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Matt Murdock had made a terrible mistake. He didn’t know exactly what it was, but he knew he was going to have to pay for it – mistakes, in his world, never went unpunished, doubly both by circumstance and his own merciless conscience. As he had done it, it had felt right, of course. Even in the delirious aftermath, he was certain it had been the right thing to do. But it was now, as he leaned wearily against the wall and listened to his adversary’s hushed phone conversation, four blocks away, that he realized the enormity of his error.
He shouldn’t have let this happen. He tried desperately to trace his steps to the exact moment he had made the grievous error that had elicited this situation. It hadn’t been a mistake, for instance, going with Karen to Josie’s after work. Her voice still had that tight, breathy quality, and Foggy had gone cheerfully off to meet Marci. It hadn’t been a mistake to stay there late with her, to try and listen. Whatever she said, he knew “The world fell apart” wasn’t the whole answer to “Did something happen?” and he would wait until doomsday for her to trust him with the true answer, to commiserate with her, and to know whether or not it was something he could fix, if not with the law, then with a few well-placed punches. It hadn’t been a mistake, after Karen had drunk herself silly without spilling a single secret, to call a cab and drop her off at her apartment himself, to make sure she got home safely. After that, it hadn’t been much of a choice. He’d spent most of the money in his pocket on Karen’s cab, so he himself would be walking home. He didn’t mind too much, despite the chilly weather; he liked to walk to clear his head, and it wasn’t as if the darkness of the AM hours made any difference. To him, anyway. To what people thought they could get away with was, of course, a different story.
He had been feeling rather hungry and just beginning to shiver a bit as he weaved through the memorized streets back to his apartment building, and was thinking rather wistfully of the leftover pizza in his fridge. Matt didn’t get pizza often, but he’d ordered it the day before yesterday when Foggy was over, as part of his continuing campaign to make things up with him. (Foggy had sighed and told him, “Matt, you don’t have to keep apologizing,” eventually, but he still didn’t quite believe it.) He wasn’t really focused on much except the way home and cold pizza awaiting him, so the sudden scream of fear, from so nearby, caught him embarrassingly off-guard.
A cold voice in his head, one he liked to call Head-Stick, chastised him for losing focus. He honed in on the source of the sound, followed his ears and found that it was not more than block away, in the alley. As he approached, the voice cried plaintively again, “Help, Mister! Please, help!”
The voice was addressing to him. And then, then it hadn’t really been a choice at all. Helping the innocent of Hell’s Kitchen was never, could never be a mistake. Matt tossed aside his cane and leapt instantly into the action. It seemed like just a standard mugging, with a rather generic thug: big, vicious, but his fighting style was a little more disciplined than some, in a way that was oddly familiar. Evidently the mugger has the same thought about him.
“Hey, I’ve – I’ve fought you before –” he gasped out, dodging a heavy jab from Matt’s fist that whizzed past his left ear, and Matt’s mind frizzled in panic. He had fought him before – in the mask – and this guy recognized his fighting style! And that was just enough distraction for the mugger to pull another surprise on him. Yes, the knife was s surprise, to be sure. He should’ve sensed it coming. It probably said a lot that Matt’s knee-jerk reaction to getting stabbed in the side was, Ah, crap, not again! and a resigned dread of Claire’s admonishments.
Behind him, the boy he was defending shrieked in distress. He was a scrawny kid, in his late teens, and Matt could tell from a sweet smell now wafting up from a discarded heap near the gutter that he’d been on the way to meet his sweetheart, and carrying flowers when he got attacked. There was a florist shop on this street. Matt had been in there more than once. He’d spent a torturous thirty minutes in there just last week deciding whether or not to buy thank you/apology flowers for Claire – not for anything specific, just the general acknowledgement that she’d saved his life probably seven times and he’d given her nothing but worry and pain and four impulsive kisses that ended in bitterness – before eventually deciding that flowers sent the wrong message.
Matt reached behind him and patted the boy’s arm in reassurance. “I got this,” he said. “Run for it, kid.” The kid didn’t need telling twice, and Matt turned his attention back to the assailant. He’d taken advantage of the momentary distraction and started to run after stabbing Matt, but he wasn’t nearly fast enough.
“Did you think we were finished?” Matt barked into the mugger’s ear, seizing him from behind and pinning him against the cold brick wall of the alley. His voice was low, rough, the voice he adopted in the mask. (He’d been in the room while Foggy watched Nolan Batman, once.) In hindsight, maybe the voice was his mistake of the evening.
