asks.

“Mostly, we played poker,” Mrs. O’Leery says, “to the embarrassment of my Baptist father-in-law.”

“Scandalous,” Leo gasps, in faux horror.

“Very!” Mrs. O’Leery’s eyes twinkle. “That’s what Lawrence got for marrying a Catholic.”

Being closest to the coffee table, Kate scoots forward and sets about serving up the beverages. The time passes quickly between the hot coffee and the yarns Mrs. O’Leery spins about her younger years. Before Peter knows it, Matt nudges Luke, who looks at his watch and says, “I hate to put a stop to all this fun, but we got to be moving on.”  Peter rinses out all the cups while the others make their way out of the house. Danny is the last one out the door. He keeps hugging Mrs. O’Leery as she asks him to come back and see her with a sad note in her voice. “Danny,” Luke says, as he gently dislodges his friend, “we got one more house on the list, and it’s getting late. Time to say goodbye.”

“Bye, Mrs. O’Leery,” Danny says, as he’s pulled away. “I’ll come back soon.” Mrs. O'Leery shuts the door on Annie Oakley's barking. 

“You got pretty clingy there,” Kate notes, casually. “I thought you didn’t like being trapped in Annie Oakley’s lair.”

Danny shakes his head. “I don’t know. I just got this weird feeling that Mrs. O’Leery needed the attention even more than usual.”

“You’re right,” Matt says. He focuses on stepping off the stoop while they all look at him. “Mrs. O’Leery has cancer.”

“What?” Danny loses his own balance on the steps. Luke grabs him by the arm. “Matt, why didn’t you say something before now?”

Matt’s shoulders lift. “I didn’t know,” he says tightly. “I just found out. I could smell it on her.”

“Oh, to hell with this.” Danny turns right back around, marching up the stoop again.

“You going back to sit with Misses O’Leery?” Luke asks him unnecessarily.

“Of course, I am!”

Luke nods and says, “Yeah. Me too.”

Danny pulls out the money from his pocket and hands it to Peter. “Here, buddy. Give that to the last house.”

“You kids behave, now,” Luke calls as the remaining group leaves. “Otherwise, Matt’ll whoop your asses, and that’ll be embarrassing for everyone involved!”

“Sheesh,” Kate mutters, “we’re not twelve. If we don’t have good manners now, no threat’s going to make us suddenly acquire them.”

“True,” Leo laughs. “I think I went a little feral in The Blip, and I never quite came back from it.”

“No, you never had good manners to begin with,” Zach heckles her, and she punches his shoulder.

Peter keeps quiet, tucking the cash into his wallet. A hand lands on his shoulder, and he looks over to see Matt beside him. “Everything okay, Peter?” the older man asks, as the others keep up their ribbing.

“Yeah,” Peter lies. When Matt’s expression shifts towards concern, he adds, “Well, no. Not really. I just feel really bad for all these people we visited. They’re all going through so much, and most of them are alone.”

“We do what we can,” Matt says, and pats his shoulder.

“You do way more than that,” Peter retorts. “I feel like a slug compared to you, Mister Murdock. I barely do any charity work like this—”

“That couldn’t be due to your two jobs, all your studying, and your demanding hobby,” Matt says, dryly. “Not at all. You’re just lazy.”

 “Peter, is he shaming you?” Kate asks, jokingly. “Don’t let him get into your head! I think you’re great!”

“Thanks, Kate,” Peter says, with a smile. “You’re kind of all right, I guess.”

“Wow, such a glowing endorsement! Thanks for that!” As Matt turns them all around the next corner, Kate stops abruptly. “Whoa, is that where we’re going?”

The building Kate points out is a couple of streets away from the docks. This side of Hell’s Kitchen still suffers some lingering effects from old alien invasions and street battles. The apartment block is frayed red brick. Rust stains drip down from the gutters and fire escapes. A couple of the downstairs windows are papered over, jagged holes still visible in the glass. The front entrance has cracked cement. When they get close enough, Peter notices the building’s surroundings are too quiet for the number of window AC units he spots. He estimates that over half the units aren’t working.

“What a dump,” Leo says.

“Hey.” Matt looks in Leo's direction. “This is somebody’s home. Be respectful.”

“But it is,” Leo insists. “It’s got to be against code. I only see one entrance for, like, thirty apartments. That’s a fire hazard. And those AC units aren’t even working!”

