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Chapter Text

Until Pepper Potts’s personal assistant called in requesting two dozen Danishes for a morning meeting. And shortly after that Tony Stark himself appeared to demand a berry crostata fresh out of the oven. Peter had nearly swallowed his whisk upon meeting Steve Rogers; Matt was worried he was going to have an actual heart attack in the middle of icing cookies when Stark paid for his crostata -- and half the display case -- with a Black Amex.

“Just think of it as good publicity,” Karen said as they were closing that day. “We could put up a sign saying we’re the go-to place for the Avengers when they want baked goods.”

Matt groaned. “First of all, I don’t feel like getting sued by Stark’s entire legal team, no matter how much he likes our crostatas. Second of all, do we really want every autograph-chaser in New York descending on this place?”

“It’d get rid of the hipsters,” Peter pointed out from where he was sweeping the floor. That actually gave Matt some pause. “After all, you can’t keep your cred attending a place you knew before it was cool after it becomes cool.”

“Hipsters have money like anyone else,” Matt said, not without some reluctance. “It’s the gawkers and idlers I’m worried about.”

“So no sign,” Karen said, closing up the register. “Still, I have a feeling the word is out.”

She was right. The flow of famous personalities and the associated crowds didn’t abate, especially after some foodie blog posted about the “all-natural, all-organic hidden gem in the heart of Hell’s Kitchen.” At first it was a trickle: Johnny Storm liked pistachio muffins. Steve Rogers kept swinging by for cinnamon rolls until it was policy to set one aside for him every morning. Sam Wilson gushed over Matt’s chocolate-walnut cookies (“Just like mom’s!”) and always ended up grabbing a dozen to share or hoard, Matt wasn’t sure which.

The increased superhero patronage had its effects, as Matt had predicted. Thankfully there were fewer autograph hounds than he’d feared, but the line for baked goods and fair-trade coffee soon stretched out the door and around the block, and all seven small tables were almost always full. At least the various heroes who kept showing up were patient about waiting their turn, and understanding if Matt ran out of various items before they made it to the counter. It was the mundane crowd that caused problems in that area more often than not -- he’d subdued tweakers who were calmer than one businesswoman who discovered they’d run out of lemon bars. Fortunately, the presence of the costumed crowd tended to keep things more peaceful than not.

And they just kept coming. Thor drank on average seven cups of coffee per visit, heavy on the sugar and cream, and informed him grandly that his Devil’s Food cake was the closest thing to divine he’d experienced since leaving Asgard. Natasha Romanoff had more than one date there, if one could call such serious, low-voiced assignations dates, always accompanied by plenty of gingerbread and strong black tea. One burly man who smelled of cigar smoke, metal, and old blood, especially around his tough-knuckled hands, picked up an order of coffee cake for a Professor Xavier, which marked him in all probability as a mutant.

Then it just became ridiculous: Loki showed up one day. From the kitchen, Matt heard Peter’s heartbeat spike in alarm as a well-groomed voice informed them that his brother heartily recommended this establishment and then politely requested a slice of the mandel-epelkake Matt had made for the first time that morning. A frown on his face, Matt listened intently as Peter served up a generous portion of the fragrant almond-apple confection in a paper bag and asked, nervousness pitching his voice higher than usual, if Loki would like anything else, sir. Oh.

Could they be sued for discrimination if they refused to serve criminals? Or at least supervillains? Loki had been convicted in absentia for crimes against humanity... then again, no criminals would probably bar a good portion of their regulars too. Oh well.

That night, someone left a Yelp review stating that for mere mortals, the drudges of the kitchens at Jack’s Breadline did passably well. Four stars.

Actually, the surreal level of their Yelp reviews skyrocketed after that. And the staff are really nice, great service, one said. The owner doesn’t give you judging looks for showing up in your pajamas or your work uniform no matter how torn up you are. Matt twitched when he read that one. Sara Lee’s gonna put a hit out on this guy, read another. Good thing the local crimefighting crowd loves his glazed rods. He could hear Karen choking on her coffee from here.

“Welcome to Jack’s Breadline,” Matt said. “What can I get you?”

The man standing in front of the display case smelled of overwork and cheap Chinese food and not enough sleep, stress-hormones a distinctive aroma that lingered in the folds of his woolen suit. The slide of a leather bag strap against his jacket and the shuffle of papers at his side told Matt either businessman or down-on-his-heels lawyer.

“Got anything to replace your soul?” the man asked mournfully after considering the selections available. “I think I let mine go for too little.”

“Well, there’s our Death by Chocolate,” Matt said, indicating his infamous seven-layer triple chocolate mousse cake sitting on the counter under a glass cake cover. “People say it’s worth your soul. But I think it may be too heavy this early in the day. How about a turnover?”

“Sounds good. What kinds do you have?”

The man ended up with a steaming pear-ginger turnover and a cup of freshly-brewed coffee, ensconced at the table farthest away from the windows with a veritable library of papers spread before him. He stayed there through the morning, occasionally taking refills on coffee when Karen offered them to him, but otherwise engrossed in his work.

It was during one of their rare breaks between waves of customers that Matt heard the probably-businessman-or-lawyer heave a sigh that sounded like all the air was being wrung out of his lungs. That was a sound that needed pastry to assuage if Matt had any experience in the matter. On a whim, he turned to the display case. Each of the hand-lettered signs stuck on metal stands scattered among the various offerings had a printed Braille label on the back, though Matt generally knew the locations of each item by heart, and now he felt around and extracted a strawberry cream scone and brought it over on a plate.

“Oh, hey, thanks, man.” The guy fumbled, reaching into his pocket. “How much do I--?”

“On the house,” Matt assured him. “You sound like you needed it.”

“How’d you know?” The man let out another sigh, exactly like the one that had let Matt know. “Really, thanks. Even an unasked-for -- what is this, a scone? -- even an unasked-for scone is a kindness I don’t deserve these days.”

“You’re pretty hard on yourself, buddy,” Matt noted, hovering at the edge of the table. “If you don’t mind me saying so.”

“Yeah, well.” There was a moist, crumb-y sounding pause as the man took a bite of the scone. “Wow, this is awesome. The turnover was awesome too, by the way -- did you make them?”

That was refreshing, that someone didn’t automatically assume one of the others did the baking just because Matt was blind. “Yeah. It’s mostly me with help from my assistant.”

“Where’d you learn to bake?”

“When I was a kid.” He shrugged, not wanting to go into the details about how the nuns had eventually installed him in the corner of the kitchen to knead bread dough in order to give him something to do. “I’m Matt Murdock, I own and run Jack’s Breadline.” He extended a hand and the man scrambled to take it, his grip sure and strong.

“Foggy Nelson, your newest regular.” Foggy had longer hair; Matt could hear it sway as he tilted his head in curiosity. “Why Jack’s Breadline instead of Matt’s?”

“I named the place after my dad,” Matt explained. “In his memory.” He nodded in the general direction of the photo on the back wall, the faded but still legible Murdock vs. Creel poster affixed there beside it.

There was a creak of wood as Foggy turned in his seat to look, before turning back and exclaiming, “Wait, your dad was Battlin’ Jack Murdock?” He sounded genuinely amazed. “Which means you’re -- hey, I heard about you when you were a kid! What you did, saving that guy...”

Matt drew back, startled at this unexpected recognition. “Oh, I -- I just did what anyone would have.” He could feel the tips of his ears heating, tried to ignore it.

“Bullshit.” Foggy seemed insistent on this. “You are a hero.”

“Are you trying to flatter me into giving you another scone?” Matt asked, recovering with a chuckle. “No, seriously, I’m really not.”

“The world needs more people like you,” Foggy said. “Come on, you got your peepers knocked out saving that old dude.”

“Uh.” Matt paused. “They didn’t get knocked out.”

“Oh good, ‘cause that would be a little freaky. No offense,” he added quickly.

“None taken,” Matt said, more amused than anything. This certainly was not the usual conversation he held with customers. “Most people dance around me like I’m made of glass -- I hate that.”

“Yeah, you’re just a guy, right? A really, really good-lookin’ guy.” Foggy took another bite of his scone and swallowed while Matt raised his brows in startlement.

“Oh, um...”

“Who bakes like a freakin’ blue-ribbon champion,” Foggy continued blithely. “I’m sure the ladies must love that. Am I right?”

Oh. “Right,” he said with a laugh, both at Foggy’s comment and his own ridiculous assumptions. “It’s been known to happen.” He could hear Karen stifling giggles at the register. “Listen, I need to get back to work. It was nice meeting you, Foggy.”

“You too and me too. I am going to enjoy the hell out of this tasty tasty scone before I return to the drudgery that is this not so tasty motion.”

So Matt was right, he was a lawyer. “Sounds fun. Let me know if you need anything else.”

“Will do.”

True to his word, Foggy became a regular, though he didn’t always stay as long. He didn’t have a set preference in baked goods, often asking Matt what he recommended that day and always seeming to enjoy his selection thoroughly. It soon got to the point where Matt set aside one of anything new he made so Foggy could try it and give his opinion. He was especially proud of the orange marmalade hibiscus tea bread that earned him a heartfelt groan after Foggy bit into it, smiling widely as Foggy declared it the best thing he’d put in his mouth all month.

“Matt has a crush,” Karen announced sing-song one evening as they were closing down. Matt paused where he was wiping down the front counter and Peter snickered from the kitchen where he was doing the same. “Don’t try to deny it, Murdock, your entire face lights up when Foggy walks through the door.”

“He’s a nice guy,” Matt tried to defend himself. “And interesting, and funny. I like talking with him.”

“Even though he’s a soul-sucking lawyer from the good side of town?” Peter called out. “Slumming it in the Kitchen?”

“Actually, I think he’s the one being soul-sucked,” Karen said thoughtfully before Matt could chew out his assistant. Foggy was native to Hell’s Kitchen, for one. “He certainly doesn’t seem happy working at his job, wherever that is.”

“Landman and Zack,” Matt supplied, thinking of their first conversation: Got anything to replace your soul? “What makes you think he’s not happy?”

“I don’t know. Something about him...” A shift of cloth indicated Karen shrugging. “I just shrugged. But it’s like coming here for a cookie or a muffin and talking to you is the high point of his day.”

“That’s sad.” Peter emerged from the kitchen, wiping his hands on a side towel. “Not to insult your baking, boss, or your charming personality, but that’s sad.”

Matt flicked his own towel at him and Peter yipped. “You missed a spot,” he said. “Next to the sink, near the lip. Go clean it up.”

“How do you even--?”

“Go clean it up.” Muttering in disbelief, Peter went, and then squawked when he found that Matt was right. Matt returned to his own cleaning, strokes broad across the wooden surface, but he found himself mulling on Karen’s words.

Well. He was overdue for an experimenting day, where he holed up in his apartment and tried out different recipes for Jack’s. Usually he invited Karen and more recently Peter to be his testers, but maybe -- was it too forward of him--?

Then Foggy walked in the next day with a woman on his arm. She smelled of salon hair dryers and expensive perfume, the silk charmeuse of her jacket a feather-light whisper over her body. Matt found her to be an immediate affront to his senses as she paused just inside the door and ostensibly looked around.

“So this is where you get your stash? Doesn’t look like much to impress, I have to say.”

“Hey,” Foggy said in protest. “Wait ‘til you try it, at least. They make the best damn croissants this side of Paris, and their tea bread is to commit felonies for.” He stepped further inside and the woman trailed along behind him.

“Hey, Foggy,” Matt greeted as he got to the counter. “Who’s your friend?”

“Matt, this is Marci Stahl. She’s a coworker. I finally got sick of her stealing my muffins and decided to let her in on my secret source. Marci, this is Matt Murdock, the greatest baker since, since...” Matt waited, quirking a brow in amusement. “And I’ve dug myself into a hole,” Foggy finished mournfully.

“You were due,” Marci said, and then to Matt, “Foggy Bear sings your praises like he’s your John the Baptist.” Matt hid a twist of his mouth as he wondered, Foggy Bear? “Wait, are those fruit tarts?”

“Strawberry glazed with apricot syrup and blackberry-raspberry,” Matt said. “Though if you come back in a few hours I’ll have one with pears poached in red wine. Not exactly a morning dish, that one.”

“Huh.” Marci sounded reluctantly impressed. “My estimation of this place just went up a few notches.”

“Told you,” Foggy said with an audible smirk. “Matt should be a pastry chef at some five-star restaurant in Manhattan, but he chooses generously to share his bounty with all of us peons at prices we can afford. Not to mention he’s practically endorsed by the Avengers.”

“I’ll believe it when I eat it.” She didn’t sound as acerbic, however, a little more eager to try Matt’s wares. Matt smirked to himself, then came to attention as Foggy hummed thoughtfully.

“So what do you recommend today?”

“The lemon-lime bars turned out pretty well,” Matt said, mentally running through his selections. “The fruit tarts are spectacular -- good eye, Miss Stahl. And I’ve got a batch of lemon-poppyseed muffins that are about to come out of the oven if you can wait five minutes.”

“Ooh. I’ll have a lemon-lime bar and wait on a muffin,” Foggy said. “And a regular-sized house roast.”

“A strawberry tart, please, and likewise for the coffee,” Marci said.

Matt served them and let Karen ring them up, tracking their movements across the room where they found a miraculously empty table. He smiled privately when Marci took her first bite of the tart and drew in a pleased, surprised breath. “Another convert,” Karen said under her breath beside him. “I don’t know how you do it.”

“Good ingredients, good technique, and a charming personality,” Matt said with a smile, and went to fetch the muffins.

Chapter Text

Peter came in one day sounding like a creaking ship.

“Sorry I’m late, boss,” he puffed, rushing in and shedding his jacket. “The traffic from Queens was insane. I think the Avengers got into it somewhere east of Central Park.”

“They did,” Karen called over. “The news is saying it’s a Doombot.”

“I hate those things,” a customer groused over his hazelnut croissant. Other people piped up and the air was filled with chattering voices, but Matt ignored them all to focus on his assistant as he skidded around the end of the counter for the kitchen. A hairline fracture to a rib -- no, two. Another one developing in his left wrist. Bruising across his chest, more on his back as if he’d been thrown against something, sharp and defined. “Call and let us know next time,” he said absently. “We worry.”

“Yeah, sorry!” There was the sound of running water and Peter washing his hands. “So what’s on our plate for today?” And he seemed fine, he seemed normal, if still a little winded. From his dash across Midtown? Maybe.

The rest of the day, Matt kept a metaphorical eye on Peter. He moved around the kitchen as adroitly as ever and he sounded cheerful enough, but Matt could hear the bones shifting, the microscopic hisses of pain when Peter accidentally strained himself before he recovered for the sake of anybody else present. Now that he thought about it, this wasn’t the first time Peter had shown up to work with injuries. It was always minor bruising, irregular, something to note in the corner of his mind but not a cause for alarm. It wasn’t as if Peter was showing up to work with black eyes and split lips, or regularly hiding his injuries. This, however, was beyond the pale.

From what Matt knew about Peter’s home life, there was no way he was getting even minor bruises from his Aunt May. He’d mentioned once or twice that he used to be bullied at school but that was past tense, had been for a few months.

Eventually Matt tried satisfying his curiosity. He and Peter were in the kitchen, up to their wrists in biscuit dough, with jam and clotted cream standing by. “Peter?” Peter hummed an acknowledgement. “Are you all right?”

That got his assistant to pause. “What do you mean?”

“You’re moving a little stiffly today.” Matt quirked a smile. “You’ve been hiding it well but I can hear you’re in pain. Did something happen?”

“Oh, I got tangled up earlier with a biker who was trying to avoid a nearsighted pedestrian,” Peter said, making a face if his tone was any indication. “Did I not mention?”

The words fell easily from his mouth, but Peter’s heart rate spiked with the lie. Matt kept his expression calm. “I see. You should have said something, I would have sent you home early.”

“It’s not that bad,” Peter said, resuming rubbing butter into his bowl of flour. “I didn’t think it was worth mentioning and it’s definitely not something I need to go home early over.” That read true. Or at least that Peter believed that cracked ribs were not worth mentioning. “I’m just a little banged up -- nothing a hot shower and a good night’s sleep won’t take care of.”

“If you say so,” Matt said.

Daredevil ran into Spider-man the next night when they both converged on a scream on the east side of the Kitchen. He found the wall-crawler in the midst of subduing one would-be mugger as their prospective victim fled down the alley and introduced himself to the scene by hurling an escrima stick at the other mugger’s head, knocking him into a pile of garbage cans.

“Nice shot,” Spider-man said approvingly. A chemical hiss assaulted Matt’s nose and ears as Spider-man efficiently webbed the muggers to the wall. “I bet you’re killer at horseshoes.”

