Chapter Text
He tried to remember the last time he got a treat for himself. Something that wasn't immediately shared with the rest of the office. Something from his old world, where the snack food wasn't necessarily a brand and sugary stuff was harder to come by unless you made it yourself.
He liked sharing, don't get him wrong. That wasn't the problem. Usually. Sometimes there was a wee bit of spite when certain people took the last melona popsicle from the communal freezer.
(Karen. Foggy liked sweet things, but had told Sam in no uncertain terms that melon-flavored anything weirded him out, and Matt thought it was too sweet by half. Definitely Karen.)
No. It was more of an ingrained thing: having to explain what certain snacks or candies were brought both delight and apprehension. Sam sometimes felt like he was surrounded by the most finicky of taste buds, and he would absolutely say this was at least 50% Matt's fault. And it wasn't even really a 'fault' - just the nature of who the man was.
Distant memories of sharing sticky sweet, crunchy things in hot summers. The mellow flavor of maltose. Somehow his mother had managed to get fresh sachima from somewhere – store-bought wasn’t as common as it was now. He had been little enough to get winded by just one, and his mother always got three – four when Hannah arrived. Always at least one more to share.
Sam bit his lip thoughtfully. And then turned on his phone, alerts passing through his ears before he could get to an option to search for – long-shot – local fresh-made treats. Flushing always had options, even as Canal Street’s Chinatown dwindled by the year.
Unfortunately, he was also reminded, in passing, of the date.
The fifth day of April was coming up.
Sam felt like he lived between two vacillating sections in a year. The first in denial, the second in the dull bruise of pain that came from frustration and mourning and resignation all at once. He told no one, because there wasn't really anyone to explain himself to.
Untrue. But he kept that façade for the time being.
It was bad enough that he didn't exactly have a good place to go for this. There was a temple down the street that was good - fitting, more traditional, and even less expensive. And yet it still didn't feel right.
Nothing felt right. Sam was going to go off his fucking nut, and it was because he was being non-literally haunted by his responsibilities.
He wouldn't make a bet on whether or not he was alone with this kind of problem, and he didn't really want to find out for sure. All he knew was that if another 清明节Qīngmíng jié rolled by and he didn't have this sorted, his mother would likely show up at the foot of his bed and drag him into the ocean.
At least Hannah would be next.
Sam sidled along the wall, and tried to be invisible without his suit. He stopped short of humming theme music. Not that he had theme music.
Matt had theme music. It was something no one knew but for a select few, but there had been a very local, very terrible attempt at an animated show starring Daredevil. It had been a riot to uncover. Sam nearly regretted it.
Nearly.
Foggy made it worthwhile, mostly because he knew how to make such a thing worthwhile without suffering too much for it. Karen also somehow did this.
Sam knew he could not get away with such brazenness. Well. He could. But Matt would find some way to make sure Regret came swift upon his person. It wouldn’t be worth it, in the long run.
The heady scent of incense filled the air, smoke acrid in the aftertaste. He closed his eyes, focusing on it. Wrapping up in the memories of a time he barely remembered. Not that his mother let him forget, but he had been small for most of his life so far. And kid brains
“Can I help you?”
“I’m,” Sam tilted his head at the voice. The dialect wasn’t his own. It was 上海闲话zanhe-ëwu | shanghainese dialect. He didn’t know it, but it was easier to speak. Well. Kind of. If you knew what you were doing.
He kinda knew what he was doing. And it was always better to try in front of an elder. Especially if they were an auntie.
“Sorry - I don’t speak very good 上海闲话zanhe-ëwu | shanghainese dialect.” He was contrite about that. It was a nice dialect. And not so common to hear. He hadn’t even been to Shanghai before. No, the ports didn’t count. Definitely not. Actually, there weren’t that many places in China he’d been able to visit outside of his hometown, which was rural enough to barely be considered town-like.
He could, however, hear her smile. “Ha! But you’re trying. You know some. This is good. It is a dying language.” An ache in her voice. “What can I do for you young man?”
“I need advice.”