“The kid’s gone, he’s gone, what more do you want?” the mugger breathed.
“I want you . . .” to go home and rethink your life. (Matt was around when Foggy watched Attack of the Clones as well.) “I want you to learn something,” Matt settled on, his voice raspy, twisting his arm to breaking point.
“I’ve learned, I’ve learned,” the thug pleaded. “Best education I ever got, you feel me? Better than friggin’ MIT.”
Matt breathed a mirthless laugh before turning the man and kicking him down to the street, a cracking noise resounding where his foot left the twisted arm. “Go!” he shouted after him. “Or you can guess what happens next time!” He, too, didn’t need telling twice. Matt stood listening to his fading footsteps and hammering pulse with a quiet satisfaction, which quickly gave way to shame. There was something unsettling about inspiring that much fear while out of the mask. His blood was up, he was breathing hard, but a little twist of his abdomen reminded him painfully that, oh yeah, he’d gotten stabbed. Just a little.
He’d staggered against the wall, tried to take stock of the situation, feeling the blood oozing between his fingers, of whether he needed to go to Claire’s or if he could handle this himself. He felt on the ground for his cane and picked it up. A different voice in his head, one that sounds a bit more like Foggy, exclaimed in panic, You just got STABBBED, Matt! How is this even a QUESTION?!? Head-Foggy was a much newer and much quieter entity than Head-Stick, and far more likely to be ignored. It’s your own fault for losing focus, Head-Stick told him gruffly. Deal with it, Matty.
It was then that he heard the mugger’s phone call, four blocks away, which immediately put a stop to Head-Stick and Head-Foggy’s imminent argument.
“He’s a blind guy – a blind guy in a suit, like a business professional dude. He can’t have made it far. He’s the man in the mask, I’m telling you! – Yeah, he broke my arm, but I got away! – He didn’t seem blind when he was fighting, man! – Look, if I’m wrong, you can kick my ass later, but just tell your guys get over here now! We’ve gotta follow him, find out who he is!”
Matt slumped even lower against the wall and let out a barely repressed an audible moan of frustration. He was cold, dead-tired, and his wound make even walking a trial. He didn’t want to have to deal with this right now. He wanted to collapse on his silk sheets and sleep for about twenty years. But if a band of thugs found out where he lived – who he was – if he pretended he hadn’t heard, let them follow him home . . . no, he couldn’t allow that. He’d have to listen for their approach, wait until they were alone, and start another fight. He was not keen on another fight. And what if they spread around the rumor of “a blind guy in a business suit” afterward? What if they start looking into that further, and figured out (as Father Lantom so quickly did) his name, his home, his friends? What if what if what if --
Matt dragged himself off the wall, readjusted his glasses. Yes, yes, he had to deal with this. Had to be prepared. In a matter of ten minutes, sure enough, he had sensed five separate men, lurking in shadows of his general vicinity, watching him, tailing him. They were going to find out his secret unless he stopped them all, or figured out a way to lead them off his scent. And if they found out his secret, they would go after his friends, and you could have thought about this before you attacked someone in your civilian clothes, Head-Stick pointed out, unhelpfully. God, he hated Head-Stick. It was fine because Head-Stick hated Matt, too. It would be much happier, and more useful, on the whole, if he could have a Head-Father Lantom instead.
I couldn’t just leave that kid, said another voice in his head, the voice of a defense attorney. To this Head-Foggy did not leap to his defense, nor did his father’s voice, or Father Lantom’s, or Claire’s. This voice was entirely his own. Head-Stick laughed coldly at Matt’s justification, as he did each one of Matt’s feeble rebellions, but for once, Matt did not yield to it. Yes, he had made some kind of mistake tonight, that led to this, but helping that kid was not it.
He’d managed to mostly stop his side bleeding with the aid of one of his socks, which would do for the time, and when he made it out of the alley, he turned right, away from his building. Going to Claire’s was now out of the question; leading the thugs to his place was bad enough, but he’d be damned if he was going to endanger her again. He found, without much surprise, that his feet were leading him toward Father Lantom’s church. He just as quickly realized he couldn’t lead them there, either. What if they interrogated the old priest out of the suspicion of his familiarity? Painfully, painfully, he tramped past the bench where he had waited, more than once, to speak with the holy Father. He couldn’t lead them anywhere important.