“I get by.” Matt jumped down to retrieve his weapon, then joined Spider-man up on top of the fire escape looking over the alley. “You’re a long way from your usual stomping grounds. What’re you doing in Hell’s Kitchen?”

“I wanted a change of scenery,” Spider-man quipped. “Get out of the house, do a little sight-seeing, see what sort of nightlife I’ve been missing.” Matt waited and the webslinger shrugged. “I had business at Avengers Tower and figured I could lend a hand on the way home.”

Matt resisted the urge to sigh. He didn’t interact with his fellow vigilante often but every time he had an urge to tell Spider-man to go home to his family. He couldn’t have been more than twenty, from his build and his voice. “Thanks for the help.”

“No problem. Just your friendly out-of-neighborhood Spider-man.” There was a pause, and then, “Uh. I don’t mean to pick on a man’s choice of deodorant but why do you smell like cinnamon?” He sounded bewildered. “’Cause no offense, but it doesn’t exactly fit the fire and brimstone image you otherwise seem to be going for. More like happy grandmothers with a tray of cookies. Unless you’re aiming for the entire devil-tempting-people aspect, in which case good choice, good choice.”

Surreptitiously Matt inhaled. Yeah, he did smell like cinnamon; he’d been putting together an order of snickerdoodles before closing up shop and heading out to patrol. Besides the normal New York alley fug, the air was redolent to his senses with cinnamon, sugar, flour, butter, blueberries--

Wait.

Why did Spider-man smell like he’d been eating one of Matt’s blueberry buttermilk muffins?

Matt turned his face toward the other man. It was possible that he frequented Jack’s in his civilian identity like a lot of his colleagues. Barely anybody recognized Clint Barton, for example, and nobody knew Danny Rand outside of his mask. But there was something beyond the scent: he also sounded familiar, both his voice and the cues of his body. Matt cocked his head to listen. Two cracked ribs, recently-dislocated-then-relocated shoulder, bruises under the stretch and whisper of spandex, a hairline fracture in his wrist--

Oh. Oh no.

The memory struck him like a clarion call: Peter grabbing one of the surplus muffins from the day-old basket on his way out the door just hours earlier, already picking at the plastic wrap to unveil the scent of tart-sweet blueberries to the air.

Oh hell.

Matt swallowed a groan as the realization hit him with the force of Thor’s hammer. Great, just great. Their friendly neighborhood Spider-man was a high school student he’d last encountered with a streak of flour still smeared across his cheek. Not only did he have superheroes buying his cookies and drinking his coffee, it appeared he had one working for him as well.

“I’m getting nervous over here and I don’t know why I should be,” Spider-man said, perched on the railing now. “Should I be nervous?”

“Just... just go home. It’s a school night.”

“Hey!” Spider-man yelled after him, affronted, but Matt was already leaping away.

The solution to how to handle the situation hadn’t presented itself by the time Matt opened up shop the next morning, nor when Peter showed up for his afternoon shift. The cracks in his ribs and wrist had audibly healed, bruising nowhere near as apparent even to his senses. Matt wondered if the accelerated healing could be attributed to the same source as the rest of his powers.

After some deliberation, he decided to keep an eye on the situation but not interfere. Too much. Maybe he could drop a line into someone’s ear; if superheroes were going to frequent his bakery, he might as well take advantage of it, right?

Matt soon found out why being a hangout for the superpowered set was not an advantage.

Jack’s Breadline was usually open Monday through Saturday, with the exception of the anniversary of his father’s death. Even when he wanted to do nothing more after coming in from patrol but down a bottle of aspirin and follow it with a fifth of scotch, Matt dragged himself to his bakery rain or shine or alien invasion. Except for one Saturday morning when Matt found himself too sick to get out of bed.

Groaning under the burden of simply being conscious, Matt rolled over on his sweat-soaked sheets to look sightlessly up at the ceiling and thought hard about closing the shop for the day. There were still some leftover cookies and cut bars from the night before, and their stock of bread was holding up pretty well, but the Friday evening college crowd had pretty much cleaned them out otherwise. Plus the standing order from Tony Stark for a Saturday morning breakfast selection, and the fact that Deadpool had been recently sighted within city limits which meant the necessity of having black and white cookies on hand, and the pfeffernüsse which half the Avengers had told him was critical in maintaining the uneasy peace between Thor and Loki...

Shit. Shit shit shit. Even if he called Peter right now at four in the morning on the basis of it being an emergency and told him to hustle his ass down to the shop as soon as his working papers allowed, there was no way he could handle everything by himself in time. He was smart and efficient but he still hadn’t gotten the hang of the perfect pie crust and Matt was not going to risk Bruce Banner Hulking out in his bakery just because his chai custard pie was sub-par. And while Karen could make a mean batch of enchiladas, her baking skills only extended to things out of pop-open cans.

Saturday was their busiest day, though, and it was the height of summer. Tourist season, people wandering randomly into quaint little bakeries... plus the riots that would likely start if he closed down for the day. Matt groaned again. Fuck shit damn. He reached for his phone to dial Peter.

In retrospect, closing down for the day would have resulted in less damage.

Karen called him that evening. “You are never allowed to take a day off again,” she said. She sounded like she needed a Xanax. “Never. Not without a week’s notice and preparation of a sufficient amount of baked goods to cover your absence.”

That... did not sound good. “I’m afraid to ask.”

“You want the list alphabetically or in order of incident?”

That really did not sound good. “Karen, I’m sick,” he moaned. “I don’t need to be stressed out right now, my body can’t take it.”

“Tell that to poor Peter. Deadpool nearly crucified him this morning, literally. And Steve Rogers frowned at him. Steve Rogers. I don’t think he’s ever going to recover. I had to practically talk him out of jumping off the George Washington Bridge.”

Oh god. Matt heroically resisted hiding his head under his pillow. He’d heard the sirens throughout the day but hadn’t thought it was that bad. Or connected to his bakery. “What else?”

“Loki decided today was a good day to take the Enchantress out on a date, show her the sights. He was not pleased when he found the proprietor and purveyor of his Midgardian treats out and therefore unable to supply them to his satisfaction.”

Matt winced. “How not pleased?”

“The only reason your bakery is still standing is that there seems to be a moratorium on damaging the place from heroes and villains alike. The pawn shop across the street, however...”

“Oh god.” Matt made a fuzzy mental note to apologize with bear claws for the next month. Mrs. Alricson liked bear claws, right?

“Uh huh. As soon as word got out that people were fighting near Jack’s, things escalated. Across half of Hell’s Kitchen. I’m pretty sure the Mayor of New York wants to discuss contingency measures for this possibly happening again and the Avengers are trying to take you into protective custody. Also, Claire needed to be restrained from marching over to your place and shooting you up with every antibiotic she could lay her hands on just to get you on your feet faster.”

“Peter’s baking isn’t that bad,” he protested weakly. Though he knew how Claire could get if she didn’t get her habitual chocolate espresso brownie in the morning.

“It’s not but he’s not you,” Karen said, stern. “You need to give him hazard pay and a combat bonus for sticking it out today without running off screaming into the night. And teach him how to make your cinnamon-peach rolls because I never want to have to face a disappointed Luke Cage ever again.”

Chapter Text

When Matt returned on Monday, still a little shaky on his pins, he nearly tripped over a crack in the pavement that hadn’t been there before. The smell of concrete dust and shattered brick still lay heavy in the air and he sneezed as he let himself into his bakery. How many people had been involved in this fight? He could make out the odd ozone smell that heralded Thor, the rot-and-gun-oil which characterized Deadpool... even the chemical traces of Spider-man’s webbing combined with chocolate and butter and coffee. Apparently Peter had tried to make his chocolate espresso brownies before getting caught up in the fight.

Matt didn’t bother to flick on the lights as he stood in the doorway and assessed his surroundings. The floor wasn’t as neatly swept as usual and from what he could discern, not all of the baking sheets had been put away, but the chairs were on the tables and nothing seemed broken, so all in all he counted himself fortunate that Jack’s had mostly escaped the chaos. Peter had even started the bread proofing.

“Good morning.”

One minute there was nobody behind him. The next -- a crackle of something Matt had come to define as magic, then a smooth if strangely abashed voice, a male presence in leather and armor. Matt refused to jump, instead turning around carefully to face the newcomer.

“Good morning. We unfortunately don’t open until eight.” As this particular customer knew full well.

“I am not interested in purchasing your wares at this moment.” There was a surprise. Matt couldn’t help but raise his brows expectantly, and Loki stiffened but forged on. “I wish to -- apologize, for the trouble I caused you and your establishment two days ago,” he said, clearly uncomfortable being in this position. “My behavior was unbecoming of a prince of Asgard.”

“I think you’re better off tendering your apologies to the owners of the shops your altercation affected more than mine,” Matt pointed out. He felt Loki draw himself up, affronted, dangerous, and added, “But thank you for your consideration. Will you want your usual later?”

There was a brief hesitation, then disturbed air currents indicating Loki had nodded, slow and uncertain. “I’ll have that ready for you if you care to come back in a few hours.” The Asgardian had settled on an apple turnover and a walnut blondie as his order of choice some time ago.

Loki drew himself up again, a shift of leather and cloth and armor, obviously preparing to leave. Matt couldn’t help but say, “It’s not all on you anyway. From what I heard, half of New York’s resident superpowered entities joined in.”

“Your establishment is quite popular,” Loki remarked, and now his voice was dry with an amusement that suited him much better than the uneasy wariness. He tilted his head, studying him, then said slowly, “As are you. For a mortal, you are quite intriguing, Matthew Michael Murdock.”

Matt wasn’t sure how to take that. “I’ll see you in a few hours.”

“Yes. I’m sure you shall.”

Loki wasn’t the only person to show up with an apology that day, or to just check up on him. Though there were fewer mundanes -- no doubt cautious after the goings-on a few days ago -- the numbers were made up by a steady flow of superheroes (and Deadpool) trooping in and out of Jack’s Breadline up to closing time. Thor clapped him on the shoulder, nearly sending him to the floor, and declared that he had been much missed. May Parker gave him an actual care package through her nephew, with tea and crackers and a quart container of chicken soup. Pepper Potts sent him a thoughtful get-well card, inscription printed in Braille; there was also a scribbled note in the corner from Stark offering to pay for any damages incurred as well as insisting upon enlarging the kitchen and eating space and installing a state-of-the-art combination coffee roaster, grinder, and espresso machine. Another note from Ms. Potts said he didn’t have to accept that offer.

While at first Matt appreciated the sentiment, he found himself growing annoyed -- and fatigued -- as the day dragged on. The next person to jokingly propose to him was getting their cupcake privileges revoked for life. Eventually he ducked into the kitchen and refused to come out, even though it left Karen to field all the well-wishers on her lonesome when Peter joined him, looking cowed. “I feel like I’m one bad cookie away from being lynched,” he said, slumping against the back wall.

“You don’t make bad cookies,” Matt told him as he brought together a chocolate-swirled pound cake batter. “I just make really good ones.”

Peter groaned. “Thanks, boss. Nice to know all of Hell’s Kitchen plus the entire New York superhero community think I’m woefully inadequate cookie-baker compared to you. My psyche may never recover.” He paused, considering. “That’s your superpower, right? Baking goods that would make grandma cry?”

Matt chuckled. “Some would say it’s my ability to run on truly inadequate amounts of sleep.”

“Oh my god, I am never complaining about having to get up early for school again,” Peter said, throwing a hand over his eyes. “Oh my god. Four in the morning. How do you not pass out into the ovens every day?”

“I’m used to it.” He tipped the plain half of the batter into a series of prepared loaf pans, following it with the chocolate half and running a spoon through the pans to create the swirls. “Like I said: truly inadequate amounts of sleep.” Matt usually ended up taking a nap between closing down the bakery and going out on patrol or meditating when he couldn’t.

“Ugh.” Peter shook his head before straightening up from his slouch. “I’d better get back out there. Your adoring-public-slash-my-lynch-mob awaits.”

“I’d rather they make reparations to those whose livelihoods they did trash,” Matt muttered as he slid the loaf pans into the oven. Hell’s Kitchen had enough problems without superpowered fights flattening it for ludicrous reasons, even though the reason might be his chocolate sheet cake. Peter stopped at the entrance of the kitchen as if surprised, before exiting without comment.

Matt only emerged from the kitchen near closing when Karen poked her head in and told him Foggy was there. “Hey, Matt!” Foggy greeted him cheerfully. “Good to see you, buddy.”

“Hey,” Matt said, feeling better than he had in hours. Where she was collecting dishes safely across the room, Karen hummed knowingly. Matt decided to ignore that, instead saying, “Can I get you anything or is this a social visit?”

“Column A, Column B. I thought we could talk over a little something.”

There wasn’t much left in the display case after the predations of New York’s superheroic finest. Before Foggy could make a choice from amongst the sadly denuded remains, Matt said, “I think I have some tea cake in the back. It’s ready for the day-old basket but if you want it, it’s yours. Pineapple with berry tea and topped with coconut sugar.”

“You are so bad for my waistline,” Foggy groaned. “Sold. Sold sold sold.”

“Be right back.” Matt fetched the last remaining slices of the tea cake he’d prepared on Friday afternoon and determined them to be in good-enough condition to feed Foggy with a careful sniff before plating them and bringing them out. “Here you go. Let me make sure my pinwheels aren’t burning and I’ll be right with you.”

Foggy was stifling moans of pleasure when Matt slid into the seat across from him at the back table, cinnamon-walnut pinwheels secured. “How’d I miss this?” he wondered through sugar-sticky lips. “You said this was consigned to the day-old basket?”

Matt chuckled. “Most of it sold out really fast Friday but then the last few slices just sat there. And then I was out Saturday and Peter was too busy to push them.”

“Understatement.” Foggy shamelessly licked his fingers before reaching belatedly for a napkin. “I mean, he held out pretty well from what I saw, but people noticed a difference. Your young Padawan needs further training, O Master.”

“I wonder if I should feel gratified or annoyed,” Matt said. “Recipes are recipes. You follow the directions and get a result. Peter’s been working with me long enough that he knows what to do without me. He makes things all the time without my help.”

“It was probably confirmation bias,” Foggy pointed out. “You weren’t there, so people automatically expected the food to be worse and took it out on him.”

“Point. I need to tell Peter that. He’s only half-joking when he says he still fears for his life.”

“Baking. Serious business.” Foggy shook his head and started in on his second slice of tea cake. “Who’d have thought?”

“You’d be surprised,” Matt said dryly. “Ever heard a yuppie denied his cinnamon roll? It’s not pretty.” Foggy snorted, and he continued, “I guess for the sake of my innocent little assistant and my register attendant, I can’t get sick again for the foreseeable future.

“How bad was it?” Foggy wanted to know. His voice softened a hair -- unconsciously, Matt thought, but the concern still warmed him. He shrugged, however, playing it off.

“A low-grade fever, some other issues. Nothing serious, just enough to keep me bedridden. To the disappointment of my faithful customers.”

Foggy winced. “Yeah, about that. Holy shit. I thought being popular with Captain America and all the others was pretty cool until Saturday happened.”

“You weren’t caught in the crossfire, were you?” Matt asked with a flash of concern. Foggy didn’t seem injured, he couldn’t hear anything--

“Nah, man, I grabbed a brownie and hightailed it out of there before the fireworks really started.”

“Good.” Though from all reports, the safest place in Hell’s Kitchen on Saturday had been inside Jack’s. “Nobody should have to risk their life for a brownie.”

“I don’t know, Matt,” Foggy said complacently. “Yours are to die for. I mean it.”

In spite of his unease at the thought that such a thing could have actually happened, a small smile touched his lips. “Thanks.”

Out of all the Avengers likely to drop by Jack’s, Tony Stark was actually nearer the bottom of the list. Which Matt figured was a good thing because while his presence was good for business, Matt always found his visits a little wearying, mostly because of the circus that inevitably developed around the man. Which he encouraged, of course, soaking in the attention like sunshine.

This, then, was not your usual Tony Stark visit. Matt drew to a stop when he realized there was someone slumped against the front door of Jack’s. The scent of expensive patent leather shoes and the wool of a nice suit warred with the fog of alcohol, telling him that this wasn’t just a wino taking shelter on his front stoop from the elements. The weakened lung capacity and constant low-key hum from the man’s chest confirmed who he was.

“We don’t open until eight,” Matt said quietly, and Stark sputtered into, if not full consciousness, at least an increased awareness of his surroundings. How he hadn’t been rolled already by an opportunistic passer-by Matt didn’t know.

