Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It was the noise that kept him awake.

It wasn’t just the sounds — the rumbling motors and wailing sirens and general racket of city life. Those weren’t all that different from what he was used to, really. He’d been in a war; he knew how to sleep through sirens and motors if he needed to. No, it was a visual noise that assaulted him even at night, that seemed seared into his eyelids even when he closed them to sleep.   

When he’d first broken out of the SHIELD facility, he hadn’t immediately recognized Times Square. It hadn’t looked, smelled, or sounded even remotely similar to the place where he’d spent a few New Year’s Eves with Bucky when they were teens. Sure, it was still bright back then; there had been neon signs and flashing lights and a few billboards with spotlights pointed at them. Times Square had always been an eyesore. 

This was a different kind of eyesore. It wasn’t that it physically hurt his eyes. Steve hadn’t tested it, but he had a hunch that he could probably stare at the sun for a few hours and still have perfect vision. But the blaring signs that covered the entirety of the Square seemed to be pointed right at him. He felt exposed, like he was walking into an enemy camp with his hands in the air, his shield lost to time. 

Steve had always been a roll-with-the-punches sort of guy. When Fury had asked if he’d be okay, he’d said yes, and in the moment, he had believed it. He’d listened to the explanation of how he’d been found, and all the rest of the things Fury had seen fit to tell him, only asking a few questions here and there, because his mind was positively whirling with color and light and noise. Of course, one question had taken precedence.

“What about the War? Did we win?”

“Hell yes.” 

The information had washed over him without him really taking it in. He hadn’t even known what to ask. A few hours ago, he’d been on a suicide mission to save New York from a bomb that would have devastated the city. Now, almost seventy years later, the War was apparently over, and— and what? It felt like someone had jerked him out of the boxing ring mid-swing and rung the bell. It felt like he’d been knocked out on the mat, and when he’d opened his eyes the crowd had dispersed and forgotten him.

The boxing metaphors were really getting away from him, but that was okay. He decided to allow himself a little leeway, since he was ninety-three years old. 

Someone at SHIELD had helped him find an apartment, which was nice, because he had thought that a little space, a little peace and quiet, was just what he needed. But how was he supposed to get a little peace and quiet when the billboard outside was flashing through the blinds, leaving stripes of flickering light that felt to Steve whiter and brighter than vita-rays.

“LED lights,” Fury had called them. It was one of the other questions that had come to mind while they stood there in the street. “That’s nothing, Cap. Wait till you hear about the moon landing.”

“I think I’d rather not,” he had said; and then, maybe for the first time since he’d gotten the serum: “I think I need to sit down.” 

Steve had really thought that at some point, after miraculous injections and glowing  cubes and maniacal villains with red faces, the world would stop surprising him. It was a stupid thought, in hindsight; even in the forties, things had been changing faster than Steve could keep up with. His own body was evidence of that.

He lay there in his soft bed for hours, not thinking, but letting the sights and sounds of the previous week rush around inside his head until the harsh light through the blinds was slowly softened by the warm light of morning. 

Today was his first day with nothing on his schedule. He’d been poked and prodded and debriefed and disrobed and all sorts of unpleasant things in the last few days, and now, finally, he had some time to himself to get his head in order.

And he had no idea what to do with it.

He’d had some thought that perhaps the best thing for him would be to do something familiar, or go somewhere that hadn’t changed utterly since the last time he was home. That idea was seeming less credible the more he remembered his experience with the future — the present, he reminded himself — so far. 

What could possibly remain unchanged in this brave new world? Even the music sounded completely foreign, though that was at least to be expected. Fury had shown him movies on a bright screen — some of them recorded by miniaturized telephones, for goodness sake — that had blown him away. He didn’t think he was ready for something like that, so going to the movies was out. Fury had also told him that there was an exhibit about him in the Smithsonian Museum, so he definitely didn’t want to go there. 

“There’s no place like home,” he muttered as he buttoned his plaid shirt, made of a material that didn’t feel quite the same as he remembered. 

So that was where he went. 

Fury had casually given him a fat wad of cash (“seeing as all your stuff is owned by the government right now”), and he fished it out as he flagged down a cab, thinking that regardless of inflation, this was way more money than he’d need. 

“Can you take me to the orphanage on 8th?”

He didn’t know why that was the first place that came to mind, but it was. Might as well start small — not with his home, but with a place where he had existed for a while, even been happy sometimes. 

“I can take you in that direction, Buddy, but an orphanage? Those things are pretty rare these days.”

Steve’s eyebrows shot up.

“Really? Where do kids go, then, if they don’t have anyone else?”

“Probably foster care? Where you been, man?”

“Right. Sorry.”

“Hey, no worries. You got some reason for going there?”

“Not really. I just haven’t seen it in a while.”

They lapsed into silence after that. Steve was so distracted by the view out the window, he didn’t realize they were entering what should have been familiar territory until a brick building caught his attention.

“Should be this next block. Turn right here,” he said, leaning forward to catch a glimpse. 

The cab turned the corner and stopped. The ornate brick building Steve was looking for was nowhere to be found. In its place was a concrete parking garage. 

“Oh.” Something in his chest tightened — not because he had particularly fond memories of the place, but because it was one more thread connecting him to the world that had been snipped without him realizing. “Uh. Keep going. There should be a church a few blocks down. St. Athanasius?” 

“Yeah, I know where it is.” The cab started creeping forward again. “So, you from the area or what?”

“I, uh… I used to live here. Just moved back, so I’m still getting my bearings. Seeing what’s still the same.”

“City’s never the same,” he said with a chuckle, “but it never changes, either!” It sounded like he might be quoting something, but Steve wasn’t sure. 

St. Athanasius Catholic Church was still standing where Steve had left it, but the building had been torn down and rebuilt in a completely different style. Gone was the gothic gray stone he remembered, replaced by a modern brick facade. It wasn’t ugly, but it didn’t look like a church to Steve. Not how he imagined them. 

“Keep going.” His voice sounded far away. “Three more blocks, then make a right.”

The cabbie asked him a question, but he wasn’t listening. He was staring at his old neighborhood, looking for something familiar. Eventually, the car slowed to a halt. 

“Hey, you got a place in mind, or what? First the orphanage thing, then the church, now we’re headed someplace else?”

“Sorry. This is far enough,” he said. “How much do I owe you?”

After paying an amount that made Steve’s palms sweat (he had seriously underestimated inflation), he started down the street on foot, already exhausted from just a few sentences of conversation. He stuffed his hands in the pockets of his jacket and kept his head down, not wanting to look up and see whether his neighbors’ houses were still standing or whether they, too, had been replaced.

He would not turn the corner on Hickory Lane. He would not see if the Barnes house was still there. Even the thought of it made a traitorous hope rise up in him, as if Mr. and Mrs. Barnes would come to the door and greet him like the prodigal son. 

He hadn’t been able to tell them about Bucky in person, but he’d imagined it many times: ringing the bell, Ma Barnes coming to the door with flour on her apron, Steve holding his hat in his hand. He had to keep reminding himself:

Ma Barnes is dead.

Mister Barnes is dead.

Bucky has been dead for over sixty years.

But it was hard to remember — hard to think about — so he didn’t look up as he passed Hickory Lane. He just kept walking. He could see the landscape of the street changing around him out of the corner of his eye, but he kept his head angled firmly toward the sidewalk until he reached the curb at his old street and turned.

He could already tell from the shadows that fell across the grass by his feet that something had changed, but his breath still caught when he looked up and saw it. A blocky four-story apartment building with dark brown walls and square windows. The little brick two-story walkup — the place he and his mother had called home for eight years — was gone. 

He had left it here in 1943 assuming he’d come back eventually, dead or alive. They’d win the war and return triumphant, or maybe he and Bucky would get some leave and they’d spend a few days here before shipping out again. Even the thought of being sent home in a pine box wasn’t so frightening to him, back then. But he’d been wrong on every count.

What was it Colonel Phillips had said to him once, over an amber glass of something he hadn’t offered to Steve?

You can’t go home again.

He ran all the way back to his new apartment, his enhanced memory and innate sense of direction the only thing guiding his feet. 

It wasn’t until he was pulling out his keys that he considered he might have been running a little too fast for a normal human being. Had anyone noticed? He suddenly felt exposed again, his shoulders hunching under the weight of their scrutiny — a watching world of strangers.

He was grateful that the serum kept his hands from fumbling with the keys. The door was unlocked in a matter of seconds, and he chanced a casual look behind him as he pulled it open.

The street was practically empty. 

There was no one to hear the slam of a door being pulled shut with a little too much force, or the click of a lock sliding into place.

The next day, Steve started fresh. 

He’d felt a bit better for the exercise after his impromptu run the night before, so he put on the clothing in his closet that seemed best suited for exercise (a hooded sweatshirt that had the word “ADIDAS” on it, some very soft sweatpants, and some shoes that did not look like how he remembered running shoes looking) and started out the door. 

He halted on the stoop for a moment. There were more people around now, and that sense of being watched came creeping back. It felt like he was maneuvering through a manned HYDRA base on a stealth mission, fully aware that one false move could reveal his location and attract an unknown number of hostiles.

These weren’t enemy soldiers, though. They were random civilians out and about on the streets of Brooklyn — his home. If they did spot him and recognize him as the newly-returned Captain America, the worst case scenario was that they’d ask for one of those selfies one of the younger SHIELD agents had tried to explain to him. 

When the feeling still didn’t dissipate, he turned back into the apartment and shut the door behind him, only to return a few minutes later sporting sunglasses and a baseball cap. 

“I’m one of them,” he told himself firmly. Then he started jogging. 

Jogging for Steve, of course, was a very brisk run for a seasoned athlete, and close to a sprint for an average person. He never really got tired while he was exercising unless he pushed himself to his extreme limits, but there was still something grounding about it, even if he wasn’t breaking a sweat. Just the rhythm of his steps and the distraction of traversing the street was enough to draw him out of the swirling fog of his mind. 

It was strange. He wouldn’t call basic training a pleasant memory by any means, but the thought of those awful runs now filled him with longing. 

He ran past a woman in a bright green outfit that wouldn’t look out-of-place on the beach and had to avert his eyes, his cheeks flushing. He hoped he’d adjust to these new fashions quickly, because right now they were very disconcerting. Luckily, growing up in New York meant that he had a lot of practice keeping his head down and minding his own business. It wasn’t as if the 21st century had a monopoly on shocking attire, he reminded himself. The things that were shocking had just shifted. He’d have to get used to it. 

He huffed and picked up the pace a bit. He was sick of all the things he’d have to get used to. 

He wasn’t sure how long he’d been running when he found himself approaching Brooklyn Bridge, but the familiar sight drew him in. He slowed to a walk and decided to take his time crossing it, pausing at the pedestrian entrance to let a young mother and her two boys go ahead of him. 

“This will be our workout for the day,” she was saying.