A blind man’s feet, with no direction, could do nothing but soldier aimlessly. Still feeling far from up to another fight, each step only increased that certainty. He was fairly sure that his stab wound had not hit anything too important inside, but the loss of blood might eventually become an issue as the time wore on. There were five on his tail, and so far none of them knew he knew he was being followed. He’d had those odds before, even in a damaged condition. The incident with the kidnapped boy and the Russian mob came to mind. Each step, the need to end this chase rose up. Each labored breath, no will to actually do it, and the vain hope that they would eventually give up and go home. So he kept walking. He remembered one tipsy night at Columbia, after he’d made the barest suggestion of returning to schoolwork, Foggy had moaned and said, “I’m a fan of ignoring the problem until it goes away.” He had laughed and lightly admonished it at the time, but man, did he know the feeling. This isn’t dealing with it, Matty, Head-Stick informed him. Matt meekly agreed.
Time passed, though Matt did not know how much. The cold and pain seemed to numb his brain to every option but to keep walking, even while making it a torment, and the need to end the chase, to fight again, rose up repeatedly, but he could not bring himself to do it, even as his pursuers showed further signs of being in it for the long haul. Two of them took a break to get pie at the 7-11 (he could smell one cherry and one apple, and God, Matt was hungry), and one of them complained about how the missus would be angry when he got home so late, but they were all stubbornly still around. Surely they’d figured out he was on to them by now. They couldn’t think he’d just wander around like this for no reason. Maybe they’d try to jump him, and take the choice out of his hands.
Eventually, Matt began to stumble around in earnest, and lean on his cane like he had it because he was crippled rather than blind. His wound was cold and loosening away from the sock, and his head felt light. What was the matter with him? Matt had endured worse than this before. Then again, his fight with the mugger hadn’t been his finest hour either. He should have evaded the knife. He should have seen it coming. He was reaping what he’d sown there. Maybe Matt was losing his touch. Maybe Daredevil was getting complacent, letting himself go too much after Fisk issue had been resolved. Maybe getting used to wearing the body armor had made him soft, lessened his immunity, his pain resistance, his ability to take a hit: the glorious Murdock way. Maybe five men was too much for him anymore. Head-Stick was having a field day with this train of thought.
Matt found himself drawn toward the church again. Just when he felt he could walk no further, he stumbled onto the bench in front of it. He panted. Weeeeeak, jeered Head-Stick, sounding less like himself and more like one of the boys from his elementary school who had called his father a loser and laughed at Matt for never hitting back after his father told him not to.
He wasn’t sure how long he had sat there, head bowed, trying to gather his strength, when the sound of a car engine approached. He sensed the vehicle driving down the road, slowing, and eventually stopping right in front of him. Why was it stopping? Then the window rolled down and Brett Mahoney’s voice addressed him.
“Murdock?”
“Sergeant,” Matt acknowledged, after a pause. His voice was softer than he had intended. He quickly shifted his suit jacket to cover up his wound. He prayed desperately that his five pursuers could not hear them; he really had no concept, anymore, of what a normal person’s earshot was.
“What are you doing out here? Are you alright?” Matt could hear nervous concern in his voice.
“Yes, I –” Matt couldn’t tell him the truth, surely. “I was walking,” he finished lamely.
Matt heard the engine shut down, the car door clunk open and Mahoney’s shoes hit the street. He drew near, near enough to put a hand on Matt’s shoulder, if he was of the mind. Matt was rather relieved that he did not.
“Matt,” Mahoney began, which – Mahoney didn’t call him Matt, normally – “why don’t I take you home?”
“No,” Matt replied, very quickly. Too quickly. Matt put on his best smile. “I’ll be alright, Sergeant. Don’t you have your patrol to get on with?”
“No, it’s 3 in the morning, it just ended. I was on my way home. And look, man, I don’t want to just – leave you here,” Mahoney continued on. “It’s not safe.”
A genuine smile bubbled to Matt’s lips with a breath of laughter. “No,” Matt agreed. “You’re right about that.”
“So you’ll let me take you home?”
“No,” Matt countered – again, far too urgently. He tried to cover for it again. “I’m – I’m really hungry,” he said. That wasn’t a lie at all. He suddenly remembered that only thing he’d eaten since breakfast was half a bagel stolen from Foggy’s stash at the office on the way out the door – just so he’d have something in his stomach as he drank in solidarity with Karen. “Do you want to go to Denny’s?”
Matt could feel the sergeant’s penetrating stare, hear the hitch of surprise and confusion in his breath. He was sure Mahoney would say no. He was Foggy’s friend, sure, but they weren’t really friends, after all. But all he said was, “All right, let’s go.”
“Really?” Matt asked in surprise as he dragged himself to his feet with an effort.