“I know, I know, but I really wanted one of your custard tarts,” Stark said blearily, trying to straighten up. He ended up deciding he preferred leaning against the doorframe instead. “Maybe a zeppole if you’ve got ‘em.”

He didn’t, but that could be remedied. Deep-frying was not one of Matt’s favorite things to do but he could manage. “Sure. Want some coffee in the meantime?”

“Please,” Stark said. “I will buy all the coffee on the premises if you will make me a cup.”

Matt roasted and ground and brewed a cup of the Blue Mountain he had stashed away for emergencies. Stark nearly fell nose-first into it in his eagerness to inhale the steam and Matt left him to it, switching the display case light on as an afterthought, while he fetched the necessary ingredients for zeppole. Today would be a doughnut day, he decided. It’d been awhile since he’d served up his lavender-berry rings.

By the time he slid a plate of piping-hot zeppole tossed with cinnamon-sugar in front of Stark, the man had recovered enough for decent human interaction and was peering around the darkened interior of the bakery. “I’m seeing cake display,” he said. “Cannolis. Enough cookies to put the Girl Scouts out of business.” The shifts in air current indicated that Stark was gesturing with his coffee cup. “You could do catering.”

“I’m fine with how things are,” Matt said. Stark picked up one of the zeppole and yelped when it proved to be too hot to handle. “Careful, those are fresh.”

“Some things are worth burning your tongue off for.”

Was that a proposition? Matt thought he could hear a pseudo-leer in his voice before Stark proceeded to do just that, alternating sucked-in breaths to cool his mouth and noises of appreciation. Then again it could be a habitual behavior. Certainly the press over Stark’s bedroom exploits had died down once he’d made the nature of his relationship with Ms. Potts clear.

Whatever, it didn’t bother or concern him. Matt retreated to the office, where he updated the Twitter account Peter had insisted he needed:

@jacksbreadline Jack’s Breadline, Hell’s Kitchen NY
Doughnut day! Come for a French Toast doughnut or a lavender-berry ring, stay for the zeppole and beignets!

At least doughnuts cooked quickly, but that also meant he needed to pay constant attention to them instead of working on preparing something else. He’d started the cinnamon roll dough proofing for tomorrow before moving onto the frying portion for the zeppole, so that was taken care of, and making the base for the cut bars was second nature by now. He liked to prepare the fillings for his bars the night before to let the flavors mingle, so it was only a matter of spreading them on and popping the pans into the oven. The triple-chip cookie dough had spent its requisite time in the fridge, and all that needed was to be scooped out and baked. That could be done later.

About an hour had passed before Matt thought to check on his early-morning guest again, only to find him gone and the plate placed by the register. It was atop a stack of bills, far more than the zeppole were worth even if they were all ones. Somehow Matt doubted they were all ones. With a sigh, he set them in the lower register drawer for Karen to sort later.

Given how his life was going nowadays, it wasn’t much to Matt’s surprise that this first pre-opening encounter began a series of early morning visits with Stark at varying levels of sobriety. Most of the time Matt poured him into a seat and brought him something from the day-old basket and a cup of black coffee. Sometimes, however, Stark rolled up his sleeves and insisted on something to do. “I’m avoiding Pepper, let me help you set up shop,” he’d say. “I work for coffee and cookies. And tiramisu, if you have any.”

At first Matt wasn’t sure how to deal with Stark’s presence in his space. It’d been difficult enough to adjust to Peter, and he’d hired him only on Karen’s insistence. But Stark seemed to respect another man’s working area, though occasionally there were worrying mutters about improving things. Matt usually had him washing dishes as the option least likely to end with his walk-in turned into a homicidal piece of A.I.

Occasionally he wondered if he should, maybe, report this to Pepper Potts or someone at Stark Industries whose official job it was to wrangle the company namesake. But Stark was harmless enough -- comparatively -- and he usually left before the morning crowds hit except for the one time when he ran into Steve Rogers on his way out the door and they had a bit of a thing on the front stoop that involved a lot of disappointed looks and snippy remarks and drew most of Matt’s patrons into being their audience and also attracted a news crew. Karen, with more courage than he’d given her credit for, eventually shooed them away, possibly with an actual broom. Matt wasn’t sure.

And that wasn’t the only way Stark affected his life. Generally Matt could tell when he was about to go on an all-night bender in his lab. The Avengers occasionally put in an order for an assortment of things, the size of which led Matt to assume they were sharing the box of goodies, but Stark tended toward crisp and light, fruit or custard fillings, with the occasional side venture into something flavored with coffee, and he’d load up for bear. Someone from the Tower would come by to pick up his order -- never another Avenger, just a regular intern for SI who Matt always plied with an extra cookie or two -- and then soon enough he’d hear stories about SI’s latest technological breakthrough or outlandish-but-strangely-obtainable proposal. Not that all of SI’s developments came directly from Stark’s personal lab, but there was a definite correlation between Matt sending out a box of raspberry puff pastry straws and half a dozen apple-cinnamon cream puffs and Stark Industries releasing another press statement down the line.

It was, to be sure, an odd relationship. If it even qualified as a relationship. But he eventually received a thank-you note from Ms. Potts about putting up with Tony’s occasional intrusions and he sent her a selection cupcakes of by means of saying no problem.

Chapter Text

Matt came around to a -- ha -- blinding headache and the sensation of pavement against his cheek. For a moment the world reeled around him: how had -- what--

--had he really just been knocked out by a run of the mill mugger? Embarrassment and shame flushed his entire body. Oh dear god.

Biting back a noise of sheer self-disgust, Matt lay still and focused, expecting his pockets to have been turned inside-out. But -- no? There were no foreign smells on his clothes save for what he was rolling around on. He and his belongings appeared to be unmolested. Though not alone: overhead, two voices were talking in strident tones. Pushing past the pain with the ease of long practice, he focused. There was something odd about the fear that permeated one voice -- they’d just coshed a supposedly helpless blind man in a back alley, why would either of them be afraid?

“Shit, man, you know who this is?” one of his attackers was saying. He sounded genuinely terrified. “This is the guy who runs Jack’s Breadline! You know, the place with the pignoli cookies you like?”

There was a moment of horrified silence. Then the man who liked pignoli cookies whispered, in a way that suggested abject denial of an imminent horrible future, “No.”

“Yes. We’re fucked. We’re fucked. Fucking Captain America is one of his regulars!” He swallowed, a rattling noise in a suddenly-dry throat. “We are so fucked.”

If Matt’s head weren’t pounding like a conga line on steroids, he would have found the situation hilarious. Apparently his baking afforded him more protection than his armor ever did. Criminals weren’t afraid to hurt Daredevil, but the repercussions for laying a finger on Matt Murdock, baker to superhumans...

“Calm down, calm down,” Cookie-man said. He seemed to be trying to reassure both his companion and himself. “He’s blind and we caught him by surprise. There’s no way he can identify us.”

“You think that’d stop the Avengers?” the first voice demanded. “Oh shit, I don’t wanna die!”

If they were smart, they would have left already. Not that it would stop Daredevil from tracking them, but they couldn’t know that. Matt pointedly let out a pained sound, stirred.

“Oh god, he’s awake.” There was a scuffling noise before someone dropped to their knees beside him. “Can we escort you home, sir?” Cookie-man’s fright bled out of every pore even as he attempted to be respectful. Matt choked down laughter. “Shit, we didn’t hit you too hard, did we?”

“I’m -- ah -- ow.” He bit back a groan and carefully sat up, assisted by rough but worried hands. This probably qualified as one of the strangest situations he’d ever been in.

“Please don’t sic Captain America on us, sir,” one of them pleaded.

“Or the Hulk,” the other added. “We’re sorry, we are so sorry.”

It was like they thought he had them on speed-dial. “You just tried to roll a blind man,” Matt pointed out, not a little acerbic. “What makes you think you don’t deserve Captain America on your ass? Or Daredevil?” He paused meaningfully. “If you’re lucky, Daredevil won’t find you tonight. He likes my raspberry muffins.”

“Oh shit,” Cookie-man breathed. And then Matt was alone in the alley as the two gave up any pretense of helping him and fled. Matt dragged himself to his feet, winced as he ran cautious fingers over the goose-egg developing on his skull. The soreness on his cheek meant a visible abrasion as well. If those two were lucky, his regulars wouldn’t storm the city looking for them tomorrow after they got a glimpse of his face.

Somehow, Matt wasn’t counting on it.

@jacksbreadline Jack’s Breadline, Hell’s Kitchen NY
Today’s pies: French coconut, orange creamsicle. #mayhavebogartedaslice #couldnotresist #employeeperks

There were only a few permanent items on the rotating list that comprised Matt’s offerings from day to day. Cinnamon rolls were one, as were the chocolate espresso brownies. Blueberry buttermilk muffins were a mainstay -- couldn’t argue with the classics -- as was coffee cake and an assortment of Danishes and croissants. Otherwise, Matt played around. The display case was always stuffed near to overflowing with his experiments: glazed fruit tarts, rows of fresh cookies and colorful macarons, pastries dotted with nuts and chocolate or filled with flavored creams and drizzled with lines of thick sugar icing. Three different kinds of cut bars took up half a shelf daily, chocolate and hazelnut rich beside bright lemon and lime or strawberry-cinnamon or peach and ginger. Brownies dusted with mint sugar nudged shoulders with caramel walnut blondies.

Pies fought for space atop the display case. Today one golden French coconut pie and one orange creamsicle pie, topped with a good three inches of toasted meringue, were set proudly there on cake stands under glass. On the counter itself were any cakes Matt baked as the whim struck him. He didn’t have much call to practice his cake-baking skills, though he made a mean champagne lemon chiffon, light as air and delicately flavored. And his Death by Chocolate was always in demand.

People asked him how he’d learned how to make so many different things, or more perspicaciously, where he’d been trained. To which Matt always smiled disarmingly, said something pithy about helping out a lot in the kitchen when he was younger. Not many people learned the additional detail that it had been the kitchen of a Catholic orphanage.

It wasn’t just kneading bread dough that Matt liked. The focus it took to properly measure out ingredients, to mix them just enough and not overmuch, to make sure the flour was clear of bug parts or the cinnamon wasn’t ten months old, it had helped to push the world away, made it less immediate during a time when he desperately needed a refuge from his own haywire senses. The fact that he got to eat the results of his efforts was a bonus. The fact that they didn’t always taste good drove him to improve.

He was so angry, after Stick left. Everybody left. His mom, his dad, Stick -- but he had his hands, and he could create things, and the things he created made people around him happy with him, less likely to forget him. His senses could be used for something tangible and immediate, not just the unknown purpose toward which Stick had driven him. Baking settled him in his skin.

And if he occasionally punched down bread dough with a little too much enthusiasm, well, the bread didn’t mind.

Matt sniffed the contents of the open sack of flour, brows knitting. “Uh oh,” Peter said from where he stood across from him. “I know that look. Not good?”

“Not so much,” Matt said, thoroughly displeased. “We’re sending it back.”

“All of it?”

“All of it.” Opening this first sack was for show; he didn’t have to check the rest of them to know that the flour was tainted with some sort of chemical additive. Not the usual bleaching agents or other dough improvers found in factory-use flour, but something else. Matt frowned, running the powder through his fingers. The additive felt crystalline to his touch, rough and ragged in a way that the grains of flour lacked and wholly unfamiliar. He chanced a quick lick of his finger and then spat it out into the sink as Peter startled. Oh no. No no no. No matter what the crap was, Matt was not going to suffer this flour in his kitchen.

Why would Joe Beleskey add anything to his product? To cover up sub-par wheat? An unlucky contamination at the mill? But why would an organic flour mill have any sort of chemicals on the premises in the first place? Maybe it wasn’t his fault, maybe he’d been taken in by his own supplier, but either way Matt had to send it back. Dammit. With barely any suitable flour, their week was fucked.

Peter had long since become accustomed to Matt’s excruciating standards regarding his ingredients and he didn’t ask why Matt was rejecting what to him probably looked like perfectly acceptable flour, but he had another concern in mind: “Uh, boss. Not arguing with you but we’re a bakery.” He sounded uncertain, echoing Matt’s own thoughts. “What’re we going to make without flour?”

Carefully washing his hands, Matt rifled through his repertoire of items, trying to remember what he could bake without wheat flour. Their usual flourless chocolate cake was going to be a lifesaver, as were macarons and anything else based on ground almonds. Meringues dipped in chocolate? Maybe macaroons topped with toasted nuts. Flourless peanut butter cookies, flavored mousses. Polenta cake.

“We’ll manage,” he said aloud. “It’ll be a good chance to test some new items. Here--” He groped for the pad of paper that hung from the walk-in door and began scribbling down possibilities with the attached pen. “No special orders this week, we don’t even have enough regular flour to fill Mrs. Johnson’s cookie box for church.”

“Maybe we can declare it gluten-free week,” Peter said, still sounding dubious but gamely trying to spin this. “Though we’re totally going to be accused of selling out.”

“That’s a good idea,” Matt said, thoughtful. “We don’t carry as many gluten-free items as I’d like in general, so this would be an opportunity to see which ones are popular.” He could imagine Peter’s grin at Matt’s approval, heard the pleased chuff of breath. Sometimes he forgot how young his assistant still was, Spider-man or not. “You want to handle the press?”

“Oh yeah. All over it, boss.” Peter dealt with the social media side of things out of both necessity and preference. JAWS hated Facebook with the fire of a thousand suns, and Matt would rather spend his time baking than updating his status for all of their account’s so-called friends. Peter jokingly called his posts press releases, said it was good practice for his journalism class.

“I’ll get you a list of items soon so you can start advertising,” Matt told him. “In the meantime, get Karen to call up Joe Beleskey and ask him what went wrong with this batch. He’s usually dependable so I’m hoping this is a fluke instead of the start of a trend.” It wasn’t many mills that would grind flour to Matt’s specifications and he and Beleskey had had a good working relationship for years. He’d hate to give that up.

“Will do.” Peter went to find Karen and Matt considered his list, the additive dismissed to a corner of his mind.

@jacksbreadline Jack’s Breadline, Hell’s Kitchen NY
It’s gluten-free week at Jack’s! Try our flourless chocolate cake and peanut butter cookies. Trust us, you won’t miss the flour #glutenfree #sogood

Gluten-free week was surprisingly successful, save for a few die-hards who really couldn’t live without their morning cranberry-orange muffin. Matt assured them that the muffins would be once again available next week, as soon as they sorted out things with their supplier. Beleskey had no idea his product had been contaminated, but used to Matt occasionally rejecting a batch for one reason or another, was willing to test samples and get back to him. In the meantime Matt turned out tray after tray of macarons, grain-free chocolate chip cookies, amaretti and biscotti, honey-almond squares, and flourless orange cake. Peter had his hands full with gluten-free chocolate cake the entire week.

On Sunday morning, Beleskey called to tell Matt that he couldn’t find any contaminants in that particular batch of flour, causing Matt to frown as he hung up. Either their tests weren’t calibrated for whatever additive it was that had found its way into the shipment, or the shipment had been contaminated between the mill and the bakery. Neither option was pleasing.

Matt did the only thing he could think of: in lieu of sending the sample he’d kept to a private testing facility, he opted to take advantage of his clientele and gave it to Bruce Banner when he came around for a slice of pecan-maple pie and asked to have it analyzed, citing suspicions that his supplier was doctoring his product. Surprised but appropriately concerned, Banner agreed, and then all Matt could do was wait.

And then the week after, this one yielding a perfectly normal flour shipment, things were clarified.

If Matt could admit it, it honestly felt weird to be held in so much regard based on the quality of his chocolate-chip muffins as opposed to anything more personal, like his character or his convictions. But sometimes, such as right now, it might come in handy. People had to be looking for him, right? People who could do something effective about his situation? Which was currently bound to a folding chair in an echoing warehouse near the Hudson, listening to a woman lay out a request.

“It’s simple, Mr. Murdock,” the woman said, businesslike. Her voice sounded odd, muffled and echoing at the same time. Matt figured she was likely wearing a mask, a metal one. She was flanked by the two men who had dragged him here. “All you need to do is add this powder to your wares for a week. Nothing easier. It’s heat-stable, tasteless, and odorless so it won’t even affect the quality of your baking.”

Surreptitiously Matt tested his bonds again. Nothing doing -- the zip ties were nearly cutting off his circulation and there was nothing sharp in his vicinity he could use to saw through them. “Somehow I don’t think that should be my main concern,” he said, sitting back in the chair. “And if I refuse?”

“I really don’t wish to get anyone else involved,” the woman sighed. “It’s a waste of time, money, and resources. But soon your employees might find it necessary to quit working for you and go on... disability. And I understand Mr. Parker lives with his elderly aunt?”