“I might not be able to give you good advice,” she teased. “But go on, go on.”
This was harder than he’d anticipated. “My mother… passed.”
There was a soft noise. “Poor boy. I am sorry.”
“It happened a little while ago. In China. But now I am here. It was sudden. It was not good. Nor clean.” It was as honest as he could be. “And I don’t have access to her.”
There was a long silence. “That is terrible to hear. I understand why you would come to this place.” He didn’t hear judgment. He had expected more judgment. “Follow me. This is not the right place to talk of such things.”
They walked into the temple proper, away from the entrance. This was one of the more popular temples he realized, belatedly. He’d just come here out of desperation. After some winding, they took a sharp left and hit what had to be the administrative offices. They were cramped and out of the way; this wasn’t unusual.
“Have something to eat. We have tea,” she offered, gesturing to a bowl of candy he hadn’t tried before. He plucked one instinctively, unwilling to pass up an opportunity. The thing was hard, clinking against his teeth. Sweet and just a little tart.
Before anything else, Sam rushed to get her a cup of the aforementioned tea. It was strong jasmine; definitely sitting for some time, steeping in decent leaves. Strong, but not scalded. She tutted at him for hurrying ahead of her, but accepted it regardless. He could hear the smile that tugged at the corner of her mouth.
“My mother loved these,” the woman continued, taking a seat opposite of him.
The flavor was familiar. “Plum?”
“Black sugar plum candies,” she enthused. “She brought them home in giant bags,” she shook her head. “It was her weakness. And it was the only sweet we could get from her without much fuss.”
Sam smiled a little, his mood lifting. “No cake?”
“Egg tarts,” she sighed. Then shook her head. “Ah – I’m reminiscing. You wanted to ask for advice.”
He set the cup aside. It was a proper ceramic thing, he realized. The quality stood out amongst the other parts of the room, and the various furnishings inside. Or at least the couch. He was sure the couch could double for a gymnastics mat.
“I’m just not sure how to handle Grave Cleaning day,” he admitted. “It’s not like there’s a plot to visit. Nothing remains.”
Whatever else he thought of his mother, she had been … consistently ruthless in all things. Including how she ended. Hadn’t even been by design, but it was a consequence of the paths she chose. Sam wondered if she was unhappy about it.
All this time later and Sam wasn’t so sure himself.
The woman’s gaze was shrewd. “The government is not easy to work with on a good day. Bureaucrats for thousands of years, and possibly for thousands of years more,” she said, saying each word with purpose. Sam’s mandarin wasn’t rusty by any means, but some of the vowels seemed odd to his ears, unusual hear in Chinese. Shanghainese had a sharpness to its tones, yet it twanged in an oddly German way around certain vowels. He could not for the life of him describe it. “We can do services off the books,” she said plainly, which startled him. “But it does cost more.”
Haggling over funerary rites seemed like a line Sam didn’t want to cross. Like, he could – but at what cost.
He smiled instead. It was a weak, humorless thing. “I’m not equipped for something expensive.”
She nodded. “I understand.” There was a cheekiness to the next few words. “I am happy to work out a payment plan for you, but I understand if it is not tenable.” Then softness. “I’m the practical one. My husband is the dreamer. He might help you better than I.”
The woman’s name was 陈晓Xiǎo Chén. She was happy to run the numbers while her husband presided over the more spiritual parts of the temple. He was not a monk, she explained, but more of a monk-herder. They didn’t have Buddhist priests who lived on site – there wasn’t nearly the space for that sort of thing – but they worked out arrangements somehow.
The temple (well, less temple and more east-asian-friendly funeral home) owners considered themselves relatively agnostic, placing more weight on culture than religion. They had options for those who wanted something modern, modern-religious, religious-traditional, and cultural-traditional. It was a strong set of options, really.
Sam was just broke.
Really broke.
Tragically not wealthy.
It would be embarrassing if he didn’t have a higher calling, and also legality, to worry about. It wasn’t anything to be shared. Family – blood or built by brick – knew. No one else. The risk was too high.
Saving face might have been his mother’s way. It might be the Chinese way. But it wasn’t really his way.