“Yeah, I’m starving,” Mahoney told him, holding the door open for him, his hand hovering awkwardly above Matt’s shoulder, apparently undecided whether he should try to guide him. Matt relieved him by quickly settling himself in the shotgun seat and folding his cane into his lap.
The Hell’s Kitchen Denny’s was rather dead at this hour, with no other customers, some mellow Billy Joel on the radio, and one sleepy young waitress who turned her head resignedly when they came through the door.
“Welcome to Denny’s,” she said as she approached them, pulling a couple of menus from behind her podium. Her voice sounded rather ragged, like she had a cold, poor girl.
“Booth or table?”
They were seated at a small center table and given two ice waters and the waitress’s weary blessing to take their time deciding. As Mahoney scanned the specials, Matt held the smooth plastic menu in his hands for a moment before he asked, “So, Sergeant, what’s on the menu?”
Mahoney looked up, his heart leaping in a classic symphony of embarrassment. “Oh – oh, right,” said Mahoney. “I’m sorry, man. I’m really sorry.”
Matt smiled forgivingly. Most people wouldn’t think much about the fact that blind men could not read menus, and Braille menus were not common. Most people weren’t as familiar with him as Foggy. “Don’t worry about it.”
“No, I’m an ass,” said Mahoney. “Do you want the whole menu, or –?”
“How about just everything that has hash browns?” Matt suggested. Matt had smelled them when he came in. Hash browns reminded him of his first home. His father, who took his Irish heritage quite seriously, had known at least five ways of preparing potatoes, and hash browns had been young Matt’s very favorite.
Head-Stick chided him for this sentiment as he listened to Brett reading the page of breakfast specials, but Matt remained defiant. He even decided to order tea rather than coffee, just to spite that voice. It was reminding him that he would need the extra caffeine energy for when he went back out there and finished off those thugs. But he was so tired that the idea of using any energy was abhorrent, and tea had been known to help him relax. And he really wished he could relax. It seemed a fat chance, however, as not long after Mahoney began reading, the little bell over the door rang out and announced the entrance of three out of five thugs, who promptly got a booth across from them.
Once they had ordered, an uncomfortable silence settled over them again, not alleviated when the last two thugs got another booth on the other side of them a moment later. Brett Mahoney had known Foggy forever, and with Foggy there was no silence. They had found the comfortable zone of familiar conversation, heavily reliant on snark, but it worked for them. Foggy’s best friend was his perfect complement – where Foggy was loud, warm, open, almost intrusively familiar, Matt was quiet, reserved, and impeccably polite. Potentially easier to offend. Sure, he could hold a conversation and be charming and funny when he wanted to – and he’d never hear the end from Foggy about how successful his charm was with women – but by the end, you knew nothing more about him. Whereas Brett firmly believed Foggy Nelson couldn’t keep a secret to save his life, Matt Murdock was a man of perpetual mystery.
But he was worried about Matt. The thought of what brought any man to sit alone in front of a church on the darkened streets of Hell’s Kitchen at three in the morning – let alone a blind man – would make anyone worry, he rationalized. Not to mention that keeping the citizens of this city safe was his actual job – and that, however distantly, Matt was a friend. Matt looked rather pale now they were in proper lighting, and his face was slightly tilted in the direction of the three men who’d taken a booth across from them, whom the waitress was now taking orders from.
Matt turned back to face him next second, putting on a smile. “I’m so sorry,” he said. “Uh – how’s your mom?”
Mahoney let a small breath of laughter. “Amazingly, still not dying of lung cancer.”
“That’s good to know,” Matt noted. It was so surreal to be sitting here having this conversation while his five pursuers lay in wait. “Foggy’ll be pleased.”
“Yeah, but she’s still pretty shaken up from what happened to Elena Cardenas. They were good friends.”
Matt’s face fell. He said quietly, “Yeah.”
“At least we got the bastard who did it in the end, right?” Brett said, offering Matt a reassuring smile he hoped the man could hear in his voice.
Matt only nodded, with a grateful smile. He looked suddenly exhausted. “Foggy took it pretty hard, too,” he said softly.
“Yeah, how – how is Foggy?” Mahoney asked. He could think of nothing better to say. Foggy was their common subject.
Matt sighed. “He thought it was his fault for encouraging Elena to stay and fight. And then there was the whole – the whole nonsense – misunderstanding – me being an idiot . . .”
“He seemed OK last time I saw,” Brett said. In fact, Foggy had seemed much more concerned about Matt.
