Work Text:
Matthew had been a bit… down, lately. On edge. Moody. Not full-on despair like when he’d ended up bloody, broken and half-deaf in the orphanage, no. Thank God for that. He’d been suicidal back then, and even though he’d never done more than vaguely hint at it she knows. She knows.
What is it with those Murdock men? What makes them court pain and death so much? Or maybe, Maggie thinks, maybe it’s also her. Not Jack’s blood, but hers. Her fault, her sin, to carry this sadness in her; her fault, her sin, to break her vows and carry a son. To be unable to care for him and abandon him. Them: she’d abandoned Jack, too. He was a good father, until he chose death and honor and some other Murdock-style suicide.
The devil in them, indeed.
Right now, however, it’s not the devil that’s eating at Matthew. He’s distracted, like he’s hearing something no one else can. (Well, he usually is.) It must be what earned him that knife in the arm, she thinks as she threads the needle through his skin. He’s not focused, not as he should be to go roam the streets and the roofs of Hell’s Kitchen at night. “What’s on your mind, Matthew?”
He shrugs. “Nothing.”
“Matthew.”
His eyes crinkle for a second, but he doesn’t answer. She knows he misses Paul, she knows there is too much baggage between them for her to fill his shoes. She has another role: not confession but care, not communion but a fragile link they're trying to build without ever acknowledging it. “I’m fine,” he says. She frowns. Usually, those words are not a good sign. “I was careless.”
“You’re distracted.” She ties the last knot. “So, what is it? I haven’t heard of anything too worrying in the Kitchen lately. Is it one of your friends?” Tell me it’s not this darkness I gave you that’s eating you up again, she thinks. Please. She poisoned him, she knows she did. She wasn’t the only one, but she started the trend; first by giving birth to him, then by abandoning him. Her worst sin and yet her best gift to the world, but she carries all the responsibility for the sin and none for the gift. She wants to ruffle his hair like she never did and like he probably needed so much when he was a boy. It’s too late now.
Finally, he pulls his shirt on again and tilts his head as if looking at the ceiling. “I hear things,” he says.
“You usually do.”
“Things I didn't think I'd ever hear again.”
“Good things? Things you wanted to hear again?”
He closes his eyes. There is the smallest smile on his face. “When Midland Circle collapsed,” he says. “When it collapsed, I wasn’t alone. I thought… I hoped she’d survived too, but after so much time without hearing her, hearing from her…”
Maggie thinks back on those first weeks when he’d been mostly unconscious, of the syllables she understood much later were a name, a name he was calling for. “Elektra?”
“Yes. No. Yes. She… she died right here,” he says holding out his arms in front of himself. “Right here.” His voice wavers, and Maggie’s heart stutters. She tries to keep her face neutral, even though he can’t see it, and waits for him to continue. “She died, and then they brought her back; but… she wasn’t fully herself. They used her as a tool, a weapon; they didn't let her remember, they…” His fingers are worrying the old woolen blanket he’s sitting on. “We fought. We fought, but then I could feel it. She was still in there, she was coming back, you know? She was coming back to me, piece by piece, and then the building; and…”
She sits next to him on the cot, hesitates to touch him. Chooses not to, for now. “You love her.” She’s careful to use the present tense.
He bunches the blanket between his fists. His knuckles are still red. “She, she was like me. We were both trained by Stick, both left behind by him. But she was a better student, a better warrior than I could ever be.”
Ah, Stick. The mysterious blind man who’d appeared one day at St Agnes, and said he could help. They’d trusted him, and she’d been so grateful. Matthew had seemed to improve so much, so quickly; and then the man had vanished and Matthew had become even more distant. Colder. Angrier.
How they all hurt him, she thinks. How they hurt him, and yet how much good there still is in him after everything.
“He wasn’t a very nice man.”
Matthew chuckles. “No, he wasn’t. But he too made me what I am.”
Maggie tries not to think too much about what he means by too but, yes, she knows. She’s part of it, both as the woman who gave him life and as sister Maggie of the orphanage. “I’m so often amazed by who you’ve become in spite of it all.” She takes a breath. “Us all.” Another, slower breath. “Me.”