He couldn’t help but grit his teeth at the threat to Karen and Peter. And Peter’s Aunt May; Matt had met her a few times and found himself delighted with his assistant’s guardian. And the woman’s voice had briefly slipped from its brisk tones to something more -- eager. Anticipatory. Unstable.

Dammit. Stall, stall. “And if I were to say yes, I suppose it’s not so simple as my agreeing to do your bidding and you letting me go.”

“Of course not, Mr. Murdock. We won’t insult you by taking you for a fool -- please extend us the same courtesy.”

Heels clacked across concrete toward him. The woman held something up in her hand: metal and glass and plastic, liquid trapped in a narrow cylinder -- a hypodermic. Shit, shit, goddammit, no--

“You will not touch him.”

Chapter Text

There was a crash of wood and glass and then a sudden draft. Matt smelled metal and ozone as a swirling wind picked up debris around the room.

“Wha -- why--” The woman sounded flabbergasted. “Dr. Doom?! What interest do you have in Murdock?”

“It is no concern of yours.” Doom swept in, his cloak snapping behind him. The woman dropped the hypodermic and there was the sound of multiple guns clearing leather as she and her thugs drew on the imposing presence. “Release him or suffer the wrath of Doom!”

“Piss off,” one of the hired help snarled. “You’re just another stupid freak in a costume--”

“No, you idiot!” the woman shouted. Too late. Doom bore down upon the hapless thug like a cloaked freight train. There was a series of complicated noises and then a crunch and the man folded up at Doom’s feet like a laundry rack. Doom kicked the limp body aside and turned to the remaining pair.

“You dare to abduct the only purveyor of Latverian-style cakes in the city?”

... oh.

Apparently Matt could count Dr. Doom among his approving clientele. He’d had no idea. Well, this explained the panicking intern from the U.N. who’d requested a batch of specialty pirožna makoske semincjansa a few weeks back. That had been a fun few hours, Peter running down every reference he could Google and Matt calling up all of his specialty suppliers for ingredients.

... how was this his life?

He ducked instinctively as a bullet went whizzing overhead. There was a roar of anger and a crunching thud that heralded at least one bone breaking upon the impact of a flimsy human body against an unforgiving wall. More gunshots. Crackling ozone. Body blows. Matt heard the woman crumple to the ground across the room, and then it fell relatively quiet save for Doom’s breaths echoing in his own metal mask.

Breaths. A heartbeat. Matt reeled as he realized this was not a Doombot but the actual Dr. Doom. Apparently Matt’s kidnapping warranted enough concern for Doom to attend to the matter personally. In a weird, psychotic kind of way, it was strangely flattering.

Latveria’s ruler swept around and strode towards him. “You are not injured, Mr. Murdock?”

“I’m fine, just a little tied up.” He tugged on his bonds in demonstration. With a twist of metal-clad fingers, Doom snapped the zip ties and Matt flexed his fingers, trying to work circulation and feeling back into them. “Thanks.” He turned his face toward the presence he could sense looming over him. “I, ah. I guess you’re a fan of my baking?”

“I had planned to visit your establishment to give you my personal thanks,” Doom informed him. “The pirožna you made -- I have never tasted such perfection.”

“I’m glad they turned out well,” Matt said honestly. “The first time is always a bit of a risk.”

“No!” Doom sounded astonished. “You swear you had never made them before then?”

“Ah, no, sir, I hadn’t. But we Murdocks always did like a challenge.”

“I was reminded so strongly of home it nearly brought a tear to my eye.”

Frankly, Matt had a problem imagining anything bringing a tear to Dr. Doom’s eye, but it always paid to be polite to the supervillain as a supposedly-squishy civilian. Besides, Doom had diplomatic immunity. “Thank you, sir.”

“Come. I will escort you home.”

“Let me get this straight,” Peter said the next morning after they’d all reassured themselves that Matt was actually okay. “You got rescued by Dr. Doom?”

“He was actually very nice to me,” Matt said. He was rolling out dough for Mexican chocolate pinwheels and the other two were clustered around him. “Very gallant.”

“Gallant, huh?” Karen shook her head. “Your knight in full-body bionic armor. Are you dating now?”

Matt sputtered. “Wha -- why is that the first thing you go to?”

“Most people don’t use words like ‘gallant’ to describe known supervillains,” Karen said, dry. “Hell, in that circle a rescue probably does count as a first date.”

“And he did walk you home,” Peter pointed out. “As a gentleman should.”

“Don’t you two have work to be doing?” Matt grumbled, sprinkling a mixture of chopped chocolate and spices over the rectangle of dough.

“We just trying to make sure our beloved boss isn’t psychologically scarred from his ordeal,” Peter said sweetly. “Including having gone on an almost-date with Dr. Doom.”

“We should vet him the next time he comes around,” Karen said. “As friends and good employees.”

“Remind me again why I hired you two ingrates?”

“We love you, too, boss.”

Matt’s morning didn’t stop there. He and Karen fielded phone calls all morning from various news organizations wanting an interview about last night’s events until Karen finally left the phone off the hook. Word had also gotten around the superpowered set about what had happened and when Steve Rogers stopped in for his usual cinnamon roll, Matt figured from the various tensed muscle groups that his face was drawn into a grave expression.

Rogers’s tone proved him out. “I’m sorry to disrupt your day, Mr. Murdock, but the Avengers would like to speak with you about what happened last night. We have some information that might shed some light on why you were abducted.”

Matt hesitated, then sighed. “Let me pack up a box.”

“I never expected someone would try to get at us through morning muffins,” Steve Rogers said.

They were sitting around a conference table somewhere in Avengers Tower, Rogers and Stark and Bruce Banner and a deceptively unassuming woman who’d introduced herself as Agent Jenna Rothberg, liaison between the Avengers and S.H.I.E.L.D. The room had good soundproofing; Matt could barely hear the footsteps padding by in the hall, much less the muted and dulled street-level noise. There was a bottle of water sitting on the table before him, and the box of goodies he’d brought had been passed around to murmured approval.

“It wasn’t the most probable scenario, no,” Agent Rothberg allowed now. She sat halfway down the table, between Banner and Rogers. Stark was at one end, Matt at the other. Matt still wasn’t sure which organization she was an agent of -- presumably S.H.I.E.L.D., but nobody seemed interested in clarifying.

“Improbable doesn’t mean impossible, as last evening’s events have so adequately proven.” Stark’s voice and attention were mainly directed toward the touchpad onto which he was rapidly tapping something. “What is the world coming to when people don’t respect the sanctity of our baked goods? What’s next, our coffee? Our Mimosas?”

“You drink Mimosas?” Banner wanted to know, in the tones of someone letting himself be distracted by an unexpected bit of signage on the roadside. Stark snorted.

“Hell no, but I will defend your right to ruin good champagne at eight in the morning no matter what my personal feelings on the matter--”

Oh for God’s sake. “So are any of you going to tell me what’s going on?” Matt asked wearily before anybody else got dragged down this conversational back road. He’d already gone through what happened as best as he could recall and now he wanted answers. “Who was the woman who had me kidnapped? What exactly would have been the results of what she wanted me to do?”

Stark and Banner quieted and there was a hum of electronics; Matt suspected someone had just called up a display. “The woman who had you abducted is named Whitney Frost, codename Madame Masque,” Rothberg said. “She’s involved in various illegal enterprises as a high-ranking member of the Maggia, an international crime syndicate recently looking to expand its operations here in New York. Her operatives have been spotted around Hell’s Kitchen in particular.”

Matt scowled. With the recent upheavals as he continued to disrupt the Russians’ activities, the ranks of the underworld in Hell’s Kitchen were in disarray. The perfect opportunity for someone with enough ambition to root themselves deeply in the area if they could get past Fisk. He forced his expression into something a hair less homicidal and said, “And she wanted me to do something for her which involved tampering with my food. I assume you found something in the sample I gave you, Dr. Banner?”

“We did.” Levity from the banter having drained away, Banner removed his glasses and rubbed at his temple tiredly. From his tense bearing and changes in breathing, he did not like what he was about to say. “Simply put, your flour was adulterated with a pseudo-opiate. Akin to heroin, but modified to be more completely absorbed via ingestion -- only about fifteen percent is normally absorbed through the digestive tract. We recovered the same compound from the warehouse you were held in last night. In short,” he said unhappily, “someone wanted your baked goods to be literally addictive.”

Matt processed this in disbelief. “But only for a week,” he said after a moment. “After that week...” He trailed off with a grimace, imagining the fallout.

“Your clientele includes many of New York’s superheroes,” Rothberg said, as if he needed reminding. “As well as a sizable portion of Hell’s Kitchen. Imagine the chaos where after a week of being clandestinely drugged, people were forced to go cold turkey.” A shift of movement said she’d nodded toward Banner. “From what I understand, it’s the last part which was the most concerning.”

Matt barely stifled a groan. “There’s a ‘most concerning’ among all of this?”

“Indeed,” Rothberg said dryly. “Dr. Banner?”

“The pharmacology department downstairs is still hammering out the LD50 but it’s not the toxicity or effects while being dosed which are the concern -- actually, besides some sluggishness, most of the rats the pharmacology department tested the compound on showed no significant changes in behavior. Uncommon for an opiate derivative, but as stated, that’s not the issue.” Banner grimaced. “It’s the withdrawal symptoms.”

“From what Dr. Banner tells me, the withdrawal symptoms are highly acute.”

“Thirteen percent of the rats Pharmacology tested the compound on died of cardiac arrest within the day,” Banner confirmed, demeanor grim. Matt went very still. “The others exhibited violent behavior, self-harm, ceaseless activity until they literally collapsed of exhaustion.” In his lap, Matt’s hands fisted. People dropping dead all over Hell’s Kitchen, the rest suffering from addiction with no source of relief but--

“The working theory at the moment is that the local branch of the Maggia were planning to set themselves up as suppliers after artificially creating the demand, though in the most ham-handed manner possible,” Rothberg said. “No depending on already-existing junkies for their client base. And it would have crippled the superheroes who partook of your wares, leaving a significantly weakened resistance to their activities.”

“Addictive sweets,” Stark said. “There’s a certain sick irony to that.”

“Why didn’t they just dump the stuff in the water supply?” Rogers wondered out loud. “It’d be much less convoluted than sabotaging a bakery and about as subtle.”

“Control of range of exposure?” Banner suggested. “It’s possible the Maggia weren’t ready to handle distribution outside the limits of Hell’s Kitchen.”

“I’ve got people looking into it,” Rothberg said, “but in the meantime we’re letting the DEA take point on running down the source and methods of production. In the meantime,” she added, “is there anything else you’d like to add, Mr. Murdock? Anything else you can remember about last night?”

He swallowed his rage, leashed the Devil howling for blood at what these people had almost loosed upon his city, using him to do it. “No. You’d be better off asking Dr. von Doom.”

“Yeah, no, we tried that.” He could hear the scowl in Stark’s voice. “He refused to speak with us peons and screwed off back to Latveria this morning. Guess his diplomatic thing wrapped up in a hurry.” There was a considering pause. “He seemed concerned about your well-being, Murdock. Like creepily concerned. Do we need to have a talk with him?”

“No, he just likes my baking.” Matt sighed. “I’ll have to hold off on sending him more pirožna as a thank you, then.”

“Piroz-what? JARVIS?”

Matt jumped and nearly spilled his water as a British-accented voice spoke out of thin air: “A pastry of Eastern European origin, stuffed with a variety of fillings depending on the region. I understand Mr. Murdock baked an iteration specific to Latveria for Dr. von Doom.”

With homemade poppy seed filling. “He really, really likes my baking,” he said, aiming an uneasy expression toward the source of the voice, mounted above in the ceiling. “A lot of you do.”

“And that opened up this particular avenue of attack,” Rogers said. “Someone noticed how popular Jack’s Breadline is with the superhero set.”

“Yeah, that’d be about everybody,” Matt said, dry as dust. “Last month we made it on the Huffington Post’s list of top ten places to go for a superhero encounter in New York.”

Banner perked up in curiosity. “Really? Where’d you rank?”

“Fourth,” Matt said. “After Avengers Tower, the Baxter Building, and the United Nations.”

Rogers whistled. “Wow. I didn’t know so many of us go to your bakery.”

“You all come to my bakery,” Matt told him. “The Punisher comes to my bakery and Karen tells me that when he leaves he looks a little less like he wants to murder everyone.”

There was a pause. “Okay, I am mildly impressed,” Stark said. “What does he get?”

“Coffee and a croissant, usually.”

“That’s it? We need your baking in R&D if that’s all it takes to calm down Frank Castle.”

That wasn’t worth answering. “So how do we stop this from happening again?” Matt asked, placing his hands flat on the table. “All it takes is one major contaminated food source and Hell’s Kitchen will fall apart. How was my flour contaminated in the first place?”

“Someone paid a mill worker a substantial amount of money to introduce the agent during packaging,” Rothberg said. “It’s been taken care of, the equipment sanitized. Thankfully your particular specifications mean that no other buyers were affected.” She paused. “You told Dr. Banner you suspected your supplier was adulterating his product -- why?”

Matt grimaced, keenly aware that the others were very focused on this answer. “It felt off,” he said, rubbing his fingers together in demonstration. “I need to handle my ingredients to ascertain their quality and something about the texture was wrong.”

There was another pause. “I see,” Rothberg finally said. “Whatever the reason, you were very fortunate that you rejected that batch, Mr. Murdock.”

“I know that, but it doesn’t answer my first question.”

“We’re handling it,” Rothberg said smoothly. In their seats, Banner and Rogers and Stark all shifted, probably looking at each other. Yes, Matt growled internally, let’s keep the civilian in the dark.

He was about to say something pointed when there was a final decisive tap of fingers on the touchpad and Stark finally set the thing down with a satisfied noise. “Speaking of which, I just bought out your supplier,” he told Matt. “Plus the dairy that provides your butter and milk and the farms which end up providing you their eggs. The sugar plant I’m still working on and JARVIS is identifying the rest of the merchants you deal with as we speak.”

What. “What,” Matt said, voice flat. “Why?”

“Because when a point of weakness in your security is brought to your attention, you take steps to secure it,” Stark said patiently. “I don’t think any of us here are willing to stop patronizing your bakery, Murdock, so I’m doing the next best thing and locking down your supply chain. Plus I’m assigning a detail to you, Page, and Parker.”

Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. This was exactly what he did not need. “I will make you a bourbon chocolate cake all for yourself if you agree not to put a security detail on me,” Matt said desperately. “Extra bourbon.”

“Tempting but no. Consider it me protecting my interests. I’ve needed to diversify for a while now anyway, or at least that’s what I’m telling Pepper when she asks why I just bought a three hundred-head dairy farm upstate.” Stark sounded insufferably smug; Matt found his fingers curling against the wood of the table into creaking fists.

Instead of punching him and his well-intended money out, he turned a pleading expression toward Rothberg. “I will make you whatever you want if you do something about him.”

He heard Banner and Rogers stifle amused noises while Rothberg hummed. “My tastes run to shortbread,” she said mildly.

“I will make you shortbread,” Matt said, “just rein him in!”

“Um, excuse me, I’m sitting right here and your baking is good but not that good--” Stark was interrupted by disbelieving snorts from his teammates. “--okay, maybe it is that good, but Lady Agent doesn’t control my actions no matter what you bribe her with.”

“Cinnamon-nutmeg shortbread,” Matt said.

“Done,” Rothberg said. Stark yelped in outrage.

Chapter Text

“We’re being bankrolled by Tony Stark?”

“No,” Matt said firmly. The three of them were having a quick conference in the office. “He now owns the majority of our suppliers but he has no share in this business. None.” And he never would, though at least Stark had the wisdom to not offer to buy Jack’s. Yet.

“Uh.” This seemed to raise more questions than it answered for Karen. “And why does he now own our suppliers?” She thought for a second and then gasped. “Is it an Avengers thing? Does it have something to do with why you were kidnapped?”

“Sort of,” Matt hedged. “I told you the people who took me wanted to lace my baking with something; that batch of flour I rejected last week was contaminated with the same stuff. Stark wanted to ensure that his supply of cream puffs is not put in any further jeopardy so he took steps to secure it.”

“Oh man, we got lucky,” Peter breathed as the more critical implications hit home. “If we’d used that flour--”

“Don’t think about it,” Matt said firmly. “It didn’t happen, we’re okay, we’re still in business and nobody got hurt.”

“Just what kind of stuff did they want you to use?” Karen wanted to know. “It had to have been something serious if they actually kidnapped you over it and the freakin’ Avengers are involved.”