“When we get back, can I please play Halo?”

“Ethan, I’m not going to tell you again. You can’t play Hunter’s games unless I approve them.”

“But, Mom! It’s not even that violent! And you get these energy shield things, and it’s so cool, and there’s hardly any blood when you shoot people—!”

Steve sped up just enough to overtake the family and get out of normal hearing range, feeling a bit of sweat break out on his forehead that even running for several miles hadn’t managed to produce. A woman a few feet in front of him was talking to herself. She had white cords connected to her ears, the other end disappearing into her purse. It reminded him of radio backpacks and the Signal Corps.

The pedestrian promenade was beginning to feel a bit more crowded than he liked. He started to speed up a bit, expertly weaving around people and bicycles. 

He wasn’t sure how quickly he crossed the bridge, which he knew to be over a mile long, but it was certainly faster than he’d meant to. Before he knew it, he was on the other side, feeling as though he’d been running for his life again but he wasn’t sure from what. 

I might be cracking up a bit, he thought as he took a seat on an empty bench. Bucky would have laughed at him. Hearing talk of war from little boys, seeing portable radios in women’s purses? What is wrong with me? He shook his head.  

Gradually, he began to feel like himself again. The sounds of the city settled around him and grounded him in the moment. He looked back at the bridge. Still the same bridge. That’s something. 

He had this nagging sense that he was supposed to be somewhere. He had to keep reminding himself that, for the first time since he had joined the army, he had nowhere to be and no one waiting on him. 

“Take some time, Cap,” Fury had said. “Wrap your head around all this. I have a feeling it won’t be long before you’re needed again. We can offer you a job with SHIELD, down the line, if you want it.”

“How will I get in touch with you when I’m ready?”

“Don’t worry. We’ll find you.” 

Steve sighed. Well, if he didn’t have any plans for the foreseeable future, he might as well explore the rest of the city. 

Steve wasn’t sure why he ended up in Hell’s Kitchen, but a few hours into his walk he saw a familiar-looking street sign that gave him pause. Brooklyn would always be his home, but he had lived in Hell’s Kitchen for a number of years before they’d moved. His maternal grandparents had emigrated from Ireland, living among family and friends in the Irish neighborhoods of the city. This street was where he’d lived with his mother and grandmother until Nana had died when Steve was eight.

The apartment was gone, of course, but the street didn’t look as different as his old neighborhood in Brooklyn had. Steve kept walking, feeling a strange sense of deja vu. Now that he thought about it, this route was the one the three of them had always taken to—

He stopped in his tracks when he saw it. St. Agnes Catholic Church. 

Finally — finally — a building that hadn’t changed.

Steve remembered this place. He remembered skipping down this very sidewalk, holding his mother’s bony hand, dressed in his Sunday best. He remembered those big, red doors and those stone walls. He remembered the morning sunlight coming in through the stained glass windows and lighting up his mother’s golden hair. 

He remembered how much Bucky had teased him when he’d found out Steve had been an altar boy. He hadn’t continued with that when he’d moved to Brooklyn, mostly because he sometimes got dizzy when he was kneeling, or coughed at inopportune times. Father O’Malley at St. Agnes hadn’t minded, but Fr. Breckenridge at St. Athanasius had shot him stern looks from the altar. 

Steve felt a vague stab of guilt when he realized yesterday had been Sunday, and the thought of attending Mass hadn’t even crossed his mind. How long had it been, at this point? He supposed it depended on whether you counted his time in the ice. Either way, it had been a long time. 

The sign out front said “DAILY MASS: 8 AM. MONDAY AND FRIDAY: 3 PM.” He checked his watch. 3:17. 

His feet were carrying him to the doors before he could change his mind. After all, this was the first thing he’d seen that didn’t feel altered beyond recognition. Perhaps this was where he would find his peace. He pushed the red door open slowly, not wanting to disturb anyone inside, and stepped into the vestibule.

The interior of the church looked more or less familiar, too, from what he could see from the entryway. A few things may have changed, but the things that stuck in his memory — the stained glass, the high altar, the columns — those were all the same as when Steve was a boy.

He felt horribly underdressed, but he could recall, on the few occasions his mother had been well enough to drag him to a weekday Mass, workmen sidling in after the Mass had started, overalls covered in the grime of their trade. He remembered admiring them more than the well-dressed folks. 

“It’s like Nana’s birthday dinner,” his mother had told him once. “It’s respectful to show up looking nice, but if you can’t do that, she still wants you there.” 

So Steve took off his hat and pocketed his sunglasses. But he wasn’t ready to sit in the pews just yet. Instead, he stood in the doorway and took in where the priest was standing — not with his back to the congregation, but facing them. His vestments looked different, too, and the words he spoke — Steve hadn’t noticed earlier — were in English, not in Latin. The prayer he intoned didn't even sound familiar.

The warmth he’d felt entering the familiar space turned to ice in his veins. He felt, suddenly, as if that last thread inside him that connected him to this world was growing slack.

Steve spun around, his chest tight with desperation, and his eyes fell upon a little brown door to the side of the vestibule. The memory hit him like a freight train. 

He and Bucky had been about twelve, and there was a baseball game that Sunday that they were dying to see. They were going to stay the night with Bucky’s cousins in Hell’s Kitchen on Saturday and catch the game with them the day after. Steve’s mom had very reluctantly agreed, on one condition: that Steve went to Mass at St. Agnes while he was there. 

He’d dragged Bucky along, because at that point they were so inseparable, the idea of going somewhere without him barely crossed his mind. And Bucky had teased him relentlessly about being a good Catholic boy — an altar boy, no less! — whispering playful taunts into Steve’s ear until he couldn’t take it any longer. He’d dragged Bucky out of the pew and taken him to that very room with the brown door. It was basically a large storage closet, but Steve had known about it because it was where they kept the altar boys’ vestments. 

“First of all, you need to shut your mouth, we’re in church!” he’d furiously whispered to his friend. “And second of all, I am NOT some pansy altar boy, and I can take you in a fight right here, right now!”

His intention had been to smack the grin off Bucky’s face, but then Bucky had looked around the room at all the white vestments and started laughing, and then Steve had started laughing, and before they knew it, they were both rolling around on the floor laughing their heads off, and they didn’t calm down until Mass was already over. 

Fr. O’Malley had noticed them leave, of course, and Steve got a stern talking-to from his Ma the next day. But that moment had always stuck with him. 

When Colonel Phillips had told him about the 107th and Bucky’s seemingly hopeless fate, all Steve could hear was the sound of his gasping laughter at St. Agnes — that moment of pure, carefree joy, preserved forever in the golden light of his memories. 

Steve’s hand was already on the tarnished doorknob before he could question whether he was allowed inside. He wasn’t sure what he was expecting to find there. More evidence that the world had moved on without him? Some kind of sign that the boys who had laughed here long ago were dead and gone? 

Whatever he had expected, it was certainly not a little boy sitting against the far wall.

Steve froze when he saw him, and the boy tensed, though his eyes didn’t move from where they were blankly trained on the floor. They were big, brown eyes, puffy and red-rimmed from crying, and they stared into nothingness with a despondent expression that cut Steve to the heart. 

He could see that he was intruding, and an apology was already on the tip of his tongue when he stopped himself.

The kid was young. If Steve had to guess, he’d put him at eight or nine years old, although he knew from personal experience that size wasn’t always a good indicator. Either way, he was old enough that he probably wasn’t just throwing a tantrum, but young enough that it was odd for him to be in a church by himself.

Up to this point, Steve had regarded the civilians he saw in passing as existing almost on a different plane, entirely separate from himself. He was an interloper; interfering in their lives wasn’t something he had even considered. But something about seeing this boy crying in the place where Steve had once laughed made him feel rooted in this moment. That last thread of connection that had slackened was suddenly pulled taught, and he could see the scene before him with a new and startling clarity. 

Maybe Steve didn’t know much about kids these days, but no one that young should be crying alone in a closet. 

“Hey.” Steve tried to whisper, but his voice came out gravelly from lack of use, and the boy flinched back, his head bumping against the wall behind him. Steve winced. “Uh, sorry. I just wanted to ask if you’re okay.” 

As soon as he’d said it, he knew it was a stupid question. The kid scowled and dragged his sleeve across his face to clear away the tears. He still hadn’t looked up. 

“I’m fine,” he said roughly. “Leave me ‘lone.” 

“Sorry, but...I don’t think I believe you,” Steve said, trying to keep his tone light. He took a step inside the room, and the kid tensed even more. “And I can’t leave until I know you’re gonna be alright.”

“I don’t know you.” 

“Right. That was rude of me. My name’s Steve.” He paused, but the boy didn’t offer anything in return. That’s fine, he thought. Bucky had always given him the silent treatment when he was in a sullen mood, and the only way to break through it had been to keep talking. “I belonged to this parish when I was around your age. I was an altar boy, so I remember this room.” 

Slowly and deliberately, Steve moved across the small space — not closer to the kid, but towards the other wall, giving the boy a clear means of escape if he wanted it. He leaned against the wall and slowly slid down until he was crouching on the floor. The boy remained silent. 

“I haven’t been here in a long time,” Steve admitted. “I was, uh, away for a while. Last time I was at St. Agnes, the Mass was in Latin, not English.” 

The boy’s eyebrows scrunched together in confusion.

“I think there’s a Latin Mass at noon some Sundays,” he said. “My… My grandma used to go to it.”

“Yeah? Maybe I’ll check it out.” 

The boy went silent again, and Steve took a moment to observe him a little more. 

His clothes were obviously 21st-century, but something about them reminded Steve of his own childhood — probably the fact that they were old and worn-out. The neck of his shirt was stretched, the cuffs of his denim pants were fraying, and the sole of his left shoe was separating at the toe. 

Beside him on the floor was what looked like a bundle of white sticks — some new game, perhaps — and a very thick book. There was a pair of sunglasses next to his shoe. Odd for a kid going to church, he thought; but then again, Steve had some in his own pocket. 

“I remember dragging my best pal into this closet as a kid to yell at him for talking during the service,” Steve said slowly, hoping to draw the boy into some sort of conversation. “Got in a lot of trouble from my Ma. The old priest at St. Agnes knew her pretty well, and he snitched on me.” 

“Sacristy.”

“Sorry?”

“It’s called a sacristy, not a closet. They’re usually in the back, but this church has two of them.” He spoke without much inflection, but his shoulders had at least relaxed a little. “And most people around here call it Clinton Church, not St. Agnes. When people talk about St. Agnes, they usually mean the orphanage next door.”

“Oh. I see.” The boy still didn’t look up. “Thanks for telling me. You seem pretty smart. Or maybe you’re an altar boy too, huh?”

The boy let out a huff of air — not happy enough to be considered a laugh, but something like it. He finally turned his face in Steve’s direction, his eyes landing somewhere over his left shoulder. For the first time, Steve realized they were completely unfocused. 