“Yeah, the new caseload is good. We’re finally getting a bit of attention at Nelson and Murdock after our involvement with the Fisk case. And him and Marci are probably getting back together. And he’s glad of that, and the money, and usually he’s alright with me, too, but sometimes–” Matt stopped himself. “Sorry, Sergeant, I’m getting too personal.”
“It’s cool,” Mahoney dismissed. “It’s hard not to with that guy. He doesn’t know the meaning of boundaries.”
Matt snorted in agreement. “But still, Elena’s death shook him up. Karen, too. And she was also really close to Ben Urich, the reporter. She goes to visit his widow sometimes.”
Mahoney nodded, against chastised himself for his insensitivity, and said aloud, “Yeah.” It had not gone unnoticed that Matt had said nothing of his own feelings on the matter. This conversation was getting far too heavy for Brett Mahoney’s liking. But he supposed he had been the first to bring up Elena Cardenas. He didn’t think he’d really had a meaningful personal conversation with him before, and it had taken all of three exchanges for this one to turn to death and grief. Maybe Matt’s secret was just that he was a naturally gloomy person. He was about to try and change the subject when Matt spoke again.
“But I suppose we’re all still recovering from all the damage Fisk did,” Matt concluded.
“I’ll say,” Brett agreed. “He may be gone, but so’s two-thirds of the precinct.”
“Oh, God, yeah,” Matt said. “How’s it holding together there?”
“Well, I have to go in tomorrow at noon to help train some rookies. It’s gonna be a while to we’re back up to standard, and you might have heard on the news that in the meantime some of Don Rigoletto’s old buddies who stayed in town thought they could take advantage and try to regain a foothold now that Fisk’s out of the picture.”
“Of course they did,” Matt sighed. He couldn’t help but feel responsible. “I’m – I’m sorry, Sergeant,” he said weakly. Did he just apologize for capturing Fisk? Yes. Yes, he did.
“Hey, it’s better to have a few inexperienced kids I can trust than to work with guys who’d shoot me in the back if I knew too much. Some of the rookies ain’t bad, either. Sanchez’s aim is rusty, but she’s got potential. And Jackson’s a firecracker.”
“How old are they?” Matt wondered, taking note of the names as potential allies. He was pretty sure he’d already run into Sanchez once in the mask, observed her with Mahoney arresting a drug dealer near the docks and deciding that they didn’t need his help.
“Just cleared for duty, most of ‘em. Early twenties,” Mahoney replied. “They’re just kids, really, but they’ve got guts. They really stepped up when this city needed them, and I respect that.”
Matt smiled. Brett was almost sure this one was genuine. “That’s the best any of us can do,” said Matt fervently. “And it seems like you’ve done alright so far. You took care of most of Rigoletto’s men without too much trouble, right?” He tried to sound innocently curious.
“Yeah, but we had a bit of help from the man in the mask – or, Daredevil, I guess we’re calling him now. Last few days, though, looks like there’s a new player, which the papers were quick to pick up. We were still tracking down the last of Rigoletto’s men when he shows up dead on the precinct doorstep, shot full of holes. And there’ve been rumors of other wanted men showing up dead, courtesy of some trigger-happy nutcase with a skull on his chest.”
Matt faced down again with a sigh, shaking his head. “This city,” he said wearily.
“This goddamn city,” echoed Mahoney. “Why we ever signed up to try to keep it in line I’ll never quite – Matt?”
In leaning forward at the wrong angle, Matt had unsettled his stab wound and let out an involuntary moan of pain. He could feel the rush of blood as it started to bleed again, staining his shirt scarlet. The taste of copper was so overwhelming in his throat that it momentarily amazed him that Mahoney could possibly be unaware of it. He pulled in a sharp intake of breath as he prepared to smile and offer some sorry excuse to Mahoney, while Head-Stick barked, Don’t be a baby! in his ear. Matt was inclined to agree this time. Not that he liked to brag, but Matt was undeniably a master of pain tolerance, one of the world’s champions at it – maybe second to his dad. He could have and should have endured that without making a sound and alarming the Sergeant.
“Sorry,” Matt breathed, which was all he had come up with. Typical Head-Stick, chastising his mistakes but offering no solutions. “It’s just – this city, you know – can give you a headache. If you’ll excuse me.” And with that he stood up and staggered off toward the bathroom.
Brett stared at his folded-up cane sitting on the table, wondered how he had found the bathroom, and fought a bizarre urge to call Foggy and demand he come here and pick up his friend. He even took out his phone and stared at Foggy’s name, remembering the night they had gone to Josie’s to celebrate Fisk’s imprisonment. When he had asked Foggy where Matt was, he had replied that Matt was “sleeping it off” and then said, in a very earnest voice, “Brett, if you ever see Matt and he seems off, somehow, just let me know, OK?”