His lips quirk up, but he doesn't answer. The past is the past, let’s not dwell on it. She knows that’s what he’d say, and what he is trying hard to live by. She knows he’s not quite there yet. She’s not sure he will ever be.
“Do you wish you’d done things differently?” He asks after a while. “Or, I don’t know. That they’d happened differently?”
Well, that’s quite the question. She doesn't know right away what to answer. Her time with Jack made her a better nun in the long run, more able to understand people and provide help. On the other hand, she hurt them both so much. What a price, she thinks. “I’m not sure different is better,” she finally answers. “You?”
He shrugs. “It is what it is. I try to do what I think is best, and I'm often wrong. I wish,” he says and stops. She waits. “I wish,” he resumes, “that I didn't hurt the people I care about so often. They sure don’t deserve it, and sometimes I think I don’t deserve them.”
“And what about that woman?”
“Elektra?” There it is, the flash of a smile before he bows his head. She’s still very much in his heart.
“Do you wish you’d done things differently, with her?”
He toys with the cloth mask in his hand. “If she hadn't died the first time,” he says. “I don’t know. We’d have, maybe, run away together. Left everything behind, been together… She’d have had time to be herself, no expectations. No war to fight.” He looks wistful.
“But for how long? Where would you have gone?”
“Yeah,” he just says.
He doesn’t stay long after that, but she pays more attention to Kitchen rumors after their conversation. Their local vigilante is still spotted on rooftops, but over the following couple weeks she hears someone else is often seen with him. Matthew isn’t alone anymore.
The next time he comes to the church, it’s not as a bleeding Man In The Mask in need of some stitches. He looks good, and there’s not a single bruise in view. His tie isn’t even crooked, for once. She has an idea of what (who) is behind all this, but she’ll wait for him to say it. She doesn’t know if he can tell when she smiles, so she tries not to when she spots a trace of lipstick on his neck. It was rubbed off, but not entirely. The perils of blindness, she thinks. The lipstick is very red. He’s got a type, she thinks. Blind man with a favorite color. Well, why not.
“What brings you here, Matthew? I can’t see blood anywhere.”
He bends to set his satchel on the floor, readjusts his glasses. “Aw, can’t a man visit his – ” He looks panicked for a second, then changes tracks. She can’t blame him. “His favorite stitcher?”
“Of course not,” she says. “Hot toddy?”
He smiles. “Please.” She knows Paul usually went for lattes, but she’s not Paul and it’s winter, so. Hot toddy it is. “How are things at St Agnes?” She makes for the kitchen and he trails along, not even pretending to use his cane.
“Good. We’re hoping to get enough donations for Christmas to update some things.”
“Like what?”
“Eh, the fridges are too old, the windows are not double-paned, the furniture is the same as it was when you were growing up. Everything is too worn down. People give what they can, but these days…” She pours a generous amount of rum in the mugs while the water heats up. “But we can’t complain. We’ve got presents for the children, and a tree, and everything we need.”
He takes the mug when she bumps it against his fingers. “Who’s doing Santa this year?”
It used to be Paul, but they won’t mention his name. “We haven’t decided yet. What about a blind Santa, Matthew?” He looks horrified. “You’re costing us a lot in gauze and dressings, you should contribute in some way.”
He sits and hides behind his drink, and the steam fogs his glasses. “I’m sorry,” he mumbles.
She decides not to say she’s teasing him, it’s too much fun to see him squirm. She’ll let him wonder, instead. She thinks of all the worried parents who’d come to her and said, I like teasing my kid, I like playing tricks on my own child, does that make me a bad person, sister? Does it? She’s not really anyone’s mother, but now – now, she sees the appeal. The quiet, angry boy she remembers would have hated it, but the man in front of her now doesn’t. “Matthew,” she says.
“Hm?”
“You didn’t only come for a hot toddy.”
“Who says I didn’t?” She narrows her eyes, and waits. He sets his mug down on the kitchen table after a moment: she’s still got it. The sister Maggie vibe. “Yeah, you’re right.”