“Yeah. I’m great at leading processions and finding patens.” 

Steve winced, both at his own oversight and at the very adult-sounding amount of sarcasm in the little boy’s tone. 

“Sorry. Didn’t notice.”

“What’d you think the cane was for?”

“Cane?” The boy reached for the bundle of what Steve had taken to be white sticks and started unfolding them. Steve’s eyebrows shot up when the pieces snapped together into one long walking stick. “Huh. Neat.” 

The boy huffed again, but this time he sounded less annoyed. Steve took it as a minor victory. Might as well push harder while he was ahead.

“You wanna tell me why you’re in here instead of out there?”

“No.” A tiny hint of vulnerability crept into his tone, and he hugged his knees closer to his chest. 

“Okay,” Steve said gently. “Okay. That’s fine. I don’t really wanna talk about it either, if I’m honest.”

“Wha’ d’you mean?” His voice was muffled by his knees, but he had tilted his head in open curiosity. That was something.

“Well, I came in here ‘cause I was a little upset, and I wanted to get away for a minute. Didn’t you?”

Slowly, very slowly, the boy nodded his head.

“Yeah. Sorry I’m interrupting that. But when I see someone hurting, I can’t just walk away. It’s not how my Ma raised me.” 

“Why were you upset?”

The question felt so sudden that Steve almost froze up. He hadn’t really planned this far ahead. But what kind of man would he be if he lied now? He mentally probed at the weight that had been crushing his chest since he’d arrived at the church, trying to figure out how to put it into words that a child from this century would understand.

“Well… Like I said, I’ve been away for a while. I used to live here in Hell’s Kitchen, and my Ma and I went to St. Agnes together every Sunday. Then we moved to Brooklyn, and after she— after she died, I didn’t really want to come back here.” Steve took a deep breath, and he noticed that the kid had squeezed his eyes shut. “I thought maybe being in the church would make me feel close to her again, but when I came inside, it didn’t feel the same.”

A small sniffling sound came from the boy’s direction, but he’d buried his face completely in his knees, and his arms were wrapped tightly around them, hands fisted in his floppy brown hair. 

“I’m sorry,” Steve said softly. “Did… Did you lose someone, too?”

He took in a shuddering breath and slowly nodded his head again, the motion barely recognizable. 

“I’m sorry,” Steve said again. What else could he say? A familiar grief settled on him like a heavy, wet blanket.  

He didn’t speak again for a full minute, waiting for the kid’s breaths to quiet down and even out. Eventually, they did. He released his hair from his fists and raised his head just enough to wipe at his eyes again. His face looked pink and raw from tears and frequent rubbing. He seemed a little embarrassed, but he didn’t say anything about it. Finally, Steve ventured to break the silence. 

“Can you tell me your name, Kid?”

The boy froze for a second, and Steve thought for sure that he’d ruined it by asking. But then his skinny little arms lowered, his shoulders slumping as if in defeat.

“Matty,” he said finally. “Matt. You can...call me Matt.”

“Matt.” Steve turned the name over in his mind. It seemed to suit him. “It’s very nice to meet you, Matt. You can call me Steve, if you want.”

“Steve.” Matt seemed to consider the name carefully himself. Maybe Steve should’ve introduced himself as ‘Mr. Rogers,’ but he had no idea how recognizable his name was, and he didn’t want to freak out the kid by revealing he was a 90-year-old fossil from the ‘40s.

“Matt, can I ask how old you are?”

“I’m ten,” he said a bit defiantly, as though used to defending himself from accusations of being younger. Steve chuckled.

“Well, you’re bigger than I was when I was ten. I was a pipsqueak.”

“Really?” Matt’s eyebrows scrunched again, and he tilted his head up as if surveying Steve. “You don’t sound small.”

“I had a growth spurt,” he said dryly. This time, he was almost certain Matt’s lips twitched into a tiny smile, even if it didn’t fully reach his eyes. Pride flared warmly in Steve’s chest. “Hey, thanks for talking to me, Matt. You actually made me feel a little better.”

“I did?” 

“Yeah. I’ve been having a hard time lately, but it felt good getting some of it off my chest. How about you?”

Matt turned his head away, an unidentifiable expression flitting across his face. Steve held up a hand and backpedaled quickly. 

“It’s okay to not feel any better. Sometimes talking about the person you’re missing doesn’t feel like it’s helping. It feels like the hurt is even worse. But that’s alright. It’s still good to talk, even if it hurts.”

Slowly, Matt nodded again. He opened his mouth, but nothing came out right away. Steve waited.

“Sometimes…” His voice was small and unsure now. “Sometimes, it feels like the whole world died. Or like God made a mistake. Like I’m not s’posed to be here without him.”

All the breath left Steve’s lungs in a rush. He closed his eyes. 

“...Yeah. I know exactly what you mean.”

“Father Lantom says God doesn’t make mistakes.” Matt’s eyes were shining now, the words tumbling out of him more quickly. “But he says it’s okay to be mad. And that I can talk to God and tell Him how I feel, because God wants us to be honest.”

“Sounds like good advice.”

Matt shrugged. He looked like he was about to say something else, but a very faint clatter from the main part of the church — kneelers going up, Steve guessed — made his whole body flinch, shoulders jerking up like he was expecting an attack. Steve hadn’t thought it was very loud at all, even with his better-than-average hearing abilities. 

“Sounds like Mass is about finished,” Steve said casually. “You got a place to be?”

“I… um…” Matt’s eyes were darting around anxiously. There were muffled conversations happening outside. Steve could see the rise and fall of Matt’s chest picking up speed beneath his oversized shirt.

“Hey, Matt? You with me, Kid?” 

The conversations grew a bit louder, and Steve’s sensitive ears could pick out a large number of young voices — maybe the group Matt had come with. One of the kids let out a small shriek, and Matt’s hands flew to his ears, trembling violently. His whole body began to shake. 

“Matt?” Steve’s voice came out more frightened than he meant it to. Matt groaned loudly. His breaths were coming even faster. Steve’s own heart was pounding in his ears. “Matt, do you need help? Is there someone I can get who can help you?”

The children’s voices came closer to the vestibule, and Matt squeezed his eyes shut with a whimper. Steve was on his feet in a moment, torn between staying with the boy and running for help. Luckily, the decision was made for him.

“Matthew?” a woman’s voice called from outside.

“In here!” Steve said quickly, his body spinning halfway toward the door. He couldn’t tear his eyes away from the child. “He’s in here!” 

A woman in black — a nun — flew through the open door. Her gaze flitted from Steve to Matt, and she was kneeling at the boy’s side in an instant. Steve tried to explain the situation as best he could. 

“He seemed fine, just a little upset, and then he covered his ears and he—” Matt groaned again like he was in agony. Steve had seen a man with a bad infection writhing in this manner in Italy, eyes wild, seeing and hearing things that weren’t there. But this had come on far too suddenly to be a fever. “I don’t know what’s happening to him. Is this some kind of breakdown or something?”

“Leave now,” the sister said firmly. 

“I—”

“You are making it worse. Please, just go.” 

Steve stumbled out of the room in a daze. Outside, there was a group of children waiting with several more sisters, most of them staring at the open door. Some just looked interested, craning their necks to get a look inside, but a few boys rolled their eyes and sniggered at each other, and one girl seemed to be muttering a prayer.

The orphanage, his mind supplied: St. Agnes Orphanage. 

“What happened?” One of the sisters laid a wrinkled hand on Steve’s arm. 

“The boy in there — Matt — there’s something wrong with him, Sister.”

“Was he covering his ears? Blocking out the noise?” Steve spun around. The priest he’d seen earlier at the altar was standing in the doorway. Steve nodded at the question, and the priest sighed before turning to the sisters. “Sister Maggie and I will take care of him. You can take the children back to school if you wish.”

“If you say so, Father,” the oldest-looking nun said skeptically. With a few sharp words from the sisters, the rubbernecking kids were quickly ushered out the church doors. The priest turned back to Steve and looked him up and down before nodding, seeming to find what he was looking for.

“I’m going to go help Sister Maggie get Matthew back to his room,” he said. “You may wait for me in the church.”

Steve blinked, but the priest had already left. After a moment of indecision, he decided to do as he was told.

As he made his way towards the back pew, genuflecting on instinct, he glanced down and realized he was holding Matt’s sunglasses.

Well, he thought to himself, in for a penny…

He sat down in the pew, prepared to wait as long as it took to make sure that little boy was okay.

Chapter Text

Matt’s whole body was on fire. That was how it felt, anyway. He knew it wasn’t real, because otherwise he’d have to add the smell of smoke to the ever-growing list of things currently overwhelming all of his senses at once. 

The stitching on the tag on the back of his shirt was cutting into his skin. The air around him burned his face and hands and the inside of his nose, and he could smell his own rancid sweat, and the salty tang of tears, and mold, and old wood, and various bathroom stenches that made him want to gag. 

The worst by far was always the noise. Banging and scraping and stomping and yelling — every voice he could hear was yelling. 

Somewhere (Nearby? Far away?) he could hear one of the other kids making fun of him. He could hear Beatrice Peterson whispering a Hail Mary, but the rasping of her voice, even as quiet as it was, felt like paper cuts on his eardrums. 

He could hear the pounding of his own heart. When Steve (bar soap, hair gel, sweat, new clothes) had been here, Matt had listened to his heartbeat, stronger and louder than Matt’s. But now that he was gone, an uproar of thrumming hearts rushed in on him and made his head pound with each asynchronous beat. 

He could hear a little boy crying, two blocks away. He thought it must be his imagination, but—

But he had heard too much that night, too, hadn’t he? Heard the gunshot, heard—

The thought sent a panicked warning through his head — the kind that had once made him jerk away from a hot burner not long after losing his sight. “Do not touch!” But it was too late. Everything seemed to fade into buzzing static, even his skin. 

Bang!

When he came back to himself, Matt couldn’t breathe. 

“Matthew.” Sister Maggie’s voice was too loud, but it also came to him as if from under water, like a shout that wakes you from a dream. “Matthew, you’re alright. You’re safe.”

“Bet he’s freaking out again, little wuss!”

“That boy in there — Matt — there’s something wrong with him, Sister.”

“—something wrong, all right!”

“—Mother of God, pray for us sinners…”

“What a crybaby!”

“—Sister Maggie and I will—”

A siren wailed outside, and Matt cried out in agony. It felt like an icepick. He tried to focus on one sound, but everything was blurring together. Before he knew it, the too-loud murmurs of Sister Maggie (“Let nothing disturb you, let nothing frighten you, all things are passing away…”) quieted, and a man’s voice took their place. 

“Matthew, it’s Father Lantom. Listen to the sound of my voice.” 

Matt whimpered at the sound, but he didn’t want it to stop, either. His voice was rough, but warm, like—

“Easy with the cotton swabs, there, Doc.”

“You’re s’posed to be doin’ your homework.”