Matt, meanwhile, leaned against the sink and tried again to take stock of the situation. His pursuers were a determined bunch. If they had managed to follow a cop car on foot, and were still around, it was unlikely they would ever be willing to give up and let him go home, unless they literally passed out from exhaustion, and Matt was becoming surer every moment, as he squeezed his wound and felt the blood seep through his fingers, that he was likely to do that long before they did. He wished he knew what they had heard. They might have heard Mahoney calling him “Matt” and had a name to go on. They might have heard Mahoney also calling him “Murdock” back at the church bench, but they had been further away then. However, the fact that they were still here seemingly meant they wanted more information from him here and now, making it less likely they had a full name to go on.
And then he’d idiotically brought Mahoney into this. They could easily infer from the fact that they’d gone for a late-night breakfast together that he and they were closer associates than a random cop and citizen in need, meaning now they might target him specifically to find out more about Matt, and it was all on him. They will suffer and you will die, Stick had told him, wisely warning him away from this sort of idiocy. But he hadn’t been able to think of a better way to get rid of him, as Brett had been determined to take him home, and thus lead his pursuers straight to his apartment. Not to mention that he was hungry, and rather touched and pleasantly surprised by the Sergeant’s genuine concern. Even now, there seemed to be no way he could get out Brett’s company without leading his pursuers home. He could straight-out insist that he wanted to walk home, but if Brett was anything like Foggy, and he was in many ways, he would never allow it. You should have dealt with the problem before you ran into him, Matty, Head-Stick chastised, and again, Matt accepted this meekly.
The sound of footsteps from outside the door warned him just in time to move into one of the stalls. When they came in, Matt quickly determined from his build and the faint scent of cherry that it was one of his pursuers, the one who’d gotten cherry pie at the 7-11 and complained about his wife. Even here he’d let his guard down too much. He had to act. He quickly reached into his pocket, feeling past the emergency notebook and pencil (for when he didn’t trust his well-trained memory and had Foggy read him what he’d learned later) to the emergency needle and thread, and proceeded to do the quietest self-stitching job of his vigilante career. He knew Claire would be disappointed in his needlework, especially as he could feel his hands shaking slightly with hunger and blood loss and probably some variety of irrational fear, but at least he would stop bleeding for the duration of his meal. He thought back warmly on all the times he had stitched up his father, and almost laughed out loud when he suddenly wished he had a bottle of scotch on hand. The drinks with Karen seemed days ago.
That complete, he listened for the sound of his pursuer leaving the bathroom. He eventually did, but only after a good long wait, which confirmed Matt’s suspicion that he had followed Matt there rather than incidentally needing the room at the same time. Realizing this meant that, to Mahoney, he’d now been gone an exceptionally long time, he resolved to clean himself up quickly and get back to him before he got suspicious. He held his hands up to his nose to make sure he’d gotten all the blood off of them – he could still smell his blood faintly, but it was likely residual and just at the site of his wound – and then went back outside, standing purposely straighter than he had in hours.
The food had arrived by the time he got back to his table. Matt’s mouth watered at the scent of his hash browns. Before he’d even sat down, however, Mahoney asked, sounding alarmed, “Matt, what happened?”
“W-what d’you mean?”
“You’ve got blood on your sleeve!” he exclaimed.
Crap. Matt vaguely remembered wiping his hand on his sleeve in his haste to wash up, but he’d thought it had only had water on it and the scent of blood had been overpowering at the time. Anybody who could actually look in a mirror would have noticed right away.
“Nosebleed,” said Matt quickly. “It’s, uh . . . dry, this time of year. I tried to wash up, but I guess I missed a spot.” He sat down just as quickly. As lies went, this one was maybe alright, maybe the most bogus words to ever escape his mouth – he couldn’t tell anymore. His head felt fuzzy, and this night had long been devolving past the monikers of a “single mistake” or an “off night” into what he (along with Head-Stick, in somewhat saltier diction) would very officially classify a “fiasco.”
By Mahoney’s breathing, he didn’t seem entirely convinced. Matt could smell that he’d already started in on his pancakes, while his own hash browns, eggs and sausage were yet untouched. He asked, cheerily, “S-so, what did you get?”
“Grand-slam breakfast,” replied Mahoney. He set down his fork and took a deep breath. “Matt – are you sure you’re OK?”