“I know.” It earns her a smile.
“Remember the last time I came by?” She remembers all the times. “She came back. She’s alive, and she came back.”
“Is she why I haven’t seen you in more than two weeks?”
He looks taken aback. “I… two weeks?”
Well, time flies. “Two weeks, Matthew.”
“Oh.”
“Eh, I guess you were busy, too busy to come.” She waits a beat, just enough to let him think she’ll stop here. “What with all the reunion sex you must be having.”
He looks scandalized, but she’s not sure if it’s because she’s his mother or because she’s talking about his sex life. Maybe both. “We’re not…” She coughs. “We’re not only… doing that.”
“I heard about Daredevil’s new partner, yes.”
He smiles, probably relieved she’s changing topics. “She says I can’t be trusted to be careful and that she likes me, um.” Oh, this is going to be good.
“She likes what, Matthew?” He’s blushing, and this time she doesn't stop herself from smiling. “She wants to have energetic – ”
“Shesaysshelikesmepretty,” he blurts out.
Maggie pats his hand. Poor Matthew, tormented by a nun. He deserves it, with all the worry he’s given her over the years. “Well, good for you both. All those bruises and split lips can’t always be easy to explain, can they?”
She gets the stubborn Murdock face. “I just say I fell down stairs or got mugged. No one ever says anything.”
“I bet they don’t. What do they think, though?”
He picks up his mug and frowns into it. “Don’t care.”
Of course he doesn’t. “I’d like to meet her.” It’s true: she’s curious to see who could make such an impression on him. From what she’s gathered, there’s quite a lot of history there, a lot of which she doesn't know; but she’s interested in the present. In what makes him happy now, in who keeps him safe. As safe as possible, at least.
His mouth opens and closes a few times. “Maybe?”
She’ll take it. It’s not a no, at least; and she understands his wariness. How would he introduce her, as his mother? The nun who raised him? The sister who stitches him up? No, she gets it; he doesn’t owe her anything. “Of course,” she says.
His hands falls on hers. “I’d like to, M- Maggie.”
She stands up quickly and wipes some moisture from her cheeks with the hand she snatched back from his. “Well, it’s late. I should start on the children’s dinner.”
He stands up too, takes his mug to the sink. He turns around and leans back against it, fidgeting with his cane. “I’d really like to. She’s just… she needs some time, I think. Before meeting people.”
“It’s fine, Matthew.”
The fidgeting intensifies. “No it’s not.” He grips the handle so hard his knuckles turn white and the cane stops moving. “You’re both very important to me,” he finally mumbles. Oh, how it must have cost him to say so.
Maggie wraps her hand around his tight fist and waits until he relaxes his grip a little. “Matthew,” she says. She makes her voice firm, no-nonsense. She knows that’s what he responds best to. He doesn't believe in softness, her boy. “Matthew, whenever you’re both ready, I will be too. If it’s never, then so be it. All I want is your happiness, God knows you deserve it. You’ve earned it. Now go run on rooftops with your girl, and be safe. I’ll pray for you both, but I’ll keep the suture kits stocked just in case, too. I know you, Murdock.”
He squirms a little, and she considers hugging him, or maybe just squeezing his arm. She settles for a pat on his wrist. She’s not sure where their relationship is at; she’s not sure what he’s ready to accept from her. How far she’s ready to go, how hard she’d take any step back.
He gives her a tight smile and slides out from between her and the sink, awkward and clearly unsettled; because of their proximity or the conversation or both – she’s not sure.
Once he’s gone, she starts on the potatoes and wonders if she’ll ever meet this mystery woman that seems to have so much power over him. She hopes so, but she won’t force it.
Two nights later, as she walks back from a homeless shelter where she volunteers, Maggie sees them on a rooftop. He turns in her direction and makes a slight gesture, and the figure next to him walks to the rooftop edge and stares at her. She’s slight, but she moves like a panther to his bulldog. As she watches them, Elektra very deliberately takes his hand and kisses his neck. He tilts his head a little to the side to give her better access, and she turns her head to look back down at Maggie.
As a first not quite meeting, it’s a good start, she thinks.