“Matty—!”

“Matthew, you need to breathe. I know you’re frightened. Can you take one deep breath for me?”

Matt choked on the breath, but Sister Maggie praised him for it anyway. It went on like that until the gasping gulps of air gradually turned into a steadier sort of panting. The world was still far too loud, and the tag on Matt’s shirt still chafed, but he could hear his heartbeat slowing down a bit. He could hear theirs, too; Sister Maggie’s was still too fast. 

“He seems a little better,” Fr. Lantom muttered. “Matthew, can you stand?”

A childish whine slipped out before he could stop it. His hands were still covering his ears, and now his fingers tightened in his hair.

“That’s all right. I’m still pretty spry, you know. You’re lucky you’ve got me instead of Fr. Wojcik.”

Matt felt himself being scooped up under the knees and back. He didn’t look it, but Fr. Lantom was strong; he hefted Matt’s limp body with just one small groan as his knee popped. Matt was too old to be held, really. But that hadn’t stopped—

“Matty, Matty, it’s me, it’s Dad, I’m right here!”

“It’s alright, Matthew,” said Sister Maggie. Matt hadn’t realized he’d started sobbing again until he felt the wet spot on Father’s shoulder rub uncomfortably against his face. The world was so loud, but his own cries sounded far away. 

“It’s alright,” said Sister Maggie again. 

“He  can rest in my office until dinner,” said Fr. Lantom, a bit of strain in his voice (maybe he wasn’t that strong. Not like—) 

Stop! He squeezed his eyes shut, as if that would somehow block out his thoughts.

“Are you sure, Father?” Matt focused on Sister Maggie. She sounded worried. He hadn’t meant to worry anyone, but he was too tired to feel guilty. 

“I have some business elsewhere anyway, so I won’t need the space.”

The trip to Fr. Lantom’s office passed in a whirl of awful noise and scents, but the inside of the rectory was pleasantly warm, and while the office wasn’t anywhere close to soundproof, it helped. Matt’s breaths were calming down again by the time Fr. Lantom set him down on a cheap couch and Sister Maggie draped a blanket (hand-knit, scratchy wool, coffee stain on the corner) over his twitching legs. Her soft hands tentatively smoothed the hair back from his forehead. It felt nice, if only for a second. 

“I’ll come and wake you for supper,” she said. This time, Matt nodded. The more he calmed down, the more exhaustion crept over him. He felt like he’d just gone three rounds in the ring with—

No. This time he shut down the thought without much difficulty.

“If there’s an emergency, use your cell phone,” she added anxiously. The orphanage had given Matt a flip phone, just in case he got lost. He heard her turn to Fr. Lantom and mutter, “We’re not technically supposed to leave him alone…”

“He’ll be fine, Sister. Go on, now,” Fr. Lantom said kindly. Her dress shoes clip-clopped out of the room. If Matt wanted to, he could probably follow her progress back to the orphanage and hear what she told the other sisters, but he didn’t have the energy to try. 

“Get some rest, Matthew. You’ve only been here a few weeks. You’re doing just fine.” A traitorous part of Matt’s chest warmed at the reassurance. He said nothing. “Do you need anything before I go?” Matt shook his head. Father sighed. “Rest,” he repeated before turning to leave.

Matt’s eyes were already closing when a sudden thought occurred to him.

“Father Lantom?” He hated how his voice broke in the middle, like a scared little kid’s. The priest’s footsteps paused, his shirt rustling as he turned his upper body to face Matt. “What happened to Steve?”

“Had a nice chat with him, did you?” He sounded tired, but pleased. “I told him to wait for me in the church. I’m hoping he’s a good Catholic boy and decided to listen.”

“Oh.” Matt felt his face flush at the realization that the kind stranger had been a witness to… whatever was wrong with him. Something like disappointment settled in his chest, and he wasn’t sure why. “Can you tell him I’m…”

Matt didn’t know how to finish the sentence. “I’m okay” would be an obvious lie. “I’m sorry” didn’t feel right. “I’m glad we met” — that was stupid, he thought. It was just a brief conversation with a random grownup who’d had pity on the blind orphan. Steve didn’t know him. He certainly didn’t owe him anything. 

“I’ll tell him,” Fr. Lantom said finally. Somehow, Matt knew he’d figure it out.

Steve wasn’t sure how long he sat in the pew waiting for the priest to come back, but it was long enough that he’d started a list of differences he could see between the St. Agnes Church of his childhood and the St. Agnes (“Clinton Church,” Matt had called it) of today. He found himself lost in thought as he gazed unblinkingly at the stained glass windows on either side of the church. Most of them looked familiar, but the one high above the altar had been replaced with an image of a dove in flight. He couldn’t remember what had been there before.

Studying the stained glass so intently made him feel somewhere between twenty and eighty years younger, depending on how one counted the years of his life (a mathematical issue he hoped he’d come to terms with soon). He had to stop himself from swinging his legs from the pew. They were too long now, anyhow.  

The only thing keeping him tethered to the here and now, rather than adrift in his past, was Matt. Seeing the little boy in such a state after their talk in the sacristy had been terrifying. The priest had seemed confident that he’d be all right, but what was wrong with him in the first place? Was the problem in his body or his mind? And why was Steve so overcome with the need to help? 

He felt so useless sitting here. The boy was in pain, and Steve could do nothing. His eyes drifted to the crucifix at the front, and he knew exactly what his mother would have said in this moment.

For the first time since waking up, Steve crossed himself and closed his eyes. 

He wanted to pray for Matt, but his mind stalled. He fidgeted — very unbecoming of a soldier — and then forced his hands to be still. He lowered the kneeler and sank to his knees, but soon that didn’t feel right, so he sat back down in the pew. The words still wouldn’t come. So he fell back on something familiar. The same prayer he’d muttered to himself on the battlefield, when fear loomed in the dark corners of his mind. The one he hadn’t prayed since the last time he’d seen Bucky’s face.

“St. Michael the Archangel, defend us in battle…” 

There was an image of Michael slaying a serpentine Satan on the window to his right. He’d always liked that picture as a boy. It had filled him with the same fire that had made him want to join the army and slay dragons of his own. 

“Be our safeguard against the wickedness and snares of the devil...”

You didn’t go to war without coming face-to-face with Evil. Now, when Steve pictured St. Michael fighting demons, they didn’t appear as snakes or dragons or dark angels. They borrowed the face of a man with red skin stretched over a hideous skull.

“May God rebuke him, we humbly pray. And do thou, O Prince of the Heavenly Host, by the Power of God, thrust into Hell Satan and all the evil spirits who prowl about the world seeking the ruin of souls. Amen.”

Steve had seen evil. Matt, blind or not, had seen it too. And the thought made Steve’s heart clench in a way he didn’t expect.

The sudden sound of footsteps made Steve jolt to his feet like he was presenting himself for inspection. He huffed at himself, deliberately lowering back into the pew and raising the kneeler without glancing over his shoulder. He was in a church, not… wherever his memories had tried to take him.

“I apologize,” said the soft voice of the priest from before. Whether he was sorry for the delay or for startling him, Steve wasn’t sure.

“That’s alright, Father.” He suddenly felt at a loss to explain why he’d waited around. His fingers twitched around the sunglasses in his hand, and he jumped at the distraction. “He left these — Matt did. His glasses.”

“Oh, good. I was wondering where those had gotten off to.” The priest took them from Steve and gestured to the pew where he was still lingering. Steve slid over to make enough room for the priest to join him. “I suppose you must have questions.”

“Is he alright?” Steve blurted, suddenly unable to wait while they exchanged niceties. It didn’t seem to bother the priest, though he was slow to answer.

“...Yes, relatively speaking. Matthew is alright now.” The priest chuckled without mirth. “It’s a bit of a loaded question, isn’t it? Physically, he is fine. He’s resting.”

Steve let out a quiet sigh of relief. 

“He asked me to pass on his regards,” the priest continued. “I think he feels bad for worrying you. Seemed quite taken with you, actually.” A warm feeling spread from Steve’s chest to his face. “If you don’t mind my asking, how did you come to meet him?”

“Oh.” He suddenly felt like he was twelve years old again. “I, uh, haven’t been to St. Agnes in a long time, Father. When I got here, I poked my head in, but— well, I changed my mind about coming inside, and then I saw the closet— the sacristy, I mean—”

“I’m not here to reprimand you,” the priest said lightly. “Every part of the church is here for the community, so long as you don’t have any bad intentions. Granted, there are protocols regarding adults and children being alone in rooms together, but I’m guessing that was an accident?” 

“Yes, Father. I saw Matt crying by himself in there, so I stopped and talked to him. I didn’t realize there were rules about that.”

“I’m sure there weren’t any the last time you were here, Steven.” 

Steve stiffened. The priest immediately held up his hands, a contrite look in his eyes.

“I apologize. I should have been upfront about recognizing you.” He laid his palms on his knees and faced the front of the church, giving Steve a moment to compose himself. “I assure you, your identity is safe with me, and I doubt anyone else had time to put it together.”

“How did you know?” 

“The government hasn’t made a statement yet, but rumors of your sudden appearance are already all over the news. I also happen to be very curious, almost to a fault. I’m aware of most of this parish’s history, including the list of notable former parishioners.” Steve didn’t know what to make of being a “notable former parishioner,” and it must have been obvious on his face. “I promise that if you do return to St. Agnes, we will treat you as part of the community, not as a celebrity guest. I’ll make sure of it.” 

“Still can’t really wrap my head around that,” Steve admitted, letting his shoulders drop. “I spent most of my life as a nobody. Then I woke up in a world that learned about me in history class.”

“It must be incredibly disorienting. I can only imagine.” The priest was still studying the wall — a reprieve for which Steve was grateful. He didn’t see Steve rub his sweaty palms on his pants, or clench them into fists afterward, letting his nails bite into his palms before slowly, deliberately relaxing them. 

“It still doesn’t feel real, most of the time,” he said finally. The priest nodded, as if he’d expected as much. As if this were not his first time speaking to a newly-revived supersoldier whose age was subject to philosophical debate. Steve had a feeling this was a man who was difficult to shock. After another moment of silence, he felt compelled to keep talking. “I know I should be grateful to be alive. Especially when others weren’t so lucky. It’s not that I wish I’d…”

He couldn’t finish the sentence. His hands balled into fists again.

“Having complicated feelings about being alive isn’t the same as wanting to die, Steven,” the priest said softly. “You’re allowed to be grateful and angry at the same time. There isn’t one right answer.”

Steve let another sigh rush out of him. 

“It doesn’t feel right. It feels like a mistake, me being alive when they’re gone. I’m not supposed to be here.”

“I’m afraid God doesn’t make mistakes,” said the priest. Steve couldn’t stop the huff of laughter. The priest raised an eyebrow. “That one doesn’t normally get a laugh.”

“No. Sorry. It’s just, that’s what Matt said you’d say.” The priest’s eyes twinkled when they met Steve’s. “You must be Father Lantom?” 

“Oh, yes, how foolish of me. I didn’t even give you my name, after guessing yours.”

Steve stuck out a hand. Lantom shook it, with a stronger grip than he’d expected from such a gentle speaker. “Nice to meet you.”

“Likewise.”

They lapsed into silence for a moment, but now that the ice had been broken, Steve couldn’t hold back his curiosity.

“Father… I don’t want to pry, but you said Matt is physically alright? What’s…?”

Fr. Lantom’s expression turned wistful.

“I will tell you what I can without violating his privacy. He seems to trust you, for all that you just met.” That unidentifiable warm feeling was back in Steve’s chest. “Matthew has been living at St. Agnes Orphanage for about two weeks now.”

“He said that he’d lost someone.” Steve’s chest felt tight. “His parents?”

“His father,” Fr. Lantom confirmed. “Jack Murdock. He was raising Matthew on his own when he was killed. The loss has been… especially devastating.” 

“Two weeks…” It was barely longer than Steve had been awake. Of course he wasn’t alright. “What happened to him?”

Father Lantom, though likely in his forties, suddenly looked very old. Steve wondered if he’d known Jack personally. 

“He was murdered,” he said gravely. “Beaten and shot in an alley.” 

Steve sucked in a breath. 

“Shit,” he whispered, and then, “Sorry.”

“No need to apologize to me,” said Fr. Lantom, “though you might consider a quick one to our Lord.” Steve’s eyes flicked guiltily to the large crucifix hanging at the front of the church. “I can’t say I didn’t say worse when I heard about it.” His face was still lined with sorrow, but the corner of his mouth twitched as he shifted back into counselor-mode. “Words are important, but sometimes they do slip out before our brains give them permission. Just acknowledge it and move on, I say.”

“Yes, Father.”

“Anger is better acknowledged than internalized,” he continued. Steve was sure he wasn’t talking about mild cursing anymore. “It’s okay to be mad at the world, mad at God, but you have to talk to Him. You can’t let it fester. That’s how people become bitter.”

“Matt said something about that, too.”

“I’m glad something’s sticking, then.” Fr. Lantom sighed. “I worry about him. Of course, it’s far too early to know how he’ll cope, but I’m already concerned about how isolated he is from the other children.”

“I heard some of them laughing at him.”

“They don’t understand. Matthew’s attacks, for lack of a better term… I’m sure I don’t have to tell you how distressing they can be to witness. And these children have all experienced loss in their young lives; sometimes that makes it difficult to empathize with those who react to trauma differently.”

“He’s a sweet kid,” Steve said sadly. “I wish I could help.”

“You already have. You got him to speak to you. That’s more than anyone else has been able to accomplish.”

He felt his face heating up at the praise. It felt nice to be helpful again, after a week of just existing.

The two men lapsed into silence once again. Steve expected the priest to leave — surely he was a busy man — but he just sat there with him for a few minutes. Steve’s eyes were drawn to the side, where he knew the confessional was. 

“I have plenty of time, you know,” said Fr. Lantom. “All I had planned was paperwork, and I’d prefer putting it off, if I’m being honest.”

Steve raised a confused eyebrow. The priest smiled kindly.

“A lot of soldiers come here, after they return home. They don’t always know how to approach the confessional.”

“Oh, I was just—” he started to wave his hand dismissively but stopped himself at the last moment. Once again, sitting here, he didn’t feel like a 6’2'' super soldier with experience and authority on the battlefield. He felt like little Steven, the 90-pound kid who went to school in Brooklyn and missed his ma. Any thought of fibbing went out the window.

“It’s been a long time, Father.” Steve gazed at the door to the confessional booth. It looked like the curtain had been changed, but the wood, though freshly refinished, was the same knotted mahogany he remembered from childhood. “And I don’t just mean because I was asleep for so long. Even before that, it had been a while. I made a quick confession before I shipped out, but…” He sighed. “I had a lot on my mind. I kept putting it off. Even when I had opportunities — when we would meet a chaplain, or stop in a town with a church — I just...”

He couldn’t find the right words, but Fr. Lantom seemed to understand.

“Confession can be difficult. When we start admitting to our faults, it feels as if we’ll be in the confessional forever, doesn’t it? But it’s simpler than we think, usually. Once we actually decide to go.” He smiled wryly, and Steve huffed a quiet chuckle. 

“What do you mean?”

“Well, maybe you think your sins are too big for God to handle—” he raised a challenging brow, and Steve ducked his head guiltily, “—or perhaps you have the opposite problem, and your conscience hasn’t accused you of anything. The conscience is really like a muscle, you know. If you don’t exercise it enough, it can be slow to respond.”

“Might be a bit of both,” Steve admitted, his eyes trained on the tile floor. “I guess I sort of convinced myself that I was good enough, you know?”

“You are good enough,” said Fr. Lantom, “in the sense that God is never going to stop loving you. Who you are is enough for Him. But that doesn’t mean you always do good things, does it?”

“No, Father.”

“We all make bad decisions, Steven. We all sin. That doesn’t make it okay, but it’s the truth. It just shows us how much we need God. We can’t do it alone, and He doesn’t expect us to.” 

Steve lowered his head, breathing slowly. After a moment, a hand fell on his shoulder.

“I can guide you through it,” said Fr. Lantom. “If you need extra help remembering, I can even help you examine your conscience. Like I said, I have plenty of time.”

Steve closed his eyes, unwilling to meet Fr. Lantom’s.

“I didn’t even think about it when I woke up,” he admitted. “I never thought about God, or coming back to Church or anything. I just…” 

“And yet you’re here now.” 

Steve thought about that for a moment and drew in a shuddering breath. He dragged his head up again and nodded. 

It took a long time, but when Steve came out of the confessional, he felt different. Raw and exposed like an excavated skeleton, but also somehow lighter than he had been since waking up. 

He still didn’t have any answers. But something inside him that he hadn’t realized was in turmoil had been put to rest. 

Now he just had to figure out what to do with the rest of his time here.

“Steven.” Steve turned around. Fr. Lantom was emerging from the confessional, a small smile on his face. “The children will be back here for Mass on Friday. It could be a good way to familiarize yourself with the Mass before Sunday.” 

“Father,” he acknowledged, not entirely sure where he was going with this. The priest’s face turned serious.

“It is up to you what you do next,” he said. “In every aspect of your life. But I do hope we see you here again.”

Steve didn’t know what to say, except:

“I hope so, too.” 

Chapter Text

Steve spent the next three days spinning his wheels. Generally speaking, he felt a bit better than he had at first, but he still had no idea what to do with himself in this new world. (Same world, he had to keep reminding himself, just a different time.) SHIELD didn’t contact him on Tuesday, so he spent the morning exercising and the afternoon milling around a bookstore, leafing through unfamiliar titles. 

He could only handle a small amount of time in the history section before getting overwhelmed (seeing books about the war he’d just fought in right next to books about the Civil War or the War of 1812 was very disorienting), but he allowed himself to get lost in learning what types of novels people read these days. The writing style of the newer books was a bit different — less wordy, maybe — but not really hard to understand. 

“Can I help you find anything?” 

Steve’s head snapped up. A young woman with short-cropped hair and purple glasses was smiling at him. Her name tag said ASHLEY. Steve had always thought of that as a man's name, but it seemed to suit her well enough.

“I’m just browsing,” he started to say, but then changed his mind. “Actually, I’m not sure what to get. I’m looking for something…recent. I haven’t really kept up with the new books coming out, and I’d like to catch up a bit.”

“Let me guess. You loved reading when you were a kid, but lately you haven’t had the time?” Ashley gave him a knowing smile. “Happened to most of us at some point or another. Well, you won’t want to start with something boring, then; you want a real page-turner to get back into the swing of it! What do you normally like?”

“Uh.” Steve floundered for a moment. “You know, I really enjoyed The Hobbit? Have you read that?”

“Oh!” Ashley’s eyes lit up. “You’re a Lord of the Rings fan, then? Fantasy?”

Steve had no idea what she meant by that, but it seemed safe to just nod along. Her face lit up like he’d just made her day. 

“Well, there are a bunch of great fantasy series out now that probably weren’t around when you were a kid! There’s a new Discworld out, if you remember those, and— oh, have you read Harry Potter yet?”

He ended up going home with three books — the first in the Harry Potter series, a book from the Discworld series that the cashier had insisted he could read in any order, and The Fellowship of the Ring. It had been difficult to contain his excitement about that last one, because he’d had no idea that Tolkien had written more books. It almost made him happy to be in the future, for a moment. 

When he got home, he dove right into Fellowship. He felt unexpectedly emotional reading Bilbo’s name, like he’d finally found one of his old friends in this strange world (same world; different time). He read until the light from his kitchen window grew dim. He still didn’t sleep well that night, but at least he had a book to distract him when he woke up.

On Wednesday, SHIELD did get in touch. An agent showed up at his door with a box full of books and files to introduce him to the 21st century. While he was there, he set up Steve’s phone (“landline,” he’d called it) and television, and very briefly showed him how to use them. He mentioned that SHIELD would be in touch with more materials for him and left. Steve hadn’t even caught his name. 

The TV was a bit overwhelming, too, with all the channels full of pictures he’d never heard of. He turned it off after twenty minutes of browsing and turned to the box.

Inside were books on a variety of topics and presented in a variety of ways. Some looked like school textbooks, others dull encyclopedias. One was called Modern History for Dummies, which Steve thought was a bit rude.

At the bottom of the box was a stack of brown folders marked with the SHIELD symbol. He opened the first one and his breath caught in his throat. 

MORITA, Pvt. James “Jim”

Status: DECEASED

Steve left the file closed on his kitchen table. He went for another run instead. 

By the time Friday came around, Steve knew he had no excuse not to show up at St. Agnes. It wasn’t as though he had much else to occupy his time, besides reading those books and studiously ignoring the files. He knew it would be good for him to get out. A part of him was excited at the prospect of seeing Matt and Fr. Lantom again, too, but he shoved that down. He was still a stranger here. He had no connection to these people, really. 

Still, he was inexplicably nervous when he arrived at the church, and spotting the head of fluffy brown hair peeking over the back of a pew made him relax considerably. Steve genuflected and sat in the very last row. Matt was sitting several rows ahead of him, two rows behind the rest of the orphanage kids and the nuns. 

Steve knelt down and said a quick prayer. He still wasn’t sure what to say, so he fell back on the St. Michael prayer again. As he sat back in the pew, his eyes were drawn to Matt. He’d assumed that someone would join him, but the boy was still sitting alone.

Well. Matt was alone, and Steve was a bit lost. There was an easy fix for both of those things. 

The kid tilted an ear toward him as he approached and seemed to be waiting for him to say something.

“Hi, Matt,” he whispered, sliding into Matt’s row but leaving plenty of room between them. “Mind if I sit here? It’s—”

“Steve?” 

“Yeah. You must have a good memory for voices.” He was genuinely a bit impressed, especially since he’d been whispering. “Is it okay if I join you? It’s been a while since I went to church. Thought it might help if I was sitting next to a pro.” 

Matt’s mouth twitched. Steve didn’t relax until he’d gotten a nod out of him. 

He didn’t get a chance to ask any questions, because the Mass started soon after that. As soon as the congregation started responding to things, Steve felt lost. He knew when to say “Amen,” but for the rest, although it still felt familiar, he had no idea. Finally, during what he thought was the Gloria, something nudged his arm.

Matt had moved closer in the pew so that they were right next to each other — the kid was surprisingly stealthy — and was holding out a book. A missal. He hadn’t even thought to ask for one.

“Thanks,” he whispered when they were seated again. He opened it up, looking for a list of the English prayers. 

“Just don’t ask me what page it’s on.” This time there was no mistaking the tiny smirk on his face. Steve chuckled quietly, feeling light. Matt didn’t move away.

The rest of the Mass was easier to follow, and Steve didn’t feel lost again until the priest started distributing Communion. Somehow, Matt must have known he was confused, because a small hand gripped his arm. Steve bent lower so he could catch Matt’s whispered instructions.

“If you’re receiving, you just walk up and bow, and when he holds up the Eucharist, say ‘Amen.’ You can receive in your hands or on your tongue.” This kid must be at the top of his Catechism class, Steve thought amusedly. “Some people kneel, some don’t.”

“Thanks, Kid.”

“Um.” Matt suddenly looked uncomfortable. He nodded vaguely in the direction of the Communion line. “It’s kind of hard for me to…”

“Oh.” Steve suddenly wondered how Matt had planned on walking up if he hadn’t been here. Maybe one of the nuns normally helped him. “You can walk with me,” he whispered. “How do you want to…?”

“You go first, and I’ll hang onto you.”

“Sure.” 

Steve led them both to the front of the church as the line slowly moved forward. If something stirred in his chest when he felt the small fist curl around his shirt at the small of his back, well, that was best left unexamined.

After the Mass ended, Steve sat down, hoping to talk to Matt for a few minutes. The orphanage group stood up right away, but one of the nuns — the same one who had told him to leave last time — glanced up at the two of them and headed their way, corralling a few children as she went.

“Matthew, you may stay here for a few minutes, but only until Father is finished,” she said as she passed by their pew. 

“Yes, Sister Maggie.”

Matt looked tense as the other children began to chatter amongst themselves, so Steve turned to face him in hopes of distracting him.

“So. Matt.” He scrambled for something to say. “How are you feeling today?”

“Okay. Better today, I guess.”

“That’s good. I’m having a pretty good day today, too.”

“It’s meatloaf for dinner tonight, though.”

“Mm, I could go for some of that.” Steve chuckled as Matt wrinkled his nose.

“You obviously haven’t smelled it yet,” he said.

The chatter dwindled as the children made their way outside. An altar boy set about extinguishing the candles around the altar. He could hear Fr. Lantom talking to an older couple by the church doors. 

“Some days are easier than others, huh?” Steve asked quietly. 

“Yeah.” Matt turned his head away like he was looking at the front of the church. “Do you…have bad days?”

“Sometimes.” Steve sighed. “Yesterday was kind of a rough one for me, if I’m being honest.”

“Yeah. Me too.”

“Wanna talk about it?”

Matt shook his head. Steve understood. 

Steve sat with Matt again on Sunday, having asked Matt’s permission after the Friday afternoon Mass. Matt seemed even quieter than before, and he didn’t smile when they spoke afterwards, but Steve thought he seemed glad not to be alone. So was Steve.

By unspoken agreement, Steve showed up again on Monday at 3:00 and sat with Matt. This time, the kid seemed to be having a good day. After Mass, they sat on a park bench outside while Fr. Lantom greeted parishioners at the door. The weekday attendees were mostly older people who seemed thrilled for the opportunity to talk to their priest. 

“Everyone loves Fr. Lantom,” Matt said as a stooped old lady hobbled her way to the front of the line to gush about his sermon.

“He seems like a good priest.”

“Yeah. He’s been nice. And he doesn’t treat me like he’s sorry for me all the time. Sister Dora does that, and I hate it.”

“That always bugged me too,” Steve said diplomatically, “but I’m sure she doesn’t mean it that way.”

“I guess.”

“You know, when I was a kid, I got sick a lot. It was just my mom and me at home, and a lot of people would say things, trying to be nice. ‘What a brave little boy, poor thing.’ Stuff like that.”

“That sounds really annoying.” Matt’s nose wrinkled in distaste. “People said things, after I got blinded. Called me brave and stuff. When they thought I wasn’t listening, they’d tell my dad—”

He broke off with a sharp inhale, and Steve held still, waiting to see what he’d do. His shoulders trembled with the effort of holding himself together for a moment. Then it was all spilling out.

“They used to say how hard it must be for him, raising a blind kid, and how sorry they were, and he’d always say it wasn’t ha-hard, ‘cause he—”

The wet, choked sound that tore its way out of Matt’s throat made Steve’s heart ache. He reached out a hand, needing to reassure the kid, but stopped before he could make contact. 

“...‘Cause he loved you. Right, Matt?”

“He sh-shouldn’t ha-ave!” The words were so garbled by tears that Steve almost didn’t understand them. “It’s my— my fa-ault, it’s—”

“Oh, Matt, no.” 

Steve finally let his hand fall on Matt’s shoulder, but the boy jerked away, almost falling off the bench. Steve froze, his hand suspended in the air. Matt scowled harder than he had since their first meeting.

“I don’ wanna talk to you anymore.” He nearly knocked off his sunglasses in his haste to dry his eyes on his sleeve. “Just go away, leave me alone!”

“Matt, wait.” Steve stood up, desperately wanting to hold onto the kid but knowing it wasn’t his place. He watched Matt walk as quickly as he could down the sidewalk, his white cane swishing violently back and forth. 

Steve kept watching, following his progress until he disappeared behind the door of the orphanage next door. How had he screwed this up so badly? He cursed his own stupidity. He’d known that touching the kid might end poorly. Nobody liked to be crowded when they were low; Steve knew that from personal experience.

“It’s not you.”

Steve spun to face Fr. Lantom, who had somehow appeared at his side without his notice.

“I think I pushed too hard,” he argued, dropping heavily back onto the bench with a sigh. The priest joined him. The gaggle of parishioners had dispersed now, and the only noise was of sparrows and car engines. “His dad came up. I should’ve changed the subject or something. Definitely shouldn’t have touched him. I just made things worse.”

“Worse? Steven, I think you’re underestimating how much of a positive effect you’ve had on Matthew over the past week.”

“I don’t know about that. I thought I might be getting through to him a bit, but now…”

“There are always setbacks when it comes to grief. I’m sure you’ve experienced that at some point in your life.” Fr. Lantom did not bring up the obvious, and Steve was grateful for that. “But he seems better on the days when you visit him.”

“He does?” Against his will, that warm pride was filling up his chest again, followed by an inexplicable sense of panic that he desperately tried to tamp down.

I let him down today, he thought. Then, even worse, I’ll do it again. 

Right now, the Steve of the twenty-first century was completely unattached. The files that sat on his table still remained unexplored; as far as he was concerned, until he read them, his friends were neither dead nor alive. And it hurt terribly, but as long as he stayed untethered, the hurt couldn’t really touch him.

He knew, deep down, that letting himself get attached to Matt — letting Matt get attached to him — would change things.

He had just woken up. He wasn’t ready for things to change. But maybe they already had.

“You really think that I’m helping him?”

“He still doesn’t interact with the other children, but he’s a bit more attentive than he was, and he will respond to adults when he’s spoken to. He seems calmer, too, at least during the day.”

“During the day?” Steve’s heart sank. The priest looked regretful, but he didn’t sugarcoat it:

“He has nightmares. Horrible ones, the sisters say. They had to give him his own room because he kept waking the other boys. And he still has those attacks, like the one you witnessed last week.” Fr. Lantom turned his upper body toward Steve so that he could level a serious look at him. “I wouldn’t be telling you this, but I truly think that your presence here has been good for Matthew, and if you are to continue to build this rapport, you should know how he’s doing.”

Despite his lingering anxiety, the weight of this responsibility didn’t feel nearly as oppressive as Steve thought it would. It felt like the weight of his shield on his arm — a privilege to bear. Perhaps even a comfort.

“Thank you, Father,” he said with a nod. “I won’t mention the nightmares unless Matt brings them up. Assuming he still wants to talk to me.”

“I wouldn’t worry about that. As I said, grief is a process, and there will always be setbacks. Sometimes they can even be a good thing. Speaking of which: how have you been, Steven?”

It took all of Steve’s willpower not to shift uncomfortably in his seat. The man certainly didn’t beat around the bush. 

“I’m…adjusting,” he said at last.

“There’s certainly a lot to adjust to. Have you had any help?”

“The agency sends people around, sometimes. They dropped off files for me to read…”

“Hm.” For the first time, Steve detected a judgmental note in the priest’s tone. “That doesn’t sound like an especially hands-on approach to helping you adjust to the world, given that they’re the ones who woke you up.”

“They don’t really strike me as touchy-feely types, Father.”

“No,” he chuckled, “I suppose not.” 

Two older children hurried by with a dirty basketball. Steve and Fr. Lantom watched them pass, playfully shoving each other and laughing all the way. They reminded him of Bucky. A lot of people had been doing that.

“What do you do to pass the time, Steven? Surely you aren’t reading files all day?”

“Well, sometimes I exercise. I like running, even though it doesn’t really cost me much energy to do it. And I’ve been reading Tolkien’s new books.” 

“Ah, excellent choice! And a favorite among priests, I must say. Let me know when you’re finished. Perhaps we can discuss.”

Steve smiled. “I may just do that.”

After several nights going back and forth with himself, Steve had decided that he would still sit near Matt on Friday but that he wouldn’t push the kid to talk to him beyond a quick “hello.” After all, he’d pushed him way too hard the last time, and the last thing he wanted was to hurt him again.

The plan went out the window when Steve walked in and Matt was nowhere to be found.

The rest of the orphanage seemed to be present, and the row where Matt normally sat was empty. Perhaps he was in the bathroom? Steve picked the pew directly behind Matt’s and waited. A brass bell was rung, and everyone stood up. An older priest — not Fr. Lantom — processed to the front of the church. Matt still hadn’t shown. 

Just before the lector could start the first reading, Steve stood up, swiftly genuflected, and left. A nameless worry had settled in his stomach, like he was back in Italy and one of the Commandos hadn’t responded to a radio check-in. Realistically, Matt was probably sick, or playing hooky; but the anxiety wouldn’t ease until Steve had seen for himself that he was safe. 

After all, the Howling Commandos were probably dead, and in any case no longer under Steve’s command, but Matt was still here. And he needed him. 

Steve exited into the afternoon sunlight and suddenly stopped, unsure where to begin. Could he simply knock at the orphanage door? And ask what exactly? 

He had a sudden image of himself knocking at the door and Ma Barnes answering. “Can Bucky come out to play?” 

He shook his head, dislodging the errant thought. He was being silly. He was a grown man. Matt was a kid, not a soldier. There was probably nothing wrong, and if there was, he probably didn’t want Steve bumbling around trying to fix it.

An image sprung into his mind of the boy writhing on the floor of the sacristy with his hands clamped over his ears, his breaths coming in uneven gasps that wracked his tiny frame. 

The worry in his chest hardened into resolve. He walked back into the church. 

When he reached the sacristy door, he forced himself to turn the knob slowly, making as little noise as possible. His enhanced hearing still picked up on a quiet gasp on the other side.

He pushed the door open as slowly as he could bear. The lights were off this time, but he could still make out the tiny figure curling into himself in the corner, his legs pulled into his chest, face smushed into his knees. His audible breaths came quicker than normal, but they weren’t the desperate gasps Steve had witnessed a week ago.

“Hey, Matt?” Steve whispered, stepping slowly into the room. “You okay, kid?”

His brown hair nodded up and down, his face staying hidden.

“Do you want me to get Sr. Maggie? Or Fr. Lantom?” He didn’t know where the priest was, but he was willing to look. Matt shook his head. “Okay.”

Steve suddenly remembered his unspoken promise to give Matt some space, and he wavered in the doorway. 

“Sorry. I know you probably came in here for some privacy. I just wanted to check in.” He took half a step backwards. “I can go now, if you want.”

After a few interminable seconds, Steve finally turned around, but a quiet whimper from behind him caused him to freeze in place.

“Wait.”

Steve waited. He didn’t move his body, but he turned his head so that he could just barely see Matt’s shiny brown eyes. 

“S-Steve?”

“Yeah. I’m still here.”

“Can you…?” Steve held his breath as the boy searched for the words to say, or perhaps the courage to say them. “Stay?”

Steve’s own eyes began to sting. He left the door open and slid down the wall across from Matt so that they sat facing each other. Matt’s breaths had slowed to a normal rhythm again, and the knot loosened in Steve’s chest.

“Yes. I’ll stay.”

Chapter Text

It was always the sound of the gun that woke Matt from his nightmares.

Sometimes, he heard it from their old apartment. Sometimes, he was there in the alley, watching as shadowy figures beat up his dad before finally shooting him. Sometimes he could see his dad’s swollen face, and sometimes he was blind. But he could always hear the sound of the gun, and he always woke with a scream.

This time, it was mostly shadows and sounds, but one image came through: the spectral visage of Jack Murdock, face all beat to Hell like he’d just lost a fight, a look of utter betrayal on it.

“It was all for you, Matty!” His cry cut through Matt’s panic and pinned him in place. His eyes were gaunt, black shadows. A gun was in his hand. “You told me to do the right thing, and now—”

BANG.

Matt realized after a few seconds that he was still screaming. His whole body was drenched with sweat, and his sheets were stuck to his skin and pajamas, twisted around him, trapping him in place. He felt like he was being strangled. He couldn’t breathe. 

He frantically reached out with his senses, trying to prove to himself that he was safe in bed, not trapped in that alley with a vengeful ghost. But all the sounds in the world seemed to be crowding around him. Passing cars, screeching cats, a far-off shout in the street that set his heart pounding even faster.

“He-Help!” he wheezed out. He squirmed, but the sheets stayed tangled around him. “Help!”

He missed the sound of a creaking door, of hurried footsteps in the hall, still lost in his panic. Suddenly, his door was open, and gentle hands were fluttering over him, freeing him from his bonds.

“Matthew, Matthew, it’s all right, you’re all right…”

“Sister Maggie?”

“Yes, I’m here. You’re safe. It was just a dream. Breathe, Matthew.”

Matt tried to breathe. It was a little easier now that he was sure of where he was, but the thought of the figure in his dream made it hitch in his chest.

Sister Maggie was praying over him again. Some of the nuns made him uncomfortable when they did that — like they were one step away from calling in an exorcist — but it was calming when Sister Maggie did. Her smell, too, never failed to bring him just a bit of comfort. Her hand soap wasn’t artificially scented, but it still had a nice, clean freshness to it. And her breath always smelled like chamomile tea at night. She’d offered him some once, but he didn’t care for the taste. Just the smell.

“Do you want to talk about it?” she asked gently.

“No.” He clutched at the fitted sheet beneath him, trying not to let his mind wander back to the dream.

“Are you sure? It might help if you—”

“I can’t!”

“All right.” She tugged at the blanket next to him, not letting her hands touch him. “That’s all right.”

With a painful scraping sound, she dragged a wooden chair next to his bed. The chair had been placed there specifically for this purpose. Almost every night, Matt woke screaming, and almost every night, Sister Maggie prayed the Rosary next to his bed until he was able to fall asleep again.

The faint sound of her beads — wooden, he thought, not glass or ceramic like some of the other nuns had — was another comfort. Soon, Matt found his heartbeat gradually slowing. The cacophony from earlier had faded slightly. He thought that maybe if he closed his eyes, he could—

BANG.

Matt didn’t know what kind of noise he made; all he knew was that the world was suddenly rushing in on him again, and he couldn’t breathe. 

A car had backfired far, far away, and it had sounded like it was right next to him.

From an unknown distance, he heard a rat’s dying squeals. A woman screamed at her boyfriend. A cop asked someone to please step out of the car, Sir. A radio thumped with too much bass.

Twelve orphan boys snored and breathed and shifted in their beds, and it was all so deafening.

“I’m sorry, Matthew,” Sister Maggie said, as if she had personally damned him to this torment. Something about how sad she sounded made tears well up in his eyes.

“It won’t s-stop,” he gasped. He had curled up on his side like a baby, his pillow pressed into his ears on either side. “I don’t know how…to make it stop!”

“I’m sorry,” she whispered again. Her rosary had fallen to the floor, Matt suddenly knew. She picked it up, pressed it to her lips, and slipped it back into her pocket. Matt focused hard on her breathing. Her heartbeat.

After a long time, his own heart started to slow again. He suddenly felt exhausted. Sister Maggie lowered herself back into her chair as his eyelids began to flutter.

“We’re going to find a way to help you, Matthew,” she whispered. Matt wasn’t sure if he was meant to hear it. “We won’t give up. The Lord will provide. I’m sure of it.”

The next day, Matt wearily worked through his morning routine as normal. Another kid (he was pretty sure it was Danny M. but had no proof) knocked into him on his way to brush his teeth, and a few boys laughed, but one helped him clumsily to his feet. Matt brushed him off and went about his business.

At breakfast, he usually sat next to Beatrice Peterson, because she was quiet and didn’t get mad when he didn’t want to talk to her. Breakfast was toast and oatmeal, which was actually Matt’s favorite, as long as he could get his hands on some toast that wasn’t burnt at the edges. Several of the other kids were arguing, and for once, Matt decided to tune in instead of ignoring them.

“Well, it’s not like you’re the one who saw him!” Max Wozniak was saying. “So how do you know it’s not true?”

“You didn’t see him either,” a girl said with a nearly-audible roll of her eyes. Matt didn’t know her voice.

“I told you, I ran into my cousin the other day—”

“Dude, if you have a cousin, why are you here?”

“Shaddup! Ritchie said he was in Times Square and the guy suddenly ran into the street! And a buncha black cars — like serious CIA-type cars — surrounded him! And Ritchie recognized him from the posters!”

“That’s so stupid, Max. Even if he wasn’t dead, he’d be like a hundred years old!”

“I’m just telling you what he saw!”

Matt leaned toward Beatrice, who was stirring her oatmeal and pretending not to listen. “Do you know what they’re talking about?”

“Oh!” She dropped her spoon into her bowl with a clatter. Apparently she had given up on Matt ever speaking to her. “Um, I think so. There’s this rumor going around. People are saying they saw Steve Rogers in Times Square.”

“Steve Rogers?” Matt’s eyebrows furrowed. “Captain America? Like from World War Two?”

Matt’s dad had bought him some of the comics before he’d gone blind, and there had been a real, black-and-white photograph of Steve Rogers in the back, smiling at the camera. Matt had always thought he looked like a nice, normal guy, besides the muscles.

“I don’t know if it’s true. But it’s weird that so many different people said it looked like him,” she said softly. “Especially since they just found the plane that he crashed in the arctic.”

“They did?”

“Yeah. Didn’t you hear about it?” Matt shook his head. “It was weeks ago. Right before— oh. I guess it was, um, right around the time you got here.”

“...Oh.”

“All right, children, gather up your dishes,” called the bright voice of Sister Mary Peter. 

Matt was vaguely aware of Beatrice lifting his plate for him and stacking it with hers like she usually did. He was lost in thought.

Captain America was a superhero. No one knew exactly what the stuff those scientists had given him could do — only that it made him strong and tough. Was it really possible he could have survived crashing his plane? Shown up looking as young as he had been in the war?

“Cool” was Matt’s first thought, but then he reconsidered. He tried to imagine dying in a war and then waking up so many years later. He wondered if all of Captain America’s friends and family were dead. If he was alone, like Matt.

Anyway, things were definitely different in 2011. It must be a shock. Some of the kids at church had said that Captain America used to go to St. Agnes when he was a kid, but now that Matt thought about it, even the Mass would have been in Latin instead of English.

It was that thought that made the wheels start to turn in Matt’s brain. He knew someone like that — someone who sounded young but talked like an old man.

Matt shook his head. 

Wherever Captain America was, Matt figured the least he deserved was a little privacy.

Matt always wore a St. Matthew medal around his neck. His grandmother had given him one when he was little, which he had promptly lost. When she’d bought him a replacement, he had kept it in a drawer rather than risk losing it again. He’d started wearing it again after she died, and eventually, it had rusted and faded to the point that the saint was no longer recognizable.

For his first Communion, his dad had bought him a new one.

“It’s not a fancy one or nothin’. It’s just made of aluminum. But it’ll hold up better than your last one. And this way, we won’t have to pay an arm and a leg to replace it when you lose it!” 

Matt couldn’t see whether or not it had lost its shine, of course. But unlike the other one, it still felt smooth and clean when he ran his finger and thumb over it, which he did constantly. A few of the nuns had stopped to chatter about his nice saint medal, and it hurt, but it also made him stand a little taller, knowing his dad had bought it for him. That, as far as he knew, it was still shiny. Almost like he’d sprung for a fancy silver one.

Matt had never wanted to ask his dad about Saint Matthew. He’d known that his dad was never a book-learner, and he hated to embarrass him by asking him things he probably didn’t know. (He felt ashamed of this now. His dad wasn’t stupid; he knew that.) But eventually, he worked up the strength to ask someone else.

“Father Lantom?”

Matt was reading in the parish office, which was where they kept the many, many volumes of Matt’s braille Bible. Father Lantom was pretending to do paperwork at the desk, but Matt was pretty sure he was reading a novel, because every once in a while he huffed out a quiet chuckle.

“Ah.” There was a quiet shuffling sound and then the thump of a book closing. “You have a question about your studies?”

“Sort of. Can you tell me about St. Matthew?”

“Certainly. Is that what you’re reading? The Gospel of Matthew?”

“No, I’m reading from Acts. It’s just that…” Matt sighed. He hated playing the blind card, even when the need for help was entirely genuine. “I don’t actually remember what he looks like. On my medal, I mean. And I don’t know that much about him, even though it’s my name…”

“Yes, it’s good you’re taking an interest in your patron saint, Matthew. Your parents must have chosen that name for a reason, after all.” Matt tuned out for a second at the word ‘parents,’ but he forced himself back to attention. “I draw wisdom from my own namesake, St. Paul, quite often. Now, let’s see here…” Fr. Lantom’s chair squeaked, and his footsteps approached Matt where he was sprawled on the office floor. Matt held up the medal around his neck. He could smell the priest’s coffee breath from that silly espresso machine he loved so much.

“Sister Dora says that saints have different symbols and stuff.”

“That’s right. St. Paul, for example, is often depicted with a sword, representing the manner of his execution. St. Matthew has a few symbols, but yours has him holding a scroll, with an angel behind his shoulder.”

“An angel?”

“Yes. A winged man, or an angel, has long been associated with Matthew the Evangelist. The reasoning varies a bit, but most people say it’s because of how his Gospel begins. He starts with the genealogy of Jesus, emphasizing his human and divine nature. Hence the winged man. The angel in the picture is leaning over him while he writes the Gospel, keeping him from making mistakes.”

Matt ran his thumb over the medal again. He could clearly feel where Matthew’s face was, but now he could also feel the raised metal where an angel stood behind him.

“I think Matthew is a perfect saint for you,” Fr. Lantom said as he returned to his desk. Matt’s eyebrow furrowed.

“Why?”

“Well, you want to be a lawyer, correct? Matthew was a tax collector. You can see that in the way he writes, I think. Matthew is very fastidious. His attention to detail is incredible, and he cites his sources. Rather reminds me of a certain Sunday School student who asked a million questions and nearly drove Sister Dora to distraction.”

Matt could practically hear the raised eyebrow directed at him. He smirked.

“I just wanted to know—”

“Oh, I remember your arguments, Matthew, there’s no need to rehash them now.” Fr. Lantom chuckled. “There’s nothing wrong with asking questions, as long as you aren’t bullying your teachers. But I want you to think about what that says about you. God gave you a gift for words — for asking the right questions and making the right arguments at the right time. I fully believe that you will use those gifts to make the world a better place one day. You just have to remember to stay humble. Use your intelligence for good things.”

“Yes, Father.” The words suddenly felt leaden in his mouth. 

“Think of St. Matthew and the angel over his shoulder. I pray every day that God will keep me free from error. And of course I fail — often, in fact. We all do.”

Matt couldn’t speak for a moment. His thoughts were far away. Fr. Lantom kept talking, but Matt could only hear his own voice quoting Thurgood Marshall to his father. “We must dissent from the apathy!” 

He had used his gifts then. Now, when he thought about it, all he could feel was a burning rage like he wanted to punch something. Like he wanted to punch himself and his dad and Saint Matthew and those evil, evil men at Fogwell’s. 

“Father?” His voice came out hoarse, probably interrupting the priest’s explanation. “What if it’s not an angel standing by my shoulder, telling me what to say?”

Fr. Lantom paused for a moment, his heart stuttering just slightly. 

“What do you mean, Matthew?”

“Watch out for those Murdock boys,” his grandmother used to say. “They got the devil in them.”

“I’m not like St. Matthew,” he bit out. 

He’d been enjoying himself mere moments ago, but now the anger was sudden and relentless. 

“I’m not good.” 

He slammed his book shut and left without saying goodbye. 

The next day was a bad one. Bad enough that Matt didn’t get out of bed.

A construction crew was out drilling concrete early that morning, before the sun had a chance to warm Matt’s window, and that led to a massive headache that made everything sound both loud and somehow fuzzy at the same time. Danny M. started a fight with Max Wozniak while the other boys were brushing their teeth that ended in a clamor of shouting and roughhousing.

Matt thought he heard his name at some point in the next few minutes, but everything was indistinct until the voices were right outside his door.

“Honestly, Maggie, we’ve given in to this foolishness far too many times. He needs to learn to adapt.”

“Let me speak to him, Sister Joan.”

“Have it your way.”

Matt ignored the knock in favor of rolling over in bed and slamming his pillow over his ear. She came in eventually, and even with the pillow, he could hear her quiet sigh.

“Matthew, it’s time for school.”

The drilling had started up again. Matt thought he’d rather hear that than her disappointment.

“...Please, you have to get up. You won’t feel better wasting away in here.”

She smelled like generic black tea and buttered toast and chemicals. One of the girls had been throwing up last night, and she’d handled some of the disinfectant at some point, even though she hadn’t been in the girls’ wing.

“...Matthew, I am worried—”

She cut herself off before she could finish. Matt couldn’t find his voice. He waited, holding his body perfectly still, until she sighed once more, whispered a prayer under her breath, and left.

The next several hours passed in an agonizing blur. He fell into a light doze in the late morning, but by the time the other kids went outside for recess, he was fighting for control again, gasping for air while his feet kicked desperately, as if they could carry him away from the noise.

He almost didn’t hear Sister Joan speaking softly in the hall, or the familiar tap-tap-tap that came from her companion as they entered his room. He didn’t really hear what either of them said. After a moment, the door closed. A man was speaking to him. He smelled terrible — sweat and dirt and cigarettes. Suddenly, his hearing seemed to sharpen as he sensed the man was saying something important.

“They think you’re getting worse,” he growled. “But you’re not, are ya, Kid?”

Matt’s hand flew up to catch a set of keys just before it could hit him in the face. His feet stilled. Somehow, he sensed that the man was almost smiling.

“You’re getting stronger.”

Stick was weird, but Matt liked him. The first thing he’d done was demand Matt get his “sorry ass” out of bed and get dressed. Then he’d taken him for a walk — his first since arriving at St. Agnes — and bought him ice cream. Then he’d insulted him some more, but Matt didn’t really mind. For some reason, the insults felt kind of nice. Like Stick knew Matt — like he understood. 

Some of them still hurt, but maybe they were supposed to. Steve had said that sometimes they had to do things that hurt. Matt could remember his dad saying something similar to young guys in the ring. 

“Feel that pain, asshole! You feel it? That’s what a real fight feels like! This is how you become great!”

So maybe that was what Stick was doing. Hurting him in a way that he needed.

“First thing you gotta understand is: nobody feels sorry for ya, and nobody ever will. ‘Cause when it comes to being born lucky, you won the friggin’ lottery.”

That one hurt the most, because Matt wasn’t lucky. He’d trade all of his so-called gifts in an instant if he could go back to before the accident, when he could see and his dad was alive and things still made sense. Steve would never say something so tactless to him. But it felt different coming from Stick. Steve said nice things, but Stick would tell him what he needed to hear, even if it hurt. 

“You gonna spend your life crying and rocking yourself to sleep at night? Or are you gonna dig deep, and find out what it takes to reshuffle those cards life dealt you?”

Matt thought for a second about how pathetic he’d probably looked crying in his bed. He wondered what his dad would think of him now.

Murdocks always got back up.

Matt sat up straighter on the park bench, his ice cream forgotten in his hand, and tilted his chin up. Stick smiled.

“Good choice, Kid.”

Stick wasn’t always around, but he came by on most weekdays, and he usually trained Matt for several hours after school. He made it very clear that, given the option, he’d take Matt out of that “government-mandated shithouse” and train him full-time. Matt privately thought that his body wouldn’t be able to take it if he had to work it this hard all day, every day. But the thought of Stick taking a full-time interest in him made his heart beat just a little faster. 

The work they did was hard, but Matt was good at it. It made him feel strong. Stick didn’t praise him exactly, beyond an occasional “yes” or “good,” but Matt learned to interpret his breaths as being either disappointed or impressed. He craved the latter so much, he even did extra exercises at night in his room. 

The first few days had been all about controlling his senses. By day three, he had all but stopped waking up in a panic because of his senses (the nightmares, of course, were another story, but at least he’d been exhausted enough lately that he often slept through the night).

On their second day together, Stick had taken him to a kind of creepy shack that smelled like gardening tools, and that had become their usual training spot. They did different things every day, but there was always a mix of mental training (“Where did I eat lunch? How many cigarettes? What weapons are in my jacket?”) and physical training and sparring (“What do I get if I win?” “You get less of a beatdown, Kid.”). He also taught Matt how to meditate, which was what Matt usually told other people they did. That and “blind people stuff,” which was a more acceptable explanation than one would think. People didn’t tend to ask for details about Matt’s blindness, for fear of appearing ignorant. Stick taught Matt to use that to his advantage, which felt like lying, but Stick assured him it was just evening the playing field.

Stick usually did something else on Sundays — or maybe he just didn’t want to hang around a Catholic church on those days — so Matt still got to see Steve at least once a week. Steve noticed the change in him right away, but Matt was purposely vague with the details. For some reason, talking to Steve about Stick felt wrong, even if he left out the secret stuff that Stick had specifically told him not to tell anyone.

“He’s this blind guy who works with other blind people, I guess. He’s teaching me how to use my other senses to adapt. We also meditate. Stick says that’s important.”

“His name’s Stick?” Steve repeated skeptically.

“I mean, that’s probably not his actual name, but it’s what I call him.”

“Like… Like a walking stick? Like your white one?”

“I guess.” Matt was pretty sure it was referring more to the big stick he often fought with, but he wasn’t going to say that to Steve.

“Huh.” Steve fiddled with his hands. Even after just a week of working with Stick, Matt could now tell what Steve was doing most of the time, and he could always hear his heartbeat. It was strong and steady, as always. “Well, I can’t say I understand it, but if this meditation stuff is helping, then I’m glad. Maybe you can teach me sometime.”

Matt grinned. “Not sure you’re Zen enough…”

“Hey!” They both laughed. Finally, Steve admitted: “I don’t know what ‘zen’ means.”

“Don’t worry about it, old man.” 

For some reason, that startled a loud guffaw out of Steve. Matt laughed along, but the wheels in his head were turning once again. 

“What’s up, Pal?” (Steve had taken to calling him this. It felt very old-timey, but Matt didn’t mind.) “You look like you’ve got something you wanna say.”

“It’s nothing,” Matt lied with a smile.

He would wait until Steve was ready to tell him himself.