“I’m –” Matt began. His side throbbed. His head ached. His stomach growled. He was so tired, and he could feel the familiar simmering buzz of hysteria dancing at the back of his brain, and he had no idea how he was going to get rid of these thugs, and he’d screwed up everything he tried tonight, and his secret identity was going to get out and all his friends were going be murdered because of his carelessness, and . . . He tried to finish, but he momentarily couldn’t speak at all.
“Have some of your hash browns, dude,” Mahoney advised, with a sort of amused sympathy in his voice. “Maybe food will make it better.”
Matt could only nod and comply. He picked up his fork, felt for the crispy hash browns on the edge, and took a large bite. It was utterly delicious. He heard himself let out a quiet involuntary noise of satisfaction.
“Is it good?” laughed Mahoney.
“These hash browns are amazing,” Matt said earnestly, his mouth full. “Ah, man, food is great.”
Mahoney laughed again, and Matt heard his tension easing in his breath and pulse. “You could advertise this place, Murdock.”
Smiled and continued eating his hash browns. They were perfect. He knew rationally that was probably largely because of how hungry he was, and that he was a little punchy, that his simmering hysteria was finding release in this manic enthusiasm that could switch to rage or panic at the drop of a hat, but at this moment, what he knew beyond a reasonable doubt was the fact that the hash browns in the Hell’s Kitchen Denny’s were the greatest thing he had ever tasted.
“And how are you boys doing?” asked the hoarse-voiced waitress, brightly as she could manage.
“Great,” said Matt, giving her his best charming smile. He was going to tip this poor girl an absurd amount. (As much as he had in his pocket, at any rate, which hadn’t been enough for a cab fare home, so maybe not that absurd.) “Really great.”
“Anything else I can get you?” she asked, and Matt was happy to note that his smile had done the trick and the brightness in her voice sounded less affected.
“No, thank you, we’re all set.” The girl strode away with a bit of a spring in her step.
“Foggy was right; that is uncanny,” said Mahoney, his mouth full of scrambled egg.
“What is?” asked Matt confusedly.
Mahoney stared after the grinning waitress in disbelief, and then shook his head. “Never mind, man.”
Matt shrugged and continued to eat his hash browns. He was beginning to feel a bit better. But he could tell Brett still wanted to say something. He waited.
Eventually, he began, with a sigh. “Matt, I really gotta ask – what were you doing on the bench out there? You know how dangerous these streets can be.”
Matt tried to laugh it off. “Well, not when we have the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen to watch over us,” he said, with an attempt at light sarcasm that came out profoundly weary and bitter.
“That’s true, he does help,” Brett said, “Daredevil. But he can’t be everywhere. I’m pretty sure that guy is human, too.”
“I can take care of myself,” said Matt, with a note of defiance that sounded childish even in his head, ignoring the second half of that statement. Daredevil was supposed to be a symbol.
“I’m not arguing that,” said Mahoney patiently. “I just – I just want to keep people safe, and that’s easier when people have a sense of self-preservation.”
Matt laughed. “I know the feeling.”
“That’s right,” Mahoney continued, deciding to press his advantage. “You and me and Foggy and this Daredevil, all those new recruits at the precinct – Sanchez and Jackson and everyone else – we all want the same thing: to keep this city safe – justice and peace for the citizens of Hell’s Kitchen. Right? It’s just easier if we can work together at it, and that’s easier when all of us are still alive.”
Mahoney was so much like Foggy – past a certain point of familiarity, he had no concept of ‘personal business’ or privacy where peoples’ welfare was involved, and it was as endearing as it was exasperating. But that wasn’t what surprised Matt. “You – you feel like you’re on the same team with – with Daredevil?”
“Sure,” Mahoney said. “He’s helped me out of enough scrapes, and he helped put Fisk away. I’d say he might as well be on the force, except he doesn’t get paid and works alone. But it’s just like I was saying up the new recruits – he stepped up when the city needed him, and he doesn’t even stick around to win medals. And maybe his methods don’t always mesh with police policy, but man, if there’s anyone who cares about this city in a completely disinterested way, who protects it because he feels like he has to – it’s that guy. It’s Daredevil.”
Matt felt a burning behind his eyes and in his throat. He took off his glasses quickly and rubbed at his eyes. He couldn’t speak. Somebody got it. After all Foggy had said, after all of his doubts, his father’s wishes, after Stick’s reprimands, all the warnings of Claire and Father Lantom – Mahoney understood. Matt hastily shoveled down some more hash browns and gulped his tea. Mahoney was still talking.
“And half the low-lifes in town alright think me and him are best friends or something. Keep wanting me to talk about him, ‘cuz they’ve seen us together a few times, and what they’ve seen in the papers. Rigoletto’s last man was so sure I knew he was, he was so self-righteous when I said I didn’t know . . .”
“And do you know who he is?” Matt made himself ask, finding his voice again.
“Man, I don’t want to know,” Mahoney replied. “And there’s enough theories floating around already. Crazy ones. One crook I met thought he was Foggy!”
Again, Matt laughed out loud. That was undoubtedly the most absurd theory he had ever heard.
“Honestly,” Mahoney was chuckling, “I’m surprised nobody’s gone after you for info on him yet, when you were so involved in Fisk’s arrest as well. I guess that’s partially why I was so worried what you were doing.”
Matt opened his mouth to reply, but a rather absurd thought had occurred to him – to actually ask for the help of a legitimate law enforcer in getting rid of the thugs on his tail. No no no no no no no no no, Head-Stick started in, but Matt was determined to think it out. If random thugs already went after Mahoney looking for Daredevil’s identity, he could beat himself up about it later, what more harm could he do? If there were already so many theories floating around as to who Daredevil was, would this one just get lost in the shuffle? But no, no, Matt had brought this on himself, and it wasn’t the Sergeant’s job to deal with – except it kind of was. It was his actual, paying day job.
The only things stopping him here were Head-Stick and his own senses of culpability and independence, which were forces to be reckoned with. Head-Stick’s voice was overwhelming, pointing out every weak thing Matt had done over the course of the evening, from avoiding the thugs after he was stabbed to doing a sloppy job convincing the Sergeant everything was alright, and how he had to pay for it. That’s how it worked in his world.
But then another voice cut across it – a kind, soft, whispering voice, full of compassionate tears – Karen’s voice, as he’d heard it that night. You’re not alone, Matt. You never were. Her voice filled him, her hope, and he could almost feel her arms wrapped warmly around him. Again, Head-Stick’s voice tried to overpower hers. But not for the first time, Matt told Head-Stick to shut the hell up. Child-murdering bastard.
And Matt made his decision in a split second. He listened closely to his surrounding pursuers, ascertaining they were all only half-paying attention. He then reached into his pocket, withdrew his emergency notebook and pencil as nonchalantly as he could, and wrote, I’m being followed. Other guys in here crooks want to follow me home, they think I know who Daredevil is, don’t show you know. He then reached across the table and seized the little plastic triangle where the dessert specials were listed, ripped the paper out of his notebook and held it against one side of it, and then held it up to Mahoney and said, equally nonchalantly, “So, would you want any dessert? That is the dessert menu, right?”
He heard Mahoney’s pulse accelerate as he read the words. He then felt Mahoney take hold of the dessert triangle, putting his hand over Matt’s and giving a little squeeze of understanding. He said, “Nah, I’m actually pretty full of pancakes, man.”
Matt nodded. “Just thought you should know,” he said, “about the desserts.”
“Yeah,” Mahoney agreed. “It’s good to know – about them.”
Matt nodded. He felt a rush of gratitude. “Well, let me pay,” he said impulsively. “It’s the least I could –” He suddenly remembered, with a swell of shame, how little money he had on him, and if anything was capping off the disaster of how he’d handled tonight, that was it.
But Brett only laughed, and then said, in a very earnest voice, “Don’t worry, partner. I’ve got you covered.”
His voice managed to neutralize most of the guilt burning in Matt’s chest. Maybe Brett was his friend, after all. But one thing still bothered him.
“You say lots of criminals go after you, and might go after me, because of our involvement with Fisk’s capture. How do we know – how do we know they won’t go after Foggy? Or Karen?”
“If they do,” said Brett, “then I think you, me, and Man in the Mask will all have something to say about it. We’ll deal with it – all of it, together. They’re a part of this city, and we protect this city.”
“You really think we can go the distance?”
“Well, I bet my life on it every day, don’t I?”
“Yeah, you do,” Matt agreed thoughtfully, swallowing his last bite of hash browns. He took another gulp of his tea and it finally began to calm him, like it was supposed to. It hadn’t been his best night in any sense, but somehow, amazingly, he wasn’t paying for it. Somehow, from being stupid and cold and alone, he had found this reassurance, this warmth, and Head-Stick didn’t say a word. Karen’s voice seemed to have silenced him for now.
Matt lifted his mug up in a toast and said, “Well, here’s to this city, then.”
Mahoney clinked his coffee against it, and echoed, “To this city.”