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Matt Murdock was not at the circus. He didn’t watch the Flying Graysons fall, he didn’t hear the rope snap, he didn’t even hear the screams. He wasn’t listening. The circus wasn’t in Hell’s kitchen and Daredevil wasn’t out the night Graysons fell. For all the things Matt heard, could never block out, there was so much he didn’t. The world is a loud place, constantly drowning itself out.
So he did not hear the ropes snap, did not hear John and Mary Grayson die, did not hear a little boy, lost, alone, crying. Matt Murdock was a blind lawyer, he did not have the time, inclination or spare change to attend a show he couldn’t see. So he was not there when a child lost his parents, did not put a hand on the child’s shoulder, and did not tell him it would get better.
What he heard was a few days later while Daredevil was prowling Hell’s Kitchen, the sound of someone, terrified, begging for his life and the sound of someone else moments from taking it. That was not an unusual sound for Daredevil to hear in the dark of night on patrol, it was unusual though, that the voice begging was that of a grown man, and the voice that threatened him was a child’s. They spoke in Italian, and Matt didn’t understand the words, but he understood the tone perfectly. The child was scared and furious, and he was moments from doing something that couldn’t be undone.
They were close. Matt ran.
The man was on the ground, one broken leg, one broken arm, a lot of bruising. At a guess, Matt would say he’d just fallen from a nearby roof. The boy couldn’t be more than eight years old. He crouched over the man and held a knife at his throat, voice steady.
“Kid,” Matt said (presumably) emerging from the shadows, “What the fuck?”
The man flinched, the kid jumped.
“Are you allowed to say bad words in costume?” the kid asked, his voice was thick with an accent Matt couldn’t place.
Matt was very much out of his depth here.
“Small child,” Matt said, as calmly as he could manage, “You are literally holding a fucking knife to that guy’s throat.”
The kid went stiff, his hand trembled a little on the knife, and Matt smelled blood as it nicked the skin. The man made a scared whimpering noise.
“He killed my mom and dad,” the kid said, voice raw with rage and grief, fresh and suffocating.
Well, shit.
How to stop this child from making the mistake Matt almost made ten years early?
How to explain that feeling he’d had, Sweeney’s face bloody under his fists, that understanding of right and wrong, lines drawn in the sand, and God’s justice above it all, to a child still younger than Matt had been when his father died.
“Killing him won’t bring your parents back,” is what Matt said. He realized how dumb it was the moment it left his mouth.
The kid’s face went hot with anger. He kept breathing like he wanted to say something but couldn’t find the words. At least his outrage distracted him a little from his parents’ murderer, the knife drifted slightly away from the man’s neck.
Finally the kid said, “Habla español?”
“Oh, sí,” Matt said.
The kid took a deep breath, “ That is the stupidest fucking thing I’ve ever heard in my life,” he said in Spanish.
“ I know, ” Matt said, “ I’m sorry.”
“ Of course it won’t bring my parents back! Nothing will bring my parents back. They’re dead and he’s not and I’m not, and I have nothing. Do you understand that? Nothing.”
“ I do. I understand,” Matt said quietly, even though it wasn’t really a question, because he did.
“ The circus couldn’t even keep me. The stupid American government wouldn’t let Haly have custody. I am going to live in this stupid ugly country, in this stupid ugly city for the rest of my life now, and I have no one. And I know that killing this bastard won’t change anything, but he deserves to die for what he did, and I deserve the satisfaction of killing him, and then at least he’ll be dead too. He is a murderer and a mobster and a bully and you can’t tell me the world wouldn’t be better off without him, you don’t have the right.”
“I know ,” Matt said. Because this was different from arguing morality with Frank Castle on a rooftop. This was a child standing in front of him, small and trembling and burning with a fury that Matt could only call righteous. He did not remind Matt of himself at that age. When Matt was as small as this child he wasn’t even blind yet. He did not remind Matt of himself after his father died. When Matt was ten years old, in those months between his father’s death and Stick’s training, Matt hadn’t had the mental wherewithal for vengeance, all he’d wanted to do was scream.
Matt didn’t doubt that the man had killed this child’s parents, the child was utterly sure, and Matt felt no reason to doubt him. This wasn’t something Matt could argue. This was a child, furious, yes, certain, utterly, and very small, and not despite but fueling everything else, scared, and very very lost. Matt hadn’t been there in person, but he heard about what happened to the Flying Graysons on the news later, heard they had left behind a son. It wasn’t hard to put together who this child was.
“ Kid,” Matt said, “Do you really want to see more blood right now?”
The child didn’t say anything. He looked down again at the man, head turning toward the leg twisted at an unnatural angle, and the neck where the boy’s knife had barely nicked him. It didn’t smell like the man was still bleeding, but Matt would guess the tiny trickle of dried blood was still visible there.
The kid swallowed, looked away from the man, all the fight draining out of him.
“ No ,” he said, soft, like a confession.
“Come here,” Matt said, as gently as he knew how. He stepped slowly, silently, around the man, crossing the space to the boy. He took the kid’s shaking hands in his own, took the knife from him. It was instinct, to pick the child up, and it seemed to be instinct in turn that had the boy lean into his touch, wrap his arms Matt’s shoulders and his legs around his waist, so that Matt barely had to hold on to bear his weight at all. Matt held on tight anyway, and the child sank into him, exhausted after what must have been hours of running on rage and adrenaline.
“What happens now?” The kid said, “ He can’t - I can’t - he can’t just get away with it.”
“This guy isn’t going anywhere,” Matt said, “Here’s what we’re going to do. I’m going to call an ambulance, and then we’re going to go to the police precinct, and you will go in there and ask for Brett Mahoney. You’ll tell him everything you know and he will listen, I promise, and this man will be given justice. He won’t get away, okay?”
“Okay,” the kid said, and Matt could tell that he only half believed it, but it was good enough for now. And it would be true, Matt would make sure of it. The kid’s testimony wouldn’t be enough on it’s own, but he’d put Karen on the scent, they’d find the evidence they’d need. A part of Matt wanted to stay, to interrogate the man, but he was almost passed out now, and the boy was what was important. Matt would take the kid to the precinct, and then stay and listen to what he had to say to Brett, hear his story first. Like he’d told the kid, the man wasn’t going anywhere.