“Ahh,” 陈 璜Huáng Chén, aforementioned monk-herder, stroked an impressive beard. “What is your name then?”
Sam blinked. “Sam,” he tried.
“No, no, your name,” Huang pressured, uncaring if it he was impolite.
In Chinese – hell, in most languages but especially Chinese – names always told a lot more about the parent than the child. Sam considered them a built-in vehicle for hopes and dreams. There was a reason most parents were easily disappointed by their children.
He didn’t think this with any sense of malice. It was a natural part of his version of the culture in some ways, tempered by expectation and pragmatism. Most parents did love their children, and accepted them eventually when they outgrew the scaffolding of childhood. It was a transition not everyone could make it through in one piece, let alone with any grace.
Often he wondered if his mother would find him suitable, in the end. Hannah told him not to give a shit about what she thought or didn’t think. She was gone, and that was that.
But no one was ever really gone.
I have given you everything, Samuel! My life for you!
Sometimes that meant they lived on in a guilt-heavy stone chest that sat at the bottom of your soul for the rest of your life, but who was counting.
“鍾 杰Zhōng Jié,” he said, properly, looking only five percent as guilty and awkward as he felt.
“Mn. Better.” Never mind that his mother had called him Samuel, or Sam, since they arrived on these shores. She really never looked back on that one. Hannah was the one who called him big brother when she was too sleepy to fight the instinct, but he hadn’t heard his birth name for many, many years.
It felt odd on his tongue.
“You’re a good son, trying to find a way to honor your mother. I want to help you. But we do not run on good thoughts.”
Right. Fair.
“Did your mother have an altar at home?”
And there was another question. The practice was not unfamiliar to Sam, but he could not for the life of him remember his mother having an alter of any sort at home. Not for her personal worship, not for any long-dead relatives. Nothing.
He shook his head.
“No matter. That, we can help with. It is likely the most honorable way to handle your unique situation.”
Yes. Unique. That was a word for it.
In the back of his mind, Sam was already plotting to repay their kindness somehow. The couple had been immensely helpful. Donations were not required, but considering they took time out from seeing to real customers who had dead relatives to tend to it was the least he could do. Well – trade or money – or something – would have to do the trick. A patrol that brought fresh fruit or vegetables even. That was something Sam could do.
What he had learned was important. There was no right or official way to handle a death that had no real proof of itself, Xiao insisted. But anything was better than nothing for Qīngmíng jié.
So he called Hannah for reinforcements.
“An altar?” she sounded surprised.
“Yeah. Can’t do much else without an official death certificate around here,” he said without any other explanation. Stalling? Never heard of her.
“Sam.”
“Mn?”
“An altar?”
“Mmn.”
There was silence for a beat. “Sam – bro – I don’t think…I mean you don’t have to. We don’t have to.”
Hannah had always been the angrier between them, with regards to their parents. Their mother in particular. There was the harsh rift of being dropped like a hot coal that never fully closed. Sam’s injuries were tighter together, stab wounds that he patched over time individually and with great patience. Hannah’s fury burned hot, and only dared simmer when she felt Sam’s feelings took precedence.
“I would feel better if we could, but I’ll need your help.”
“With what, exactly?” she didn’t quite scoff.
“A photo. I need a good photo.”
The quiet on her end was weighted. Sam could nearly hear the guilt she was targeting at herself. “…I can find something.”
“It really has to be a somewhat decent photo, sis,” Sam stressed, a hint of amusement poking through.
“I’ll find one, I promise,” she insisted, balking at his teasing, still guilty and raw about her previous incredulity. “Where are you going to put it?”
At home, would have been the right answer. Which home, however, was a better question.
“I’ll figure that out.”
Every family who had traveled internationally knew the importance of identification.
Was this a touchy subject for Sam? Absolutely. Was he going to ignore it in order to figure out details he no longer had faith in regarding his mother’s life? Absolutely not.
It said something that he didn’t feel pain at the thought of rummaging through her remaining belongings. Sure, he’d definitely get around to it, possibly whilst rummaging, but that was future!Sam’s problem.