“They didn’t really tell me,” Matt said, feeling only slightly guilty. “Someone noticed how popular we are with New York’s superheroes and wanted an easy way to incapacitate them.”

“That’s twisted and wrong,” Peter declared. “Baked goods are supposed to be full of happiness and innocence and lots and lots of carbohydrates. Is nothing sacred?”

The dramatics reminded him of Tony Stark. Then again, as Spider-man, Peter had probably run into Tony Stark on more than one occasion. “Apparently not,” Matt said. “But we dodged a bullet and it’s back to business.”

“Except now the Avengers are probably keeping a closer eye on all of us and Dr. Doom might show up for a second date,” Peter said.

“It wasn’t a date!”

“Uh, boss.” Oh no. Matt braced himself. “I hate to break it to you, but you have your own hashtag: #latverianromance.”

Matt boggled, feeling his blood pressure spike. Karen said, a little guiltily, “After you left, we went looking for news on what happened last night. There’s a really lovely picture of Dr. Doom leading you down the street on his arm...”

Because Matt didn’t have his cane at the time and he wasn’t about to blow his cover. Also Doom had insisted. “He was being polite. It’s a thing people do. Like helping a blind man home, or not looking up things about him on Twitter.” He hesitated. “Did they identify me?”

“Oh yeah,” Peter said. “That ship has sailed. And crashed into an iceberg on the way.”

“It’s more free publicity,” Karen said, trying for cheerful as Matt pinched the bridge of his nose. “Especially once the gossip mags get ahold of it.”

“I’m surprised the news crews have mostly restrained themselves to phone calls instead of camping out in wait for you,” Peter added. “There were a couple of local articles that identified you by name. Though a few reporters actually did come in while you were gone. At least they bought stuff before they left.”

Why hadn’t S.H.I.E.L.D or the Avengers or whoever quashed this by now? Maybe they thought it was harmless enough to let go. Or amusing enough. “I don’t think we can stand much more of this kind of publicity,” he said. He was really starting to rue the day Steve Rogers had walked through their front door. And they’d already left the front counter unattended for longer than he’d planned for. “So yes, change in who owns our suppliers, the Avengers are dealing with who contaminated our flour, no other news. Can we get back to selling pastries?”

“And dating royalty?” Peter said, already on his way out the door.

“I will drown you in cake batter,” Matt growled, advancing on him. Peter yipped and darted for the front.

“It’s not my fault you make such a photogenic couple!”

“You really do,” Karen said sadly. “Do we need to give him the talk?”

Matt gave it up as a lost cause. “You are not the first person to ask me that today,” he sighed as they emerged from the back. Ahead of them, Peter hooted in laughter. “I still sign your paychecks, Peter!”

“Yes, boss!” He was still radiating merriment as he addressed the first customer in what sounded like a substantial line.

Karen moved to the register, but asked curiously, “Who else offered to defend your honor if necessary?”

“Stark, on behalf of the Avengers.” Matt cracked open the back of the display case and sniffed; they were almost out of chocolate-mint layer bars. “Seriously, I don’t need all this attention.”

Karen laughed. “Your pastry has a chance of starting an international political incident, I think you do need the attention.”

“Could probably end a couple, too,” a voice said from the counter. Matt turned toward Foggy’s presence, a smile lighting his features. “Why does Matt’s honor need defending?”

“Dr. Victor von Doom, ruler of Latveria, walked him home last night,” Peter told him helpfully. “After the events of an exciting evening.”

“Cake batter, Peter,” Matt reminded him. “Low-fat.”

“Shutting up, boss.”

“Sounds like a story,” Foggy said with a chuckle. “Best shared over something delicious. What do you recommend today, Matt?”

Matt got him settled with a slice of sachertorte and a cup of Italian roast (“It pairs well with the chocolate”) but it took almost twenty minutes before there was enough of a break between customers that he could join him at the back table. “So what’d you think?”

“You sold your soul for an enchanted set of measuring cups, didn’t you,” Foggy accused before he drained the last of his coffee. His plate was already gratifyingly empty. “Seriously, I might have made embarrassing sex noises in public and I don’t care.”

Matt smiled, pleased. “It was the stand mixer, actually. Shh, don’t tell anyone.”

“And you a practicing Catholic,” Foggy teased. “Seriously, though, the review that said everything here is like an edible orgasm was not joking.” Matt raised his brows; he’d missed that one. “That cake was X-rated, I swear to god.”

“We’re a family establishment, Mr. Nelson,” Matt said, mock-severe. “Save your more adult terms of phrase for the Yelp review.”

Foggy laughed. “Right. Okay, besides the cake -- you and Dr. Doom? Isn’t he the guy that has a total hate-on for one of the Fantastics?”

“He is.”

“And like, rules his own little country somewhere in Europe?”

“He does.”

“And he took you out on a date last night?”

“I am going to kill Peter,” Matt grumbled. “No, he did not take me out on a date. I was kidnapped yesterday and Dr. von Doom rescued me and helped me get home. That’s all. He’s not even my type.”

He’d expected Foggy to laugh and tilted his head when the ongoing silence told him Foggy was gaping at him instead. “Wait, that thing near Lincoln Tunnel, that was you? Someone kidnapped you?”

Oh. “Yeah. I don’t know where I was held, exactly, though.” It sounded right, though, from the twists and turns the van he’d been tossed into had taken to their destination. “I guess it was me?”

“I heard about the aftermath on the news but they didn’t mention your name.” Foggy sounded strangely outraged. “Who kidnapped you?” Matt shrugged.

“A woman called Madame Masque. She wanted me to tamper with my baking, drug my customers.” He shrugged again. “The Avengers are on it.”

“The Avengers? Uh, Matt, don’t you think that being kidnapped is also worth reporting to the police? I hope you went to the police?”

“I’m not sure walking into the precinct on the arm of a supervillain to report being kidnapped by a different supervillain would have improved anyone’s night,” Matt said dryly. “I spoke with the Avengers this morning. They assured me they’re taking care of it.”

“Taking care of it how?” Foggy demanded. “Kidnapping’s still a felony. It’s not like they have the authority to charge this Masque lady with a crime.”

Oh right, lawyer. “I’m sure they handed her over to the proper authorities,” Matt said. It was somewhat odd that the police hadn’t already swung by but Matt was taking his blessings where he could get them at the moment. “They told me she was in custody. Really, Foggy, I’m fine with it.”

“If you say so.” He seemed displeased still. “But those people still need to be held accountable for their actions. I don’t care if they have masks or capes or leather underwear, they’re still the same under the eyes of the law. Kidnapping’s not on.” Abruptly, Matt realized that Foggy wanted justice for him. That was... touching.

“You’re a corporate lawyer,” he said, trying to hide a smile that felt dangerously soppy. “Would you lower yourself to defend one of the costumed set?”

“It’d rack up more good karma than what I’m doing now.” Foggy’s mood darkened abruptly but he shook himself. “Never mind that, are you sure you’re all right?”

“I’m fine,” Matt reassured him. “I got tied to a chair and talked at for a while.”

“And then rescued by Dr. Doom,” Peter pointed out helpfully from the counter.

“And then rescued by Dr. von Doom, yes, thank you, Peter,” Matt said loudly. Karen giggled. “Go wash dishes.”

“I guess I owe him some gratitude,” Foggy said as Peter disappeared into the kitchen with a rattling stack of plates and silverware. “Seeing as how he saved your bacon.” There was the brush of hair across his shoulders as he shook his head with a low noise. “The news report I saw said there’d been a hostage but he’d been rescued. Just not whom or by whom.”

“Must have been the only one in New York that didn’t,” Matt said. “Peter says every other one he’s read has my name prominently mentioned.”

“Geez, Matt. There were pictures.” Foggy sounded upset. “There was a hole knocked in the wall! The place was trashed! And you say you got out of there all right?”

The upset puzzled him until Matt realized a touch late that the level of concern he was displaying over having been through what should have been a traumatic experience was a little low. “I did. Foggy, I swear I’m fine. Not a scratch.” He held up his hands as if to invite him to look him over. “See?”

“I guess.” There was reluctance in Foggy’s demeanor, but it sounded like he wasn’t going to harp on the issue. “Did you seriously say they wanted you to drug your customers? That’s sick.”

“Mm.” A flicker of anger like a flame ran through Matt once more at the thought what Masque had wanted to inflict upon his city. He swallowed it down with an effort.

There was a beat before the mood perceptibly lightened and Foggy wondered, “Why is Peter so hung up about you being rescued by Dr. Doom? Not that being saved by reigning royalty isn’t cool, but something tells me there’s more to this than just the celebrity factor.”

Matt rubbed his brows. Personally he was starting to figure that this was Peter’s way of coping with the fact that his employer had been rescued by an entity that regularly clashed with both the Avengers and the Fantastic Four because of his baking. “Apparently our stroll home was rather public -- I don’t know what else I was expecting, really. The pictures went viral. Though nobody’s described any to me yet.”

“Give me a sec.” Some shifting noises. Matt waited patiently as the hum of a small piece of technology increased slightly in volume; Foggy had taken out his phone. “Let’s see, let’s see -- ah. Huh.”

“What huh?”

“Someone probably got paid a pretty penny for this one,” Foggy said, thoughtful and assessing. “Nice composition, good lighting...”

“Foggy,” Matt said, patient. Foggy laughed.

“All right, all right. So there’s Doom, his mask mostly in shadow but half-illuminated by an overhead sign and being very imposing with his cloak and everything, and there’s you with your hand on his arm with the same sign picking out highlights in your hair and looking very frail and vulnerable next to a guy whose armor makes him look ten feet tall. The Hudson’s just visible behind you, as is the moon. And you’re laughing.”

Laughing? Matt ran the walk home through his mind, trying to remember when he’d been laughing. “Oh -- uh. I think he was saying something about the Permanent Representative of Ukraine to the U.N. and his ‘inferior preference’ for rogaliki over makovi tistechka. And did you really have to describe it like a scene out of a romance movie?”

“That’s what it looks like!” Foggy protested. “I see why people are making assumptions. Did you talk about pastry the entire way home?”

“Pretty much,” Matt admitted. “He’s very concerned about preserving traditional Latverian-Rromani recipes, since a lot of them are transferred only by word of mouth. Did you know he’s trying to have a few traditional Latverian products registered in the Ark of Taste? There’s a breed of sheep specific to one region of the country that’s not found anywhere else in the world.”

“Nope. Huh.”

“I told him if he arranged to send me Latverian ingredients, I’d see what I could do with them.” Matt spread his hands. “He really is concerned about the pride of his nation. Not that it excuses his supervillainy, but who knew Dr. von Doom was a gourmet?”

“You sure tall, dark, and be-metaled isn’t your type?” Foggy said. “Especially if he’s also a foodie?”

Matt made a face. “I hate that word. And no, he is not my type. I prefer my guys a little less megalomaniacal, even if they do appreciate my baking.”

“Everyone appreciates your baking,” Foggy pointed out. “Anything else?”

“Y--”

“Peter.”

“Right, boss. Got it, boss. Leaving now, boss. Please stop giving me that look, boss...”

The capper on Matt’s day was when both Johnny Storm and Ben Grimm showed up to talk to him.

“Heard you ran into a friend a’ ours,” Grimm said, intent on him. Johnny was more interested in obtaining a pistachio muffin but fell in line after a rocky elbow to the ribs. “You okay? Doom ain’t exactly your noble hero type.”

“I’m fine, thanks for your concern.” The bulky outline shifted with the audible grinding of rock against rock. “Really, he didn’t hurt me. He was perfectly polite and escorted me home after my ordeal.”

“Seriously, man?” Johnny Storm always read as running hotter than normal to Matt’s senses. He tended to need a minute to recalibrate for him. “All he did was freakin’ walk you home? No threats or anything?”

“We talked pastry,” Matt said, dry. From the silence, it was clear the two heroes didn’t know whether or not to take this seriously. “He likes buchteln,” he added helpfully.

“Uh.” Johnny rocked back on his heels. “The next time he’s pissing all over the city, can we just throw you and your baking at him?”

“Sorry, I’ve got a business to run. Would you two like anything, by the way?” He could hear Peter in the kitchen desperately trying to hold back laughter. “Pistachio muffin as usual for you, Johnny?”

“Better make it two, my world view has just been shaken here.” Johnny nudged his teammate. “Dude, you need to try the apple tarts.”

Chapter Text

Daredevil went hunting that night. He stopped two muggings and an attempted rape but was less successful in tracking down his quarry: with Madame Masque in custody, the rest of the local Maggia were laying low. Smart, because it wasn’t just Daredevil after them. Somehow news had gotten out about the attempted mass drugging of Hell’s Kitchen and now the street-level criminals who dropped by Jack’s were on the warpath. There was really something about the thought of adulterated baked goods that set people off.

Matt figured if he was lucky, their reputation wouldn’t take too much of a hit. Some people were certain to avoid coming back out of fear of what could have happened once they heard, but hopefully Jack’s Breadline would get through this intact.

He needn’t have worried. Over the next week his regulars came out in droves to support him. One proposed sending a thank-you card to Dr. Doom. Peter got banished to the kitchen after he nearly dropped a stack of dishware doubling over in hysterical laughter.

@jacksbreadline Jack’s Breadline, Hell’s Kitchen NY
L’shanah tovah! Pick up a challah or some honey cake from Jack’s for a sweet New Year! #roshhashanah #jacksbreadline

Matt perfected his challah baking abilities under duress.

“While that Latverian bastard might be satisfied with your forays into his cultural traditions, regarding mine, I am not. Your challah is inadequate,” Magneto continued as he loomed over him, “and your mandelbrodt requires much improvement to be deemed merely acceptable. You will learn these recipes to my satisfaction and you will use them.”

Though Matt had the occasional complaint before, this was taking it a step further. At least he wasn’t tied up this time, though from the painful screeching noises earlier, Magneto had fused the hinges to the only door shut.

There was something absolutely surreal about being in both less and more danger than Daredevil as Matt Murdock because of his baking. On the one hand, if he went missing nowadays, powerful people were bound to notice and take offense. On the other, now he was an actual kidnap risk. Since when had his baking really become, as Foggy put it, serious business? “Next time, drop a note and the recipes in the suggestions box and I promise I will try them out,” he said, anger and weariness battling for dominant expression in his voice. “Going this far was really unnecessary. We could have easily done this in my kitchen after hours.”

“And risk you not taking the matter seriously? I think not.”

Matt knew the value of comfort food as well as anybody but this was ridiculous. He was being held hostage because of someone’s particular sweet tooth. “Trust me, I’m taking this seriously.”

“Good. Keep it that way.”

Magneto kept Matt working overnight until he was satisfied with the final products, then had him returned back to Jack’s, where he’d been originally snatched as he was locking up. Karen found him asleep slumped over his desk in the office with three loaves of challah dough rising on the kitchen counter, a batch of mandelbrodt and two honey cakes cooling on racks. Later that day he had Peter update their Facebook:

We want to let everyone know that our new official challah bread is made possible through the generosity of Mr. Erik Lehnsherr, who kindly donated his mother’s recipe -- among others -- to Jack’s Breadline. After careful consideration amongst the staff, we have agreed to donate a portion of the proceeds of all challah bread sales to the Museum of Jewish Heritage. L’shanah tovah.

“You are remarkably blasé about having been kidnapped twice within the last two months,” Foggy said.

“Still waters,” Matt replied. “I’m thinking about putting up a sign: ‘Before resorting to kidnapping, please first try the suggestion box’.”

At first Matt had kept his little involuntary excursion under wraps, passing off his tiredness as the result of insomnia. That got blown out of the water three days later when Scott Summers arrived to debrief him on behalf of the X-Men.

Matt poured them both coffee and took him to the office, where for an hour Summers asked him about what Magneto had said, if he’d indicated any other underlying motive for having Matt master his recipes, was there anything he could tell him about where he’d been held. Matt told him what he had discerned -- somewhere outside the city, from the lack of urban noise -- and that no, Magneto seemed to want nothing more than for Matt to bake a challah and some other items to his specifications.

After Summers left, a loaf of said challah in hand to analyze, Matt was then forced to explain what was going on to his employees. Karen was incensed for a number of reasons, including with him for not telling them, Peter merely concerned. After that, there was no keeping it a secret.

“Like I said, baking: serious business,” Foggy said now, shaking his head. “What is your life, Matt.”

“I don’t know,” Matt said, plaintive. “All I want to do is bake. Make the people around me happy. For that I get supervillains?” At least Daredevil only dealt with street-level threats and organized crime. It was Matt Murdock who got the megalomaniacal would-be overlords.

“Search me,” Foggy said. “I’m glad you’re all right, by the way. In case I didn’t say that yet.”