“You’re acting like this is the first time we’ve been down by the docks,” Zach says, with an eyeroll. “Half the buildings on this block are one cigarette away from burning to the ground.”

“We’re here to see Angela,” Matt says. “She lives on the first floor.”

Matt uses the yellowed plastic door buzzer, and when the outer door opens, they all file inside. The inner hallway smells of marijuana, cooking oil, and excessive moisture. Somewhere further down, three dogs bark incessantly through a closed door. Since his own heightened senses rebel at the warring sounds and smells, Peter knows the place must be repulsive to Matt. The elder vigilante doesn’t show it. He knocks on the door to 103 with a smile on his face. The lady who answers his knock is a gorgeous black woman with pinned hair and wrinkled scrubs. Peter guesses she’s around the same age as Matt himself. “Hi, Angela,” Matt says.

That’s as far as he gets before he’s pulled into a hug. “Matt!” Angela says, into his hair. “I’m so glad to see you!” She looks over Matt’s shoulder at the four other people standing in her doorway. “Oh, come in!”

Peter enters first, followed by Leo, then Zach. Kate comes through last, and she looks like she’s trying hard not to stare. Angela’s apartment is small even by Manhattan standards. Her kitchen can only hold an economy fridge, a toaster oven, and a countertop dishwasher. Her living room is clean and tidy, but the windows are some of the papered ones Peter saw from the outside. The carpet is worn, and the ceiling sags in the middle. Angela offers her guests chewing gum and Mentos. Peter accepts the gum. The four other guests all introduce themselves, then they head to the tiny kitchen while Matt and Angela walk into the living room.

“Oh, Matt,” Angela says, as her mouth trembles, “you don’t know what prayers you’ve answered today.”

“I never do,” Matt says. “I just show up and hope for the best.” He sits down on Angela’s couch. When he pats the space beside him, Angela sits. “What’s been going on, Angela?”

As Angela expounds on the problems she faces, Leo whispers, “Saint Matthew strikes again.”

“Any snakes around?” Zach joins in quietly. “Matt can banish those with his ancestral Irish Catholic powers.”

“Are you guys seriously making jokes right now?” Peter asks, in a low voice. “Because this isn’t funny. Look at this place. This lady can’t feed her kids.”

“No, no,” Leo’s quick to say. “I’m not laughing at Angela, Peter! I promise. I’m sort of…” She grimaces. “Pointing out all the crazy coincidences that follow Matt around, and how they almost make me believe in God?”

“Let’s just get the food unloaded,” Peter says, stiffly. “We can philosophize after Anegla gets what she needs to take care of her family.”

Appropriately chastised, Leo and Zach silently take the canned goods, bread, and pasta boxes out of their plastic grocery bags. Kate does the same with the jars of peanut butter and jelly. Peter puts a carton of juice in Angela’s fridge. He lays the last of Danny’s cash on the kitchen counter, and then he walks towards the front door of the apartment. It feels wrong to listen in on the conversation happening on the couch. Behind him, he can hear Matt comfort a sobbing Angela. “I’ll come back next week,” the elder vigilante says, firmly. When Peter chances a backwards glance, he sees Angela clinging tightly to Matt. Matt has his arms around her, and he says, “I’ll bring back some more food. I’ll ask the nuns about diapers and clothes. And I’ll speak to your landlord about the heater—”

“No,” Angela protests, with another sob. “If I make noise, he’ll kick us out! And my babies—my babies can’t live on the street—”

“That isn’t going to happen, Angela,” Matt says. “Your landlord can’t evict you for exercising your right to demand a safe home.” Peter recognizes the buried rage in Matt’s voice. He’s heard it before, when Daredevil catches wind of corruption or abuse on his streets.

“Peter,” Kate hisses. Peter turns to see her point to the doorway leading into the apartment’s shoebox-sized bedrooms. Three children under the age of ten stare back at him. The youngest is still in diapers. He hides behind the oldest child, who watches Peter and the other visitors with wide eyes.

“Hi,” Peter says, softly. He waves at the oldest kid, who waves back solemnly. The middle child, a girl with even bigger eyes than her siblings, ventures boldly into the kitchen, opens the cupboard, and grabs one of the boxes of cereal Leo just put away. She rips open the box and runs off with the bag of corn flakes. Her siblings run after her, babbling with excitement.