“Rabbit? No – Snake year.”
“You can do the mental calculus?”
“I just remember the cycle of twelve, going back from this current year,” Sam admitted. “Not a lot of calculus.”
“You’re the genius – you’re biased towards math.”
Sam did not hide his smirk. “That is not true, I can hate it even more now. In-depth hatred. Powerful, learned hate.”
“Hate leads to anger,” Hannah chirped.
“…Okay – who corrupted you?”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
Sam grumbled. “I’m gonna murder Paolo. That nerd.”
Hannah outright cackled. “You’re one to talk!”
They eventually found an older, expired passport in one of the suitcases Lu Wei had stored in the closet. It confirmed her birthdate and provincial information. Inside were various official cards used to travel to and from different provinces. Every province in China had different migratory pathways: some were heavily restricted for all sorts of reasons. Some needed a whole separate ID card. Some just stamped your passport and called it good.
Nothing that tied her to her … beliefs. He could call it that now. No evidence that she believed in anything but herself, and her children.
Boy wasn’t that indicative.
“I think there’s an old passport photo we can blow up bigger; she kept the receipt.”
They had both tried to find photo albums. Sam’s disability wouldn’t have mattered, because Lu Wei really wasn’t a sentimental person, it seemed.
Hannah seemed mulish and unsurprised. But there was a sense she could see the small line of tension in his shoulders, and said nothing except, “Maybe she has other stashes. I’ll keep looking.”
Sam didn’t argue. He did wonder, however, if he was doing anything she would want. Final wishes hadn’t exactly had time to be laid out cleanly. Perhaps he was fucking this up, unknowingly.
Perhaps it didn’t matter if he was.
“Is that incense?”
Sam really should have known better. “Er. Yeah.”
Matt’s sense of smell was stupid. Like. Sam knew this. He did. And yet it kept surprising him on a semi-daily basis when it was brought to his attention outside of their respective night jobs.
“Didn’t think you used incense.”
“Not normally,” Sam admitted. These weren’t fancy. Actually, on a point of pride, he tried to get the cheap stuff. It was sandalwood adjacent. It would do.
“Change of heart?”
How to even explain.
“Well it's not for aromatherapy, don’t worry,” he decided on, feeling very awkward for trying to avoid the main reason he even had them in his bag.
He could hear Matt thinking in his direction. It wasn’t like Sam could openly lie, but the man didn’t question an evasive maneuver. Well, not unless Sam was hiding serious injuries or something, in which case Sam would have been wrestled into some sort of care.
In a moment of uncertainty, and grappling with well-timed honesty, Sam muttered a more proper response. “It’s for my mother.”
Whether to explain or to flee, Sam wasn’t the type to overshare. No one in this particular office was, not even Foggy, who was amiable and open on most days. The man had absolutely no qualms about locking it down, especially in a professional setting.
Or when Matt had done something particularly bone-headed. As was his wont.
Now, however, it was Matt’s turn to look wrong-footed. Sam didn’t take any real joy in it, but he felt a sense of relief. Shared awkwardness evened the playing field.
“Ah.”
Yes, yes. Regardless of all involvement, they hadn’t ever really talked about it. Matt was, how to say, clam-like when it came to emotions. The real ones, not just the stuff he wore to make people like him (or hate him). The ones he let loose specifically at night, when rage could fuel him, not bind him.
Sam didn’t have that fury. Not in such volume. But he could conjure something like it when necessary. Perhaps that was a blessing, to not have to worry about sitting on a ticking time bomb.
Feeling merciful, and a little coy, Sam shook his head. “I’m just preparing for a ceremony. Kind of. It’s nothing special, or anything.”
Matt could - much to Sam’s annoyance - sniff out his wiggling around the truth there. “Ceremony?”
“It’s not a funeral,” Sam continued, pirouetting around the point like a ballerina. “I can’t … we can’t have one of those. But there’s a festival every year that gives us - me - a chance to … handle that kind of thing.”