He had, but it made Matt smile all the same.

@jacksbreadline Jack’s Breadline, Hell’s Kitchen NYC
:) RT @StAgnesNY: Thanks to @jacksbreadline for donating cakes to our Fall Bake Sale and Cake Walk!

Once a month, Matt sent a handpicked assortment of goodies and a donation to St. Agnes. Whatever he could afford, which had increased substantially in recent weeks. Then he got word that the church was organizing a fall bake sale to raise money for the orphanage, and some bright soul had come up with the brilliant idea of hosting a cake walk and raffle, and would he care to donate a couple of cakes to the cause?

“What’s a cake walk?” Peter asked, perched on the edge of the desk as Matt dug through the recipe files in his office. “Besides the colloquial meaning.”

“You walk around a circle of numbers to music,” Matt said, unearthing a battered binder and settling back in his chair. “When the music stops, a number is called out and the person standing closest to that number wins a prize. Traditionally a cake, hence the name.”

“Huh. And you have to buy a ticket to participate in a round?”

“Mm-hm. That’s why it’s a fundraising activity.” Rose-vanilla, orange angel food cake, German chocolate with whipped fudge filling and Swiss meringue buttercream... some of these he hadn’t made in years. Maybe go with the tried-and-true. Black forest cake was always a hit. Red velvet. A good old-fashioned yellow cake...

“You could ask some of the costumed crowd to put in an appearance, boost attendance,” Peter suggested. “I bet Captain Rogers wouldn’t mind helping out a good cause. This sounds like a thing he’d be willing to do.”

“I’m sure his PR staff gets hundreds of similar requests, good cause or not,” Matt said. Maybe something more suited for fall: pumpkin spice cake with salted caramel sauce, apple-honey upside-down cake, sweet potato pound cake with freshly whipped cream...

“Yeah, but not usually from the guy who provides snacks for half of New York’s heroes.” Peter snorted lightly. “Seriously, boss, I’m not sure you realize how popular you are.”

“How popular my baking is.”

“It’s one and the same in a lot of people’s minds.”

At this rate, Matt was going to be buried with a cupcake engraved on his headstone. “I’m not sure if I should feel complimented or belittled.”

“You don’t have to feel anything about it,” Peter argued. “You just have to take advantage of it. C’mon, it’s for an orphanage. Sell out a little. Use all of your available resources.”

“I’ll ask Sister Mary Eunice if she thinks it’s a good idea first,” Matt allowed. “Until then, don’t harass the customers about it.”

“Who, me?” Matt could hear the grin.

“Peter.”

“All right, all right, not until the nuns give the okay.” Peter picked up another binder and began leafing through it. “White cake with lemon-lime curd. Hungarian chocolate-walnut torte. Ginger-honey cake with caramelized figs,” he read aloud. “Wow. Have you seriously made all of these?”

“Most of them,” Matt said. “But most people just want the basics, which is why I don’t make them a lot.”

“We should have cake week,” Peter said. “This praline-hazelnut thing looks like it’s to die for. And this -- vanilla custard cake with raspberry coulis? Coconut-pineapple with lime buttercream? You’ve been holding out on us, boss.”

“They don’t sell,” Matt said patiently. “There’s a reason white, yellow, and chocolate remain kings in the cake world.”

“Think about it, boss: cake week. Or even cupcake week.” Peter flipped more pages. “And where do you even get your recipes? I suspect Braille cookbooks are a bit of a niche market.”

“They are,” Matt chuckled. “OCR is a wonderful thing. And there’s always the internet. Not to mention the ones I developed myself.”

Karen wandered in. “Matt, we’re out of butter cookies and that one guy’s about to pitch a fit.” He heard her approach Peter from behind, probably looking over his shoulder. “Ooh, limoncello cake -- using homemade limoncello? Seriously?”

Matt pulled a face as he closed his binder and stood. “Have you tasted some of the crap they sell? It’s like drinking sweetened Lysol.”

“Point taken. Is that a recipe for cherry rum cheesecake?”

Matt went to deal with the customer, leaving Karen and Peter to ooh and ah over cake possibilities.

Two weeks before the bake sale, Matt posted a sign on the door that read “Jack’s Breadline will be closing early Saturday 10/3 to prepare for the St. Agnes Fall Bake Sale and Cake Walk/Raffle Sunday 10/4. Hope to see you there!” Hopefully that was enough lead time for his customers to not pitch a fit come the pertinent weekend, though there were always the ones who didn’t seem to know how to read perfectly legible signs.

To Matt’s surprise, Steve Rogers volunteered of his own volition to put in an official appearance once he read the sign. “I’ll see if Tony can find room in his schedule too,” he said. “Maybe Clint. He’d probably show up just for the cake.”

Matt could feel Peter grinning in his direction. “Thanks,” he said. “Have a muffin. On the house.”

Saturday rolled around and after shooing the last of the customers out around three, Matt set to work. The final selections were a three-layer yellow cake with chocolate-hazelnut mousse, a lemon sponge cake glazed with raspberry and apricot preserves, an airy lavender-vanilla cake dressed in Italian buttercream, a brown butter pumpkin cake with chopped walnuts and cinnamon-honey frosting, an orange-vanilla ricotta cheesecake, and as the pièce de résistance, an entire seven-layered Death by Chocolate. He also prepared a few sheet cakes to be cut up and distributed at the actual sale tables, angel food and chocolate marble and fresh apple cake, plus six dozen cookies of various sorts.

Peter got a crash course on the different types of buttercream and how to make canned pumpkin filling from scratch. “You’re really going all out, boss,” he said, sounding not a little impressed as Matt measured and mixed and frosted. “Holy cow.”

“It’s for a good cause. Start zesting those lemons, would you?”

The afternoon of the bake sale, Karen drove everything and everyone over carefully over to St. Agnes in her rattling death trap of a hatchback. The street in front of the church and orphanage was blocked off, tables set up on each side with the circle of the cake walk on one end and the raffle booth on the other. It turned out all of Matt’s cakes were intended for the raffle, a fact which later delighted Tony Stark and required some intervention. “No, Stark, you are not allowed to buy all of the tickets,” Matt said, coming to the rescue of an overwhelmed nun. “I don’t care that you’ll buy them at a thousand percent markup. Donate directly to the church if you’re going to do that.”

“Donating directly doesn’t earn me cake.”

“You’re going to have to take your chances in the raffle like everybody else,” Rogers said, thankfully more amused than annoyed. “C’mon, Tony, other people deserve a shot at cake too.”

“But it’s Matt Murdock cake,” Stark said, the voice of complete reason. “I save the world on a regular basis, I deserve Matt Murdock cake more than other people.”

“You want it, Stark, come to the bakery to buy it.”

Stark ended up making out a check to the church anyway because, as he put it, “Orphans deserve cake the most. Spend it on good things for them.”

Not only did Stark and Rogers show up in an official capacity, the afternoon crowds also hosted Clint Barton (out of costume), Spider-man (in costume, and Matt had no idea where Peter had found the privacy to change), Johnny and Sue Storm (immediately recognizable even in civilian clothing), and for a few memorable moments, Loki (thankfully not as recognizable in civilian clothing). “In your faces!” Barton crowed when his number was called on the cake walk. He came away with a dozen cherry-chocolate chip cupcakes to the camera noises of a dozen cell phones and the flash of one actual news camera.

Stark restricted himself to five tickets in the raffle, which was more self-control than Matt had figured he’d get from the man. He ended up missing the Death by Chocolate by the final digit, which had Barton in muffled laughter as he munched on a cupcake.

@jacksbreadline Jack’s Breadline, Hell’s Kitchen NY
Happy Halloween! May you have more treats than tricks, and if not, pick some up from Jack’s! Decorated cookies and cupcakes available. #boo

“Did I ever tell you I almost became a lawyer?”

A misting autumn rain was keeping the usual crowds down, leaving Matt some time to sit with Foggy, a pot of coffee, and a selection of items he wanted Foggy to try before officially adding them to the display case. Foggy was mulling over a square of cornbread studded with dried cherries when he looked up in surprise at Matt’s revelation. “No way,” he said. “Seriously?”

“Seriously,” Matt chuckled. He sliced a piece of preserved Meyer lemon bar in two and pushed one of the halves in Foggy’s direction. Foggy abandoned the cornbread upon this tacit recommendation. “I actually made it into Columbia Law School before I decided I wanted to do something else with my life.”

“No shit!” Foggy sat up straight, excited. “I got my degree from Columbia! What year would you have been?”

Matt did some calculations. “My first year would have been 2010,” he said. “So, three years to get a JD -- class of 2013?”

“That was my class!” Foggy seemed tickled by this. “Man, we could have been -- I don’t know -- roomies or something. That would have been wild.”

For a moment Matt imagined the scenario: him and Foggy, hanging out together -- because of course they would hang out, they’d be best friends -- laughing and crying on their way to their futures as high-powered attorneys. “It would have,” he agreed, before adding carefully, “It feels like I’ve known you for that long, anyway.”

“I know, right?” Foggy was grinning at him, Matt could hear it around his words. He smiled back in return.

“Yeah. And being a defense attorney seems more and more like it would have been the safer option these days.”

“Defense, really?” Foggy laughed. “I like that, there would have been money in that.”

“If I wanted money, I wouldn’t have become a small business owner,” Matt said, but he was still smiling. “How about you? What made you go into corporate law?”

“The money, what else?” Foggy said, and he laughed as if the choice he’d made was nothing, as if it didn’t matter to him. Matt knew better. “Though I’m starting to wonder -- ah, never mind.”

“No, what?”

“It’s crazy thinking.” Foggy waved a hand, dismissive. “So why defense?”

Matt toyed with a piece of maple-walnut cake, his mood sobering as he considered his answer. “You grew up here in Hell’s Kitchen, you know what it can be like,” he said. Foggy murmured agreement. “I would have wanted to help the innocent.”

“... you’re a good guy, Matt,” Foggy said, quietly, and there was something odd in his voice. Matt cracked a small smile.

“I do what I can. Here, try this, tell me what you think of it.”

Chapter Text

@jacksbreadline Jack’s Breadline, Hell’s Kitchen NY
we get a little punch-drunk at 6am. #ohgodwhyareweawake #youpeoplebetterbegrateful #IhaveFINALScomingup

[shaky video of Matt and Peter in the kitchen covered in flour and in the middle of throwing more at each other and laughing]

Peter started showing up late to work more and more.

“Sorry, boss, Spider-man and Doctor Octopus started a brawl that detoured traffic for six blocks--” He was cut off by Karen’s gasp.

“Peter, your eye!”

Matt straightened up, alarmed. “Peter?”

“It’s fine, it’s fine, I caught a t--” He coughed. “An elbow to the face on the bus earlier.” Lie, lie, lie, his heart said. “It looks worse than it feels.”

“He’s developing a shiner that looks like he took on Muhammad Ali,” Karen said worriedly. “Do we have an ice pack?”

“Put some ice cubes in a ziplock,” Matt said. “Peter, come here.” Peter shuffled forward as Karen hurried into the back. “I’m glad you’re all right but I told you to call when you’d be late,” he said. He could feel Peter wince.

“Sorry, sorry. I thought I’d make it in time but suddenly there was a screaming crowd and -- I’m sorry.”

Matt considered him for a moment, feeling the way Peter drooped under his regard, then sighed. “One more chance. After that we need to sit down and discuss your future employment here more seriously.”

“Right, totally understandable,” Peter said hurriedly. “It won’t happen again. Thanks, boss.”

Karen emerged then with a paper towel-wrapped package that radiated cold to Matt’s senses. “Here, go sit in the break room and hold that over your eye. Your aunt is going to flip.”

“Oh man, I didn’t even think about that...”

Peter slunk off as Karen turned toward Matt. “Did you read him the riot act?” She sounded faintly disapproving.

“No,” he said. “We live in New York, incidents like this happen. But if he’s late and doesn’t call again, I don’t know if I can justify keeping him on.”

“He’s a good kid,” Karen said. Matt sighed.

“I know.”

The next time, Peter did call in--“There’s an armed bank robbery going on on 1st and 50th and traffic’s a nightmare”--but ended up an hour late for his shift, sounding a little blown around the edges. Matt didn’t press him, smelling faint traces of fresh blood and bruising under his clothes.

From what he recalled of Peter’s resume, the kid had been bouncing around from job to job for a year and a half before stumbling across Jack’s “Help Wanted” sign. There was a reason he’d come all the way out to Hell’s Kitchen from Queens seeking employment. When asked to explain the frequent changes in occupation, he’d shrugged uncomfortably. “It was hard to keep up with schoolwork and my Aunt insisted I prioritize.” Even without listening to his heartbeat, Matt would have been able to pick out the lie. “But I’ve got things in order now. I can keep a steady job, I swear.”

He’d believed that he could, and his heartbeat reflected that. So Matt had hired the determined teen and hadn’t had any cause to be disappointed with him. Until now. Frowning, he considered the problem. It wasn’t like Peter to be late for no good reason -- in fact, Matt suspected he knew exactly why Peter kept showing up late and it had to do with a certain wall-crawling side job -- but as of right now, there was no way he could justify keeping him on to Karen if he continued to be tardy.

Which he did, though he always called. Karen had tried to take him aside and ask what was going on, if there was something wrong in his home life or at school. Peter put her off, assured her things were fine and oh look, he needed to get the muffins out of the oven.

Things came to a head one cold November evening.

Wind rushing by. Movement -- slow, speeding up, slowing again, a steady rise and fall and swing through the air. Familiar scent, sugar and eggs and milk, spandex and chemicals, young, male. A heartbeat elevated with exertion, body warmth.

“Peter,” he mumbled against the lean chest without thinking, and felt Spider-man jerk in mid-air before he started babbling nervously.

“Nope, buddy, you’ve got me confused with someone else -- though how many people do you know wear spandex? Don’t answer that. I don’t need to know private details about your life, I don’t want to know--”

“Peter, s’okay,” Matt slurred. Dammit, he definitely had a concussion. “I know. Known for ’while now.”

Spider-man fell silent. Though only with his voice; Matt could hear the panicked staccato of his heart, the whoosh of breath through his lungs. Peter had healthy lungs, Matt decided. No sign of congestion or strain, just a steady if heightened inhale-exhale as he drew the air needed to swing them across the heights of Midtown.

“How--?” he finally said, sounding younger than he usually did as Spider-man. Frightened.

Matt huffed a breathless laugh. “S’a long story. But you don’t hide cracked ribs very well.”

“That can’t be the only -- no, you know what, we’re not talking about this now. I’m gonna drop you off at St. Vincent’s -- you need medical care and webbing is not a good substitute for stitches. Believe me, I’ve tried.”

“No!” His own volume made his head ring and he gritted his teeth, repeated more gently, “No. No hospitals.”

“Matt, you’re bleeding--”

“Head wounds bleed,” he said harshly. “You know that. You should know that, if you want to go out and get yourself into fights when you’re... you’re too....” What was the word he was looking for? “Young,” he finished, earning an offended noise. “I’ll be fine.”

“You are not fine, you got your bell rung so hard it sounded like a call to vespers--”

“Peter.”

“--and I’m not going to be the one responsible for taking you home while you’re, like, bleeding into your brain--”

“Peter.”

“--for one thing, if you die I’m out of a job, and for another, I’m pretty sure Hell’s Kitchen would be lining up to kill me--”

“Peter.”

“What?” Spider-man swung them up to a recess in a building edifice barely big enough to hold the two of them. “Matt, I swear to god--”

“Just get me to Claire’s,” he said. “Claire Temple. She’s a nurse, she’ll know what to do.”

Why Spider-man was swinging him personally toward medical attention instead of leaving him on the street for an ambulance, he wasn’t certain. His head hurt enough to make focusing difficult. But there had been a man, he was pretty sure, slapping around a teenaged boy for not bringing him the right brand of smokes, and he wasn’t wearing the armor but he couldn’t let that go, so he’d stepped in, meek and blind to mask his rage--

After that, it was a bit of a blur.

And now this: being hauled up the fire escape outside of Claire’s window, a nervous teenaged vigilante keeping an eye out while Matt tapped his fingers against the glass. He could hear Claire inside, heard the skip in her heartbeat when she came to the window and realized she had not one visitor but two, and the mask was not the one she expected to see.

Still, she recovered nicely, sliding open the window to ask, “I’m getting door to door service now?” She did not sound impressed. “Nice to meet you, Spider-man.”

“Nice to meet you too,” Spider-man said. “Do you often get deliveries of injured people to your window? Ones that really should know better and should be going to the hospital--”

“I’ll take it from here,” she said firmly, cutting off what promised to be a hell of a rant. “Matt, duck your head.” She and Spider-man eased him through the window and she guided him to sit on her couch before going to fetch her supplies. “What cleaned your clock this time?”