“I’ll come back next week,” Peter hears Matt say again. “I’ll bring another load of groceries and some money to cover the cost of the heater—”

“You don’t have that kind of money,” Angela says, thickly. “We all know how your office works. You don’t charge the folks who can’t pay.”

“Angela, I can take care of this for you—”

“No, Matt,” Angela says. “You can’t freeze through the winter to keep us warm. That’s just not right!”

“Please don’t worry about me,” Matt says. “You have enough to think about.”

Angela is resolute. “I just can’t let you do that!”

Peter sees Kate fidget with her coat buttons. She coughs, then she says, over the sound of Angela’s tears, “Um, Miss Angela? Do you know how much the heater’s going to cost? Can you ballpark it?”

Startled, Angela turns to Kate. She wipes her face on her shirt. “I’m not sure. I’m afraid it might be close to a thousand dollars. Maybe more, if the whole system needs replaced.”

“I see.” Kate clears her throat and reaches into her pocket. She pulls out an honest-to-goodness checkbook and a pen. She scrawls over the check with the pen, and then she hands it to Angela. “That should do it.”

Angela reads the numbers on the check, then she gasps. “Kate! I can’t accept this—”

“I’m good for it,” Kate says, with a small smile. “And I’m sure as heck not using it. You and your kids need a warm house in the winter. That snow last January was no joke.”

Peter knows Angela truly is in dire straits, because she doesn’t protest any further. Instead, she rushes to Kate and folds her into her arms. “God bless you,” she sobs, “God bless you all!”

Kate hugs Angela back, but she looks as though she’d rather jump out the dingy apartment windows than accept gratitude. “It’s really not fair,” she says. “Nobody should have to pick between groceries and fixing their heater.” The group leaves Angela with a full fridge, a stocked pantry, a handful of cash, and Kate’s check. Peter also slips her kids a couple more granola bars on his way out. The kids all stare after them like they’re trying to memorize their faces. After they leave Angela’s apartment, nobody speaks for a long time. Finally, Kate says, “You know the worst part about it? That landlord probably wouldn’t fix that place up unless one of those kids died of heat stroke or hypothermia.”

“And he’d only do it then to avoid a lawsuit,” Leo says, with unexpected venom. “Piece of shit should get what’s coming to him—”

“That’s enough, Leo,” Matt says, severely. It’s the most serious tone he’s taken all day. “That’s not how we deal with our problems—”

“Don’t even, Matt,” Leo snaps. She folds her arms and faces him with her chin stuck out. “You know it’s true. Hell’s Kitchen landlords are scum. They should all be given a taste of their own sick medicine.”

“What,” Peter asks, incredulously, “you think all the bad landlords in the city should get their teeth knocked in before they even hurt somebody?”

“Did that derelict apartment look like a victimless crime to you?” Leo demands. “That baby was still in diapers, and he has to live in a place like that.”

“That’s why we have fair housing legislature,” Matt says, with a decent attempt at calm. “Which we can cite and use to formally complain to the city on Angela’s behalf—”

“Yeah, that’s really going to help Angela,” Leo says. “People like her can’t afford any better place to live. They just have to hope their babies don’t get lead poisoning or rat bites.”

“You’re jumping the gun,” Peter says, firmly. “There are worse places to live. Worse landlords to pay. Worse moms to have.”

“Yeah, I guess Angela could be living in a whorehouse,” Leo says. “Or a trap house. If you want to be dramatic about it.”

“Leo Erin Lieberman,” Matt says. He bites out her name. Every syllable comes off very parentally. “Angela is a real human being. Stop talking about her like she’s a symbol of city poverty.”

Peter isn’t satisfied with Matt’s rebuttal. He whirls to face Leo. “Dramatic?” he repeats, angrily. “You call being realistic, ‘Being dramatic?’ You think there aren’t kids living in trap houses out here? You think there aren’t moms like Angela who pay rent by being sold to creeps on the street? You think the older kids won’t get sold to feed their siblings, or to keep the lights on?” At Leo’s uncomfortable silence, he presses, “Well, do you?”

“Hey.” Zach steps forward. “You better lay off my sister—”

“I’ll quit when she does,” Peter says. “Is this just another joke to you, Leo? It must be nice, when nothing in your life is ever that serious. Living in suburbia in a nice house with both your parents—you know, unlike me. My parents are dead. They have been for years. But you just get to swan in and out of the poor parts of town whenever you feel like it--”

“Peter, stop,” Matt says, as he pushes Zach backwards. Zach resists, but Matt is still much stronger than him. “Get your ass over to that stoop,” Matt orders him. Zach goes. He sits on the steps of the building across from Angela’s apartment with his arms folded.

Peter gulps down a breath, but he keeps going. “Matt’s an orphan too,” he tells Leo. “Whatever bad things happened to you as a kid, I can guarantee Matt had it worse. But you just make fun of him for being a good person. Like Matt giving these people food to eat and money for repairs is some thigh-slapping punchline—”

“Peter!” Matt’s voice now brooks no room for argument. “Take a breath. Leo’s not making fun of anybody. Humor’s her coping mechanism.”

“Yeah,” Peter snorts. “Poor people and orphans. Take that set to the comedy club. It’ll bring the house down.”

Leo snorts back. “Okay, first of all: You didn’t tell us you were an orphan, so how was I supposed to know that? Telepathy? Were you projecting your tragic backstory over your brain waves, or something?”

“So, what’s your excuse for laughing at Matt? You know all about his life—”

“Matt’s not a pussy,” Leo snaps. “You really think he’s going to lose it on me if I rib him about being Saint Matthew of Hell’s Kitchen? How fragile do you think he is?”

“It’s not about whether people can take it!” Peter says. “It’s about whether you should dish it out in the first place!”

“Hey, Peter, I’m sorry.” Kate inserts herself into the confrontation far more gracefully than Peter would expect. She walks over and puts her hand on his shoulder. The touch is light and non-threatening. “We’re obviously on a different wavelength here,” the older girl says. “You don’t feel the need to laugh off uncomfortable situations like we do. Some people make jokes about life instead of lashing out or screaming.” She sighs. “I don’t know which is healthier, honestly.”

Peter feels himself deflate a bit. Kate’s gentle hand on his shoulder feels like a thousand-pound weight. “I laugh a lot of stuff off,” he mutters. “I just don’t think it’s right to joke about these house calls.”

“I hear you,” Kate says. “And I’m sorry we didn’t read the room. Clearly, you’ve been where these people are, and you know what they’re going through. It makes you feel their pain on a different level.”

“Hey,” Leo cuts in, “I’ve been through shit, too. Just because I didn’t wring my hands and cry at every stop we made—”

“What exactly is your problem?” Peter demands. “Why are you so argumentative? Nobody forced you to be here! Go home if you can’t be bothered!”

“Why are you so self-righteous?” Leo spits back at him. “You’re just a kid, and judging by the state of your Asics, you haven’t got two dimes to rub together! So, when have you bestowed people with good fortune, Peter? What gives you the right to be so high-and-mighty about all this—”

“You don’t have any idea what you’re talking about, Leo.” Matt’s voice is low and even, but it sends a bit of a shiver down Peter’s spine. The older man snaps his cane back to full length and uses it to point towards the stoop where Zach still sits. “Until you do, I want you to stop talking and go sit with your brother. I’m not having this conversation every time we talk. I don’t want to hear you call people pieces of shit; I don’t want to hear talk of revenge or punishment on people that live in my neighborhood. I don’t care how bad they are; I don’t want to hear it. This is the last time we’re going to discuss something like this. Understand?”

Leo’s mouth shuts so fast, it would be comical in another scenario. She turns and walks to the stoop without another word. Kate stands awkwardly to the side. She watches Matt’s face with wide eyes. When she glances at Peter for a clue, Peter can only shake his head. He hasn’t really seen Matt act like that before, either. “Kate,” Matt says, “would you mind going to sit with the other two? I need to talk to Peter alone for a minute.”

“Oh,” Kate says. She blinks. “Uh, sure, Matt.” She pats Peter on the shoulder again and gives him a meaningful look. The look clearly says, ‘If you need help, I’m right here.’ Peter appreciates it, but he knows it isn’t necessary. He isn’t in danger from Mister Murdock.

Once Kate is far enough away, Matt asks him, “What’s really going on with you, man?” His hand is warm on Peter’s shoulder. It almost burns him with the intensity of the older man’s concern.

Peter fights back the lump that suddenly appears in his throat. He can’t hold back the truth anymore. “I got evicted,” he admits in a whisper so soft, only Matt could hear it. “The landlord threw me out on Thursday. I missed two payments in a row.”

Matt draws in a startled breath. “Peter! Were you going to tell me this if I hadn’t asked?”

Peter’s voice gets even softer. “Probably not?”

“Why in God’s good name are you on a charity run with me when you have nowhere to sleep tonight?” Matt demands. “We could have spent this afternoon fighting your eviction or finding some temporary housing—”

“These people need your help more than I do,” Peter says. “I don’t have kids or dogs. I just have to fend for myself. I can handle that.” He shrugs. “I have been for the past year.”

“But where are your things? And where are you sleeping?”

“The deli owner across the road from my old place let me put my stuff in his pantry,” Peter says. “I fixed his security cameras for him a couple times.” He looks away. “I slept in the deli, too.”

“Not anymore,” Matt says, instantly. His hand tightens on Peter’s shoulder. “You’re coming home with me tonight. You can stay at my place until we find you a new apartment.”

“No.” Peter wants to push Matt’s hand off to emphasize his point, but he can’t shun the kindness of human contact. “Mister Murdock, you’ve already done so much for me. I have to take care of myself—”

“Says who?” Matt demands again.

Peter stalls. “Um. Society?

“Fuck society,” Matt says, quick as breathing.

Peter laughs weakly. “That’s very vigilante of you, but it’s not really an argument.”

“How’s this for an argument?” Matt swallows. “I’ve had to fend for myself my whole life. It’s not rugged, or manly, or noble. It sucks, and it’s painful. And contrary to popular belief, Peter: A man doesn’t have to suffer to be considered a man.”

“Darn,” Peter manages to say. “You mean all those beat-em-up video games and war movies lied to me?”

“Propaganda to feed the military-industrial complex,” Matt says, with a slight smile. He isn’t dissuaded. “Once we’re done here, let’s go to Queens, get your stuff, and head back to my apartment. Then we can strategize on how to fix your living situation. Okay?”

“Okay.” An immense weight lifts off Peter’s back. For the first time this week, he feels like he can fully inhale. He takes a deep breath, then he says, “Mister Murdock?”

“Hm?”

“You know you don’t have to fix every problem in New York City, right?” Peter asks.

“Of course, I know that. I can do shit all about potholes.”

Peter laughs for real this time.

When he and Matt cross the street to where others wait, Peter apologizes to Leo, and Leo apologizes to him. Zach refuses to speak to him, and Peter accepts that reaction for the sibling loyalty it is. Kate offers to get them all separate cabs for their return journeys home, but they all decline. Kate uses an app to order a car. She gives them all a goodbye handshake when her car pulls up to the curb. Zach and Leo walk back to the church with Matt and Peter. When their cab arrives, Leo hugs Matt just as tightly during her goodbye as she did at her hello. Her fingers clench against his jacket like he’s a buoy she found while lost at sea and clinging to him is her only hope of survival. Peter figures that, at some point in those five hellish Blip years, Matt actually was Leo’s only hope. He can’t help but feel a bit sorry for her, even if she is obnoxious.

“Come see us soon,” Leo begs Matt in a way that sounds more like a demand.

“I can’t ever see you,” Matt retorts, but there’s no bite to the words. He lays his cheek against the crown of Leo’s head. “I’ll come by eventually, Leo.”

“We’ll make Dad leave,” she promises. “Mom won’t bug you. She’ll just go on about how thin you are, and how you need to move closer to our neighborhood so she can keep an eye on you.”

“She calls Frank every week to tell him the same thing,” Zach mutters. Peter starts when he realizes which ‘Frank’ Zach might be talking about.  

“Your mother is insane,” Matt says. “Respectfully.”

Leo laughs, and Zach says, “Yeah, well. She owns it.” They both hug Matt again until the cab driver honks impatiently, then they leave.

Matt and Peter take an easy walk to Matt’s apartment. They rearrange the living room, placing and inflating the air mattress Matt keeps for emergency guests. Matt opens up space in his closet for Peter to store clothes. Once their preparations are finished, they grab Matt’s recycling bin and the old trunk which usually holds his Daredevil suit to transport Peter’s things back to the apartment. They make an unusual pair on the subway with their bulky accoutrements, but it’s nothing New Yorkers haven’t seen before. Peter tries to let go of his humiliation, his anger, and his anxiety. He focuses on the fact that the man beside him didn’t hesitate when Peter needed his help. He grips the trunk tighter and resolves to repay Matt in kind someday. And he resolves to keep as many Saturdays as possible open for The Feast of Saint Matthew.