Sam felt so awkward. He’d never explained any of his cultural traditions before, and realized only now how difficult it was to reveal. How vulnerable it made him feel.
“Oh.” And now Sam felt like backtracking. Undo button for reality, when?
“Yeah. Anyway. That’s what the incense is for.”
“Right.”
Mercifully, Karen interrupted the lengthening silence by slamming open a door and proclaiming she had found the most amazing pastry joint.
While this played out, Sam nudged his bag further under the desk. If there was a kindly spirit out there paying attention, he hoped they would miraculously purge the last five minutes from Matt’s brain so Sam’s dread of follow-up questions could evaporate.
A man could dream.
[Han Soloist: i found a nice little jade snake]
[Han Soloist: its so cute its wrapped around a gold dumpling]
[SC: oh my god your fucking handle too? will the indignities ever cease?]
[Han Soloist: Will you ever stop giving me shit about]
[Han Soloist: nvm rhetorical question shut up]
[SC: and its not a gold dumpling, its a 元宝yuán bǎo]
[Han Soloist: you knew what i meant]
[Han Soloist: anyway i got it for the altar, since you said she’s snake year]
[Han Soloist: pls tell me i remembered that right]
[SC: yeah you did - thanks for finding that]
[Han Soloist: did you find an incense holder?]
[SC: ehn]
[Han Soloist: s a m]
[SC: i’m on it - just haven’t found the right one yet]
[Han Soloist: It’s literally April 1st]
[SC: shhhhhhhhhhhh i’m on it]
Of course, as all things in Sam’s life, shit did not go according to plan.
He had to give it to DD. When shit hit his fan, he tended to become one with the chaos and roll with it, riding it out ‘til the inevitable win and/or clusterfuck occurred. Sam tried. Little gods, he tried. But there was something regimented about him that made it a thousand times harder than it ever needed to be.
Patrol devolved from finding a lost cat into a standoff between a very determined contract killer and Blindspot, who had lost patience long ago and had settled for the opposite.
Brutal and short, the fight was. He had gotten shot, he knew, but not in any major organ. That was the good news.
The bad news was that he’d gotten shot.
The worse news was that it was Grave Cleaning day. And he’d gotten shot.
It didn’t surprise him. He was resigned to things just taking a hard left whenever he needed to keep moving straight.
“It’s not a huge deal, but I’m gonna be late,” Sam said through a haze of painkillers and also pain. He was stopping the flow of blood successfully, and - thanks for small favors - the bullet went clean through his thigh. Less than an inch to the right and it would have just been a graze. A graze would have been easier.
“What do you mean? How late? What happened?”
“Nothing, I was held up. I’ll text when I’m on my way.”
“Sam, I swear to god - you sound drugged.”
“Not drugged.” Enough. “Just kinda out of it. Long day. I’ll text in a bit.”
He hung up before he could hear more protestations, knowingly cutting his sister off mid-yell. Sam heaved himself into a more comfortable position, where he could be in pain just a bit less than all the time.
It didn’t work.
Brain chewed through the agony slow and ponderous, like a cow. He was still far enough away from home that it could take thirty minutes or more by train. Just because he worked on the island didn’t mean living there was even remotely possible.
For a moment, Sam could only wonder if he was just fated never to reconcile. A dead mother could not give him clemency. Despite all the crazy shit he’d experienced in his life thus far, there were some things he liked to at least pretend weren’t possible. If only because it kept him focused on the here and now.
Ironically, trying to fix his own unease only dragged him backward into the past.
Sam closed his eyes.
“Kid.”
Someone was jostling his shoulder. “Kid.”
“Mngh.”
“We gotta move.”
Had he fallen asleep?
“M- Daredevil?”
And so it was, a dark silhouette in his view, crouched near to him. The man’s hand was on his shoulder.
“You were shot.”
Sam leaned back, head falling against rough brick with a thud. “Yep. Left leg. I have it bound up. Sorry - wait. How are you here?”
“Your sister used your ‘emergency number’ you left her to text.”
Oh. Fuck. Fuck. Shitfuck.
“Please tell me she didn’t call you instead.”
Matt didn’t answer for a long moment, and Sam could feel the man’s hands pat him down gently, looking for something. “What?”
“You’re bruised, but you don’t have anything broken.” Business-like. Professional. Cool like a cucumber. Sam yearned for even the pretense of such chill.
“I told you it was just the one bullet actually.”
Matt’s voice seemed to curl with a very well-hidden laugh. “Just the one. Good work. Means you just have the one hole in your leg.”
Sam laughed and then regretted laughing. “Ah. Ow. Shit - wait,” they had gotten off topic. “How long - what time is it?”
“About midnight.”
Inhale. Exhale.
Inhale. Exhale.
Inhale.
“Hey.” The grip on his shoulder tensed significantly. “Sam.” His name came out a soft whisper. Sam’s jaw clenched so tight he could hear his teeth grind and squeak.
He had just wanted to do the right thing. Just once.
“Talk to me. What’s wrong?”
His throat was so tight it hurt to speak. “Let’s get off this roof. I need to go home.”
Mercy being made of stardust, and therefore humanity, Matt said nothing and gripped him tighter.
“Alright.”
Sneaking into his own apartment complex while still decked out in the suit was a pain on a normal day. It was worse with an additional suit that couldn’t go invisible at any given moment.
Turning off the lights helped. It also helped that, excepting a few parties happening on the lower levels, most of the rooftop access apartments were quiet like church mice. Every level, down the unoccupied (pre-checks done courtesy of Matt’s bat ears, or bat… personhood? Bat senses. God, Sam was so tired) stairs, they hobbled.
Sam would have normally been a lot more pissy after fucking up this badly, but he was subdued. He couldn’t muster the energy. Matt was picking up this attitude keenly, and still said nothing. If anything, Sam wished he would push - perhaps in a few days, when he could be witty about the ordeal.
Right now the silence was preferable.
Hannah opened the door, and - to her credit - did not scream at the sight of them looming at her in the darkness. Ushering them in, she closed the door behind her.
“Oh,” she started, voice raw. She’d been crying. Sam was officially the shittiest older brother ever. “What happened?”
“He got shot and passed out,” Daredevil said, soft as a child’s blanket. Sam had never heard that tone before in his life. “We need new bandages.”
“Right - yeah - I got - we have - I’ll be right back,” Hannah gulped back whatever else she wanted to say and hurried.
Sam’s eyes closed again. His whole body felt like a wire pulled taut against his own neck.
“What’s going on?” Matt finally asked. The question didn’t weigh itself down with expectation. It was almost innocent in its curiosity.
“Bring me in just a bit. It’s just down the hall.”
Matt didn’t inquire further. Sam felt along the wall a bit, and let his fingers brush up against the old credenza they used to use for daily mail and other sundry. Trailing over the carved, hard lines of familiar woodwork, he patted the top of it.
“I made my mother a memorial, I guess - I guess that’s what you’d call it. A shrine. An altar.”
“The incense.”
Hannah must have lit some earlier. She hadn’t waited. Sam felt part of himself deflate in relief. “Yeah.”
“What was special about today?” Why only now? was unsaid.
“Qīngmíng jié - Grave Cleaning day. That’s what the fifth day of April is on the Chinese calendar. We visit our dead relatives, clean their grave marker, and leave offerings. Some folks make a day of it, I hear - they just have a huge brunch and invite friends as well as family to partake. Some people burn grave money. Make sure their folks are rich, wherever they are.”
Matt had set him down on the little bench where they usually left their shoes under. Distracted, Sam managed to get one boot off before regretting that effort and hissing.
“Here - I have alcohol and bandages.” Hannah returned. “Just tell me what to do.”
It was a long moment of silence while they worked. A stranger vigil, Sam had never been party to. Hannah’s trembling hands against his skin, the shallow breaths and soft noises of concern out of place in his own home. He never meant to bring his bullshit back like this, throwing that baggage in his sister’s face.
Of all days, it had to be this one.
When it was done, Sam slumped forward, half-lidded gaze aimed at the floor.
“We’ll need to make sure it gets stitched up.”
“We have someone who helps people like us,” Matt said, without further explanation. “Sam just needs to make a call.” One that Sam was usually too stubborn to make, but Matt didn’t make that pronouncement today.
“Right,” Hannah’s tone leaned into the awkward. She stood half-way next to him, and then put a hand on his shoulder. “Uh. Sam.…”
“I’m sorry.” He finally managed to speak, but it came out a croak. “Hannah - I’m sorry I worried you.”
“Shut up,” Hannah said, but it was completely without heat. “You were the one who wanted to do this. We both thought it would help. And you’re alive - you’re alive and that’s all that matters, okay? You shouldn’t worry about this,” and now she spoke in a familiar defensive, raising her fists up to the dead in protection of her brother. “It’s always gonna be a disaster, okay? It’s not your fault.”
Fuck everything about this, Sam thought genially. His not-really-but-kind-of boss-who-was-also-incredibly-catholic just being there, listening to internal family drama, third-wheeling like a pro. Hannah, being amazingly kind yet unhelpful in the best way. Sam, being shot.
“It’s a little bit my fault,” he offered.
“It’s not,” Hannah drew fire into herself. “She didn’t deserve you. She didn’t deserve either of us.”
“Hannah -”
“No - you went through all that trouble, you hunted down bits of herself she tried to destroy, you tried to do it right and you did and what, you think she’s gonna have any right to judge you for being a few hours late?”
Oh my god, Hannah please not in front of Daredevil.
Sam lifted his eyes to the vague outlines of the credenza. The photo Hannah picked was hard to decipher with his vision, but she’d told him it was of their mother in a ridiculously normal outfit. She thought it would be funny, but also possibly the most accurate. The woman didn’t seem to be smiling, which also fit.
Hannah’s words hadn’t had much time to ring out before Matt shifted. There was a strange tension, but Sam couldn’t decipher it without looking - maybe - and that was absolutely not happening right now.
“What can I do?”
Okay, maybe it was happening. “What?”
“What can I do to help?” Matt iterated. There was a soft, sharp tug of fabric, and Matt’s face was free and in the open oh my god oh no.
Hannah, to her credit, did not make a noise.
Sam’s own eyes burned. “You don’t have to - ”
“I really don’t mind,” Matt said. “It’s more than fine. It’s an honor.”
Oh.
It took him a moment to recover from that. Sam mustered his chin upward, and he tried desperately to get his lungs to expand and contract, to twang his vocal chords into words.
“I’ll get the incense sticks and light them. Two, right? Or one - I - sorry, you told me, I just forgot.” Hannah was flustered. Sam couldn’t imagine why.
“Three,” he rasped. “Three. One for each of us.”
“The oranges,” Hannah continued, seeming to find purchase in action.
Sam swallowed. “And the sachima. And the haw flakes. I got those - they’re in a separate bag I brought home yesterday.”
“I know how to find oranges,” Matt’s voice was wry. “I think you better handle the rest.”
No one said Sam had to move, so Sam stayed put, feeling very much like this was a surreal dream, while Daredevil and his sister prepared his mother’s altar.
The smoke hit his nose and drowned out the acidic scent of mandarin oranges. He had filled the incense holder with leftover rice kernels, allowing the sticks to stand upright with ease. A small package of familiar maltose snacks was placed on the credenza, a couple of hawthorn flake cylinders set on top of it to save space.
He felt Hannah’s hand on his shoulder, and he grabbed it immediately, hearing a soft sniffle from her direction.
“小妹妹, 谢谢xiǎo mèimei, xièxiè | little sister, thank you,” Sam muttered.
Matt’s hand rested against his back, a warm and constant heat.
“Mom. You always said 人生如寄rén shēng rú jì | Man living in this world is like a resident in a hotel | Life is transient.. I hope that means getting out of the shittier apartments and into a nice condo or something,” he sighed, a huff of amusement trailing after his words. “I hope you found peace.”
I hope we’re enough.
The hand against his back curled into a fist.
Whatever else, Sam was not left alone.