“This time?” Spider-man repeated incredulously as he crawled in after Matt. “This happen a lot?” Both of them ignored him. “No, seriously, how often do you two do this? Because you don’t seem all that surprised that this guy is injured, which indicates that it’s a pretty common occurrence which is just sick and wrong considering he’s blind. Is Murdock in some sort of underground fight club I don’t know about or is he just that masochistic?”

“First rule about Fight Club is don’t talk about Fight Club,” Matt said before he could help himself. Claire pressed maybe harder than necessary on the still-sluggishly bleeding cut across his scalp with her damp cloth and he grunted. “What I do on my off-hours is my business.”

“You realize that makes you sound like a shady drug overlord posing as a friendly neighborhood baker, right?”

“And nobody has yet answered my question,” Claire said pointedly.

“Guy with a two-by-four,” Spider-man supplied, sounding abashed. “Murdock interrupted him beating on his kid and threatened to call the police. He got whacked across the skull before I could web up the jerk.”

Oh. Right. Matt remembered now. And the worst part was, he’d known the blow was coming but the most he could do was tangle his cane up in the bastard’s legs to send him careening off-course. He’d gotten clipped anyway. Hard.

“What’d you do with the guy?”

“Left him hanging upside-down from the fire escape,” Spider-man said. “You were bleeding pretty badly, I didn’t want to waste any time.”

“All right.” Being humiliated in front of his kid probably hadn’t done his disposition any favors -- Matt had a feeling Daredevil would be paying the asshole a visit. Just as soon as his head stopped trying to split apart around the edges.

“You got off lucky this time,” Claire said once she’d mopped away all the blood. “You don’t quite need stitches so I don’t have to shave your head.” There was a suspiciously choked-off noise from Spider-man. “How do you feel? Nausea, headache--”

“Definite concussion,” he summed up. “Dizziness, disorientation, and my balance is off.” Not to mention the headache.

“If you were anybody else I’d recommend admission and an overnight stay for observation,” Claire said. “As it is, I’m tempted to have you stay with me so at least I can keep an eye on you.”

“I’ll be fine,” Matt said automatically. “I’ve had worse.”

“I know.” Claire did not sound like she found this a positive indicator of Matt’s ability to monitor his health. “Matt, if your symptoms get worse, you need to call me. You know what to look for.” Did he ever. “I mean it,” she warned. “None of this silent Catholic suffering crap.”

“But I’m so good at it.” Frosty silence told him Claire was Not Amused. “I’ll call if it gets worse. I promise.”

“Good.” She turned to the waiting Spider-man. “Can you make sure he gets home safely? I don’t trust him not to walk in front of a car.”

“Sure thing.”

Matt suffered through being carted home by his teenaged employee. Spider-man swung easily through the air with him, unhampered by the weight of a grown man. Just how strong was he? Something to ponder later. He directed Spider-man to the roof access of his apartment and then manfully did not lean on him to get down the stairs. Much.

As Matt sunk onto his couch, he could hear Spider-man making a circuit of his living room. “Nice place,” he said. “Though that billboard is -- wow, that’s obnoxious.”

“Keeps the rent down,” Matt said. He patted the couch cushion beside him. “Sit down, Peter. Let’s talk.”

There was a hesitant moment where Matt was afraid Peter might bolt before he did as bidden. A slide of fabric over skin, dragging over sweat-matted hair -- he’d unmasked. His voice emerged unmuffled and wary as he asked, “How did you know?”

“It took a little while,” Matt said smoothly. “I haven’t told anybody else and I don’t intend to.” He drummed his fingers on his knee. “Regarding the incident in the alley -- it was way past the time you should have been headed home. What were you still doing in Hell’s Kitchen?”

Peter mumbled something that Matt’s hearing determined was “Following you.”

“Why were you following me?”

Peter shuffled in his seat, an adolescent display of nervousness more suited for someone far younger than he was. He was obviously not sure how what he was about to say would be received. “I’ve been. Um. Shadowing you home. For the last three weeks. I told Aunt May I was putting in some overtime at work.”

And Matt hadn’t noticed. He hadn’t even suspected. Credit to Peter, that took some doing. “Again: why?”

“Why?” Peter’s voice rose in disbelief. “You’ve been snatched off the street twice in two months! I’d say that’s a statistical anomaly worth keeping an eye on!”

Matt frowned. “It’s not your responsibility to keep me safe. I can take care of myself.”

“Boss, you walked into a back alley to face down a guy who’d give the Rhino a run for his money armed with nothing but your cane. How is that taking care of yourself?”

He was not going to be lectured by an underage kid with an overblown sense of responsibility. Yes, that had been a reckless decision but Matt was an adult who could make his own choices without--

“You come in with weird bruises and ‘I tripped taking out the trash’ only works on people who haven’t worked with you -- you’re not that clumsy. And you’re obviously used to getting hurt -- you knew you had a concussion right off the bat, like it was no big deal. And Claire was only surprised to see me. It was like she was expecting it to be you. What aren’t you telling me? How often are you seriously hurt?”

To his surprise, Matt realized that Peter sounded genuinely upset. Not because Matt was keeping secrets from him, but because Matt was injured. Was often injured. Apparently while Matt had been taking note of when Peter came in wounded from his exploits as Spider-man, Peter had been keeping an eye on his injuries earned as Daredevil. Smart kid.

“And Claire wasn’t -- she was worried but she didn’t send you to the hospital. What kind of nurse does that? And she didn’t sound concerned about how you got beat up, so it’s not like you’re in an abusive relationship and not telling anyone or something else that she’d disagree with. She didn’t tell you off about taking risks, either, which means you do stuff like that and get kicked around for it a lot.” Peter paused, then burst out, “Matt, what the hell’s going on?”

Matt weighed his possible answers. Finally he said, “I don’t like abusers.” Peter blew out an exasperated breath.

“Matt, there’s a huge difference between not liking abusers and putting yourself in harm’s way to stop one.”

“He was just a kid, Peter. And you do the same thing every night.”

“As Spider-man, yeah!”

Matt frowned. “Are you telling me that as Peter Parker, you would have let that go?”

“No, but--”

“So why should you expect me to do any different?”

“Because, and no offense, Matt -- you’re blind. You had no way of seeing that hit coming -- I’m surprised he didn’t send your skull flying over the far bleachers because he sure was winding up for a home run.”

Matt let out a long, slow breath. Spider-man fussing over Daredevil. This he hadn’t expected from his teenaged employee, or his evening altogether. “There are other ways to see, Peter. I’m blind, not oblivious.”

“Even so--!”

“Peter,” he said sharply, and Peter fell into glowering silence. “I don’t need you to protect me. I promise. I went into that situation fully aware of the risks.”

“Matt, if I hadn’t been there, he would have kept whaling on you while you were down. I could tell.” There was more than a trace of anger in his words, directed at both Matt and his attacker. “Were you aware of that risk?”

“I’m a Murdock, Peter. We’re good at taking hits.”

This was not an answer to mollify a righteously-angry teenage boy. He felt Peter throw his arms up in the air. “Fine. Fine. You confront pissed-off strangers, you refuse to be taken to the hospital, you have suspicious injuries -- if I didn’t know better, I’d say you and I belong to the same secret club.” Matt had nothing to say to this, and Peter descended into a brooding silence, before adding uncomfortably, “You’re also taking the fact that I’m Spider-man suspiciously well.”

“I told you, I’ve known for a while.”

“How long?”

“Since you and the Avengers took on the Doombot in Central Park.” He could hear Peter flinch, a quick hiss of sucked-in air. That had been months ago. “Every time you’ve been late, there’s also a report of Spider-man fighting someone earlier in the day. Correlation isn’t causation, but it wasn’t hard to track the pattern. And I know how a person moves like working around cracked ribs -- my dad was a boxer.”

“Even so,” Peter started, then stopped himself with a disbelieving noise. “That’s it? That’s all it took?”

“There were a few other signs,” Matt said, “but those were the major ones. Unless you were the one participating in an underground fight club, the injuries alone were suspicious.”

“I thought I did a good job hiding those,” Peter mourned. “Dammit.”

“Frankly, I’m surprised no one else in your life has noticed,” Matt said. “That borders on inexcusable.”

“I’ve been hauled in front of the school counselor a few times,” Peter admitted. “Also for being late to class a lot. But people seem to believe me when I say I’m an uncoordinated tangle of gawky teenage limbs and that my stairs at home are treacherous.”

“Your stairs would have to qualify as Mount Everest to account for all of your bruises,” Matt said. Peter made an acknowledging noise, drawing his knees up to wrap his arms about them.

There was another silence, this one uncomfortable as Matt listened to Peter’s breathing change; he wanted to say something, but kept cutting himself off. Matt waited. His head was still killing him and all he wanted to do was go to sleep, but this was too important to put off for the sake of his pounding temples.

“I suppose you’re letting me go,” Peter finally said into his knees, miserable. Matt frowned.

“Why would I let you go?”

“Because of the whole Spider-man thing. Businesses may like their employees to have extracurricular activities but if those activities involve a mask and citizen’s arrests, the approval kind of wanes.”

If only Peter knew. “I’m not letting you go,” Matt said, purposefully calm. He was gratified by Peter’s shocked, disbelieving inhale; the kid truly had expected he was about to be fired. Again. “In spite of being Spider-man making you late for your shift on occasion, you’re a hard and dependable worker and it’d be hell training someone new. Besides,” and he softened his voice, “I think you’re doing the right thing.”

There was a stunned silence. “R--” His voice cracked. “Really?”

“Really,” Matt said. “You were given a gift, and you’re using it to help people.” He inclined his head in Peter’s direction. “I don’t like the idea of you running around getting into trouble, especially at your age, but you’re doing good things and I couldn’t be prouder of you.”

Matt could feel Peter staring in his direction, mouth hanging open, before finally managing a whispered, “Thanks, boss.” He sounded so fragile. Matt suspected that what with the Daily Bugle dragging his name through the mud like clockwork and the clandestine nature of his activities, he didn’t get much personal affirmation over being Spider-man. “Thanks,” he repeated, and Matt reached out to rest a companionable hand on his shoulder.

There was a comfortable moment as Matt waited for Peter to compose himself. Then he said, more sternly, “That doesn’t let you off the hook for not calling in, though. If you’re going to be late because of Spider-man, I need to know.”

“Yes, boss.” Peter seemed relieved to be getting back to a businesslike tone.

“You don’t have to follow me home anymore.”

“Yes, boss.”

“I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Yes, boss.”

“And Peter, if you get webbing in anything, I will make you eat it.”

“Yes, boss.”

After that, Matt sent Peter home and finally collapsed into bed.

Chapter Text

Matt told Karen the bare-bones truth -- that someone hit him over the head and Spider-man saved him -- and she fussed and insisted he stay home for at least a day. He also told Karen that he and Peter had a talk and came to an understanding about his tardiness. Karen sounded both relieved and dubious but accepted Matt’s decision to retain Peter.

Thankfully the patrons -- superpowered or not -- had learned from the previous incident where he was unexpectedly absent and no new property damage was committed this time.

A week later, fortunately free of post-concussion symptoms, Matt had already sent Peter and Karen home and was in the middle of putting away the last few muffin tins after some experimental baking when someone knocked on the locked front door. He paused and tilted his head, focusing. Suit and silk tie, leather bag, familiar heartbeat. Meatball sub for lunch, Matt’s caramelized carrot cake before that -- ah.

Consigning the rest of the kitchen cleanup for later, Matt unlocked the door to let Foggy in. “Hey, buddy, what brings you around so late?”

Instead of coming in, Foggy stood on the sidewalk. His outline was slumped to Matt’s senses, shoulders low, head hanging. He smelled of alcohol. Matt raised his brows. “Foggy?”

“I just helped destroy a woman who tried to file a suit against the slumlord who owns her building,” Foggy said, dull and flat. “I am the worst kind of human being. Complete and utter trash. I don’t deserve my license.”

The cleanup could wait. “I think this requires beer more than biscotti,” Matt said. “C’mon. Let me introduce you to Josie’s finest and we can talk some more.”

“Is it any good?” Foggy asked with the barest glimmer of hope.

“No, but the resulting hangover will make everything seem better in comparison.”

“Lead the way.”

It took three shots and the eel before Matt could get Foggy to talk.

“My firm represents a guy who makes sleazebags say ‘whoa, man.’ A sleazebag-supreme. Unfortunately, he is a sleazebag-supreme with the law on his side.” Foggy toyed with his empty glass, rolling the bottom edges around the scarred bar top with a crystalline ringing noise. “And because it is my job to win cases for our clients, and I’m good at my job, a sweet old lady is being forced out of her home because said sleazebag had her apartment torn up by guys with sledgehammers and turned to us to justify why he doesn’t have to fix it.”

Matt grasped Foggy’s wrist to still his motion with the glass and refilled it. Foggy drained the shot, slammed the glass back down with more force than necessary. “We used to do these exercises in law school,” he said, morose. “Come up with the strongest argument for an issue we could, and then develop an even stronger counter-argument.” Matt filled the glass again. “So even as the team was putting together our countersuit, all I could think of was how I could dismantle it in favor of Mrs. Cardenas. It wouldn’t even have been that hard. It was mostly intimidation tactics.”

Foggy tossed back this shot as well before sinking into his seat. “You should have seen her face, Matt. I don’t know what she was paying her attorney but he didn’t deserve any of it. He folded like a chair after five minutes, told her to take the money and be thankful. So now she has to pack up and leave her home so some shithead can tear down her building and turn it into condos nobody can afford, and I helped make that happen.” He was almost talking into his crossed forearms by now. “I’m a fucking bastard.”

“Isn’t that part of being a corporate lawyer?” Matt asked carefully. “You don’t get to choose the cases and the clients you represent. It’s the reality of your situation.”

“I know, I know,” Foggy groaned. “I didn’t like what I saw while I was interning there, but I thought -- if I got the job -- maybe I could do something about it. From the inside, you know?” Matt nodded. “But I don’t think I’m going to last long enough to make any changes. Not by myself, and not anything meaningful. I’m part of the system.” He swallowed hard. “I’m a good lawyer, Matt. I just don’t think I’m a good man.”

Matt considered. “It’s your conscience, Foggy. I don’t know what to tell you.”

“Tell me there’s still stuff in the bottle.” Matt answered that by pouring him another shot. “At least there’s some goodness left in the world.”

For a moment, the noises of the bar washed over them. Foggy seemed more interested in pushing his glass back and forth than immediately availing himself of its contents this time, while Matt thought about sirens. “‘We must dissent from the indifference’,” he said quietly. “‘We must dissent from the apathy. We must dissent from the fear, the hatred and the mistrust.’”

Foggy’s head lifted. “Thurgood Marshall.”

“He was one of my favorite inspirational figures as a kid,” Matt said. “I think of that quote whenever I’m trying to decide what’s the right thing to do.”

“At this point, any guidance is welcome. I’m floundering around with no compass and if I ask any of my family for advice, all I’m going to get is an ‘I told you so’ from my sister about how lawyers are the scum of existence and a reminder from my mom about how she wanted me to become a butcher.”

“Meat products would seem to be a waste of your talents,” Matt said. Foggy snorted.

“Yeah, but meat products generally don’t make you feel like you signed a contract stating you’d give up all semblance of human decency for a chance to make partner.”

“I don’t know, I’ve had some otherworldly corned beef in my time.”

“Heh.” There was a beat before Foggy lifted his glass. “What is in this stuff anyway? Does Josie actually brew it in her bathtub or is the eau de Draino an unintended bonus?”

“He thinks he’s funny,” Josie said at the other end of the bar. “At least the other blonde was pretty, Murdock.”

“What other blonde?”

“She means Karen.”

“Oh. I thought you liked Karen, Matt, why would you bring her here?” Foggy raised his voice. “I’ll have you know that my mom says I’ll be the prettiest girl at the ball.” Matt snorted. “It’s not my fault that right now I’m a pumpkin.”

“I think it’s time to cut you off, Cinderella,” Matt said. He plucked the shot glass from Foggy’s fingers and tossed it back. “Your midnight’s coming up faster than you think. Drink some water when you get home.”

“Yes, fairy godmother.” Foggy slid off the barstool and wobbled precariously for a second. “Holy shit, are you sure that’s not Draino? My brain feels like it’s being pickled.”

“I told you to go easy after the eel.”

“I can’t believe I fucking drank the eel.”

Somehow Matt got Foggy outside without either of them faceplanting and hailed a cab. Just before Foggy climbed in, he twisted around awkwardly in Matt’s steadying grip. “Thanks for putting up with my bullshit, man.”

Matt chuckled. “No problem. What’re friends for?”

“Next time you are imbibing with me,” Foggy said. “Don’t think I didn’t notice you nursing your first drink the entire time I was ranting.”

“Busted. Fine, but only if you’re paying.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Foggy landed heavily on his seat, but once again paused before pulling the door closed. “There’re more good things left in the world than Josie’s booze,” he said, voice almost lost in the ambient noise of the city. “Thanks, Matt.”

Before Matt could respond, the door slammed shut and the cab pulled away.

Foggy made no mention of it the next day, coming in as cheerful if still slightly hungover as ever for an Ethiopian coffee blend redolent with fruity flavors to go with a blueberry-lemon scone upon Matt’s recommendation. He retreated to the back table with his goods and a newspaper in hand and spent the next hour buying refills from Karen while poring over the paper, occasionally circling sections with a sharp motion of his pen.

After he left, Karen collected his plate to place in the busing container under the counter. “Do you know why Foggy’s looking at real estate ads?” she asked on the way. Matt tilted his head, surprised.

“No. What kind of real estate?”

“I didn’t get a close look,” Karen said, “but he seemed really absorbed in his search. Maybe he wants to move?”

“Maybe.” Was he going to quit his job, move away? After a moment, Matt shrugged to himself, returned to restocking the silverware rack. That was the nature of this business: regulars came, regulars left. Still, the thought set up a strange pang in his heart.

Marci Stahl came in later that day, ostensibly for a muffin but more to twist Matt’s ear. “What’d you say to Foggy?” she demanded. “I caught him whistling today. Whistling. Last night he looked ready to fall into the nearest bottle of Jim Beam and not come up until it was pouring out his ears.”

“What makes you think I had anything to do with that, Ms. Stahl?”

“Because he said he was going to see you after work last night. Didn’t want to come out for drinks with the rest of the team for successfully settling a case out of court.” She sounded mildly disgusted. “I know he was upset about Mrs. Carnitas--”

Matt arched a brow. “Carnitas?”

“Whatever.” She waved off this detail as unimportant. “He was upset about her, but that’s life in our line of work. He doesn’t always get that.” She tsked. “Fog’s always been a bit of a soft touch. It’s holding him back. He’d kill it at our firm otherwise.”

Matt bagged her muffin, chocolate with swirls of tangy cream cheese. “I didn’t say much to him last night,” he said truthfully. “Listened to him talk, yes, but otherwise I just made sure he got home okay.”

“Uh huh.” She didn’t sound convinced. But she accepted the bag and swished off, heels clacking. Matt sighed. Thurgood Marshall wasn’t that uplifting, was it?

@jacksbreadline Jack’s Breadline, Hell’s Kitchen NY
What’s your pie-sona? (Matt is strawberry-rhubarb.) Come in and find out! #pieseason #lovemesomepie #whatdoyouwantfrommylifeitis6am

After the flood of cracked-out RT’d responses, Matt put a moratorium on early-morning pre-coffee tweets. It certainly was, however, pie season.

Matt made his own pumpkin pie filling, roasting pumpkin halves with a little sprinkle of salt and a coating of oil, scooping out tender caramelized flesh and mixing it with spices and eggs and cream, with a hint of molasses to bring out the other flavors and condensed milk to sweeten. Meanwhile Peter peeled and sliced bushels of apples and ground together cinnamon and cardamom and allspice for Matt’s specialty streusel topping.

Peter’s pie crust improved by leaps and bounds but it still wasn’t quite as good as Matt’s. Though in terms of technique, Matt supposed he had a considerable advantage over his assistant in regards to making the perfect crust: he could feel the shards of butter under his fingers, the gradually-tightening network of gluten which could so easily overdevelop into an unwanted toughness. It probably wasn’t fair to compare the two of them. And Peter had fun trying.

Ever since Matt had revealed he knew Peter was Spider-man, Peter had been more relaxed around him in a way he hadn’t shown before. Not that he was rushing to confide in Matt his deepest darkest secrets, but after bad nights out on patrol or on days where he was feeling overwhelmed balancing the two sides of his life, he didn’t work quite as hard to maintain an upbeat, nothing’s-wrong-I’m-totally-fine-why-do-you-ask demeanor around him. Sometimes he talked about what he did as Spider-man when he and Matt were alone in the kitchen, voice low and cautious in case Karen happened by.

“I hear the Bugle's raking you over the coals again,” Matt said. He was carefully laying out a lattice over a specialty apple-bacon-cheddar pie. Beside him, Peter was cutting out decorative leaf shapes from scraps of crust to adorn a series of pumpkin pies; his movements stilled at Matt’s statement and he sighed, shoulders slumping.

“Oh, is it a slow news day? That’s all the Bugle seems to have lately.” A disgruntled noise. “I guess I can take solace in the fact that it’s not just me in particular. They aren’t too fond of Daredevil either. Or Iron Fist. Anybody who hides behind a mask, really.” He snorted. “Therefore the Fantastic Four are paragons of society and Tony Stark is a shining example of a hero for the age.”

“They’re afforded protection by their celebrity status,” Matt said. “It’s not fair to compare their situation and yours.”

“I know, thanks. Though really, I can’t worry about the Bugle right now.” Peter began decorating his pie, a scatter of dough leaves adorning one edge in a graceful crescent. “I’m about to flunk history, Gwen says if I miss one more date we’re through, Aunt May has a cold, and to top it off, last night I dreamed I was Spider-Bread.”

Matt raised a brow. “Spider-Bread?”

“Spider-Bread! With bread flour comes bread responsibility!”

Crimping the edges of the lattice into place, Matt turned a questioning look in his direction. “What?”

“Oh, um...” Peter suddenly seemed abashed. “My Uncle Ben once told me that ‘With great power comes great responsibility.’ I’ve always taken those words to heart, you know? It’s why I do what I do.”

“I see.” From the bits and pieces Peter had dropped, Matt had previously gathered his uncle had died right around the time he took up being Spider-man. “He’d be proud.”

“Thanks.” For a moment Peter was still, before he shook off the praise with a groan. “Let me tell you, boss, I will be so happy when winter break hits and I can actually get a little more sleep. And no homework. Because this dream... I think I’m starting to crack.” He indicated himself. “I might have delicious brioche innards.”

Matt shook his head. “Peter, either go get coffee or sit down and take a break. I’ll get you in half an hour.”

“But--”

“And if you’re asleep, I’ll send Karen.”

“... you’re kind of evil, boss.” But he was already shucking his apron. “Thanks.”

“Mm.”

Chapter Text

@jacksbreadline Jack’s Breadline, Hell’s Kitchen NY
Happy Holidays! Deadline for Christmas orders is Dec. 14 for pickup by the 23rd. #wehavefruitcake #itisdelicious #noreally #noREALLY

November ticked into December and Matt turned out fruit and spice loaves, sticky toffee pudding, treacle tarts, caramel-pecan sticky buns, and rustic pear and cranberry galettes. He also unearthed the fruitcakes that had been ripening for the past year, heady with rum, cognac, and brandy. One customer broke down into tears after tasting a slice, telling him it was just how her now-deceased grandmother had made it.

While just as overworked as ever, Foggy seemed happier in recent weeks. He and Matt and sometimes Karen occasionally met for drinks after closing. He wouldn’t tell them what had him so upbeat, but it appeared to have lifted a weight off of his soul. Whatever it was, Matt approved.

Christmas came and went. Matt sank into the peace of Midnight Mass, breathed in candle flame and holy smoke, song and scripture and joy. Let the just rejoice, for their justifier is born.

@jacksbreadline Jack’s Breadline, Hell’s Kitchen NY
Auld lang syne! Jack’s will be closed from 12/24 to 1/10 to celebrate the season. See you in the New Year for more tasty treats and coffee!

Daredevil celebrated New Year’s by taking a swim in the Hudson.

The cold was like a physical blow, made worse by the disorientation. Being underwater was the closest Matt could get to being deaf and blind beyond mere lack of sight. No air currents or useful temperature gradients, no clear sound with water pressing against his eardrums. No idea, even, which way was up. He came up choking, panic shrill behind his teeth, flailed desperately as he tried to orient himself toward the pier.

Distant traffic that way, gunshots and shouting this way. Lapping waves against the wall -- a ladder? Matt struck out in that direction even as cold stole the breath from his lungs. It’d be worse once he left the water, he knew. The wind chill was -10 tonight.

Ladder. His quickly-numbing fingers slipped on the first rung. Were they even closing about it? He couldn’t tell, couldn’t feel the pressure of the metal against his palms. Every second in the water sapped his strength, his awareness of everything but the cold. He tried again, slipped again.

Fingers locked about his wrists, hauled him out of the water. Matt almost screamed as the frigid night air hit his body, cold a living thing chewing into his skin with serrated teeth. He was yanked onto his feet but couldn’t keep them, stumbling against a firm body. Unlikely to be one of the gang members -- he flared his nostrils, trying to push past the searing agony to determine who had a hold of him. Male. Leather. Kevlar. Gunpowder. Coffee.

--well fuck.

Daredevil and the Punisher didn’t cross each others’ paths much due to an unspoken agreement: the Punisher stayed out of Hell’s Kitchen unless he was willing to use non-lethal force or Daredevil booted his ass out with extreme prejudice and a billy club beating about the head and shoulders. Frank Castle and Matt Murdock, however, occasionally exchanged a few words as Matt refilled his coffee or got him a croissant from the display case. Fuck.

“Castle,” he grated out, then started to wheeze. Lapsed into painful coughing, feeling the bite of water in his lungs. Goddammit. If he was lucky the best he could expect from his dunk would be a full-blown case of bronchitis.

“Nice night for a swim, altar-boy.” Castle supported him as he doubled over, hacking his lungs out. “Though even for a Catholic, isn’t this a little much?”

Matt didn’t have enough air to give that the response it properly deserved, settled for flipping him off instead. Eventually his coughing tapered off, even though any too-deep breath threatened to spark it off again. His chest felt like each individual alveolus was detonating inside his ribcage.

“Can you walk?”

His nod was immediate even though his muscles were cramping with cold. Damned if he was going to be carried around by anybody, especially the Punisher. From Castle’s disbelieving snort, he knew exactly how shitty Matt was feeling and wasn’t impressed by his bravado. But he didn’t call him out on it, turning away. “Follow me, you need to get out of the cold.”

Stumbling, Matt trailed after him, down a tangle of alleyways that were at least somewhat sheltered from the wind. He could smell gunpowder and fresh blood, cordite and shell casings. Seemed like Castle had put his inimitable touch on the scene. So much for leaving the gang members to the police.

A block away, Castle stopped in front of another alley with something large at the end of it. Matt’s senses sketched out a blocky shape with an array of equipment on top, metal and glass and rubber, gasoline -- a van? Dragging him forward, Castle hauled the side door open and then hustled him inside. Matt landed awkwardly in the emptied-out interior amid a tangle of shapes and smells, ammunition and medical supplies, guns of all sorts, other more esoteric objects. The grooved floorboards pressed painfully into his hands and knees as he struggled to right himself, clumsy with cold and shock.

Castle climbed in after him, leaning over the driver’s seat, the only one remaining in the vehicle, to get the van started. Cold air blasted out of the vents and Matt couldn’t help the pained sound, feeling each gust like a razor across his skin even through his armor.

“It’ll warm up in a minute. Get over here, I need to get this clown suit off of you.” Fingers that smelled of gun oil tugged at his cowl. Matt batted weakly at the invading hands but too late, Castle had it unlatched and off his face. He nearly dropped Matt in shock.

“You?” He sounded astonished, and then angry. “What the hell is a blind baker doing dressing like an idiot and busting up weapons deals?”

“S-says the man who c-c-calls himself th-the P-Punisher,” Matt forced out through chattering teeth. Even to his own ears he was barely comprehensible.

Castle elected to ignore him, muttering, “Daredevil. Ha. The Muffin Man, more like.” And then a little louder: “How do you get this rig off?” Matt snarled weakly at the feel of hands moving over his body. “Shove it, choirboy, you want to die of hypothermia that badly? I promise your virtue’s safe with me.”

Matt moved fingers that felt like lead to the catches and zippers of his armor, but didn’t have the dexterity required to actually undo them. Castle took over, unceremoniously pulling off each section as he got it free. Soon Matt was left in his boxers, the cold wet silk clinging unpleasantly to his skin -- and then he didn’t even have that, Castle yanking at the waistband. “Off. You’ve got nothing I haven’t seen before.”

“F-fuck you.” He could feel the chilled blood moving through his body, sharpest in his hands and feet but widespread enough to make easy movement a monumental undertaking. Castle manhandled him like an uncooperative mannequin as he wrestled his boxers off over his hips and down his legs, his touch a brand wherever it brushed against Matt’s icy skin. Matt heard him toss the sodden cloth aside onto the pile that was the rest of his gear, hunkered down into the smallest ball possible as best as he could when Castle set him back down to move to the back of the van. He rummaged around in a wall-mounted compartment before returning and bodily hauling Matt upright. His hands were still too hot but Matt couldn’t help but press into them, trying to draw that human fire into his core.

“Here.” Castle wrapped him up in a scratchy blanket that smelled of dust and stale exhaust, the weave of it rasping across his chilled skin. “Sit tight for a minute -- and keep your hands off the vents!” He slapped Matt’s hands away from where they’d crept toward the stream of warmer air now roaring from the ventilation. Matt growled. “Shut up. Warm your extremities up too fast, all that cold blood goes straight for your heart and you die of shock.”

He had a point. Reluctantly Matt drew his hands back and huddled under the blanket, pulling his arms and legs in as best he could to expose the least amount of bare skin. It was warming up in the van but not fast enough, never again fast enough. His heart thudded slowly in his ears, familiar background noise now dangerously sluggish. How far had his core temperature dropped? He was shivering, a good sign, but his extremities still felt too numb to be safe.

Castle climbed into the driver’s seat. There was a shift of gears and then they were moving. Matt nearly fell over, had to resist the temptation to just curl up on his side and screw staying upright as a waste of energy. Naked and exposed in the back of Frank Castle’s battle van was not the time to be taking a nap.

Now that they were actually on the road, the vents began to really pour out the heat. Fumbling a little, Matt managed to get the edges of the blanket over a vent, sighed as the warm air played over his naked body. Feeling started to return to his fingers and toes, painful but appreciated for what that pain represented. In spite of his resolve, it almost was enough to lull him to sleep, hard breaths easing a bit.

“You alive back there?”

“Mm.”

That seemed to satisfy Castle, who drove on in silence. The minutes passed by in a blur, Matt dozing off too much to track their route. Not that he had a good starting point of reference, but the noises outside gained a different quality than the docksides, calmer.

He jolted into awareness when they finally came to a stop. Castle shut off the engine and Matt whined softly at the loss of heat. The driver’s door opening and closing robbed him of a little more and he hunched over, trying to trap as much as he could within the blanket. Then the side door slid open and he nearly shrieked, icy night air whipping away any semblance of comfort he’d managed to attain. Large arms slid around him and the blanket, hefting him up against a heavily-muscled chest and he curled up, keening low in his throat in a purely involuntary reaction. He couldn’t help it, the wind was flaying him apart, needles in his lungs and a scalpel to each individual nerve--

“Hey, hey, stay with me.”

Somehow Castle got him up two flights of stairs and into what was probably an apartment without dropping him or anybody noticing and asking inconvenient questions. Automatically Matt tried to map out his surroundings but the world was muted against his skin, dulled by the cold. Small space, the echoes told him that. Dank, cold, uninhabited for a few weeks until now by the dust. Sparsely furnished -- Castle dumped him on a creaking couch and moved in the direction of what Matt guessed was a kitchenette from the counter he could dimly pick out against the wall.

Strange noises. Matt tried to track them as a way to focus past the chill that had reignited over his body but he couldn’t discern what Castle was doing. A metallic noise, pouring liquid, then the whirr of a microwave. Salt and warmed-over meat smells, the barest trace of limp vegetables. Heavy footsteps returning to him.

“Drink this.”

Canned chicken broth, anemic and laden with preservatives, but it would bring his temperature up. Matt sucked at the mug placed at his lips, managed to take in a mouthful of broth before it was pulled away. Swallowing proved to be a difficulty, until blunt fingers abruptly reached in to massage his throat and ease it down. He felt the warmth burn all the way down and hit his stomach and moaned softly.

The mug was returned to his mouth and he drank more eagerly this time. “Easy,” Castle admonished. “Not so fast, you’ll puke.” Matt swallowed again, nodded, then reached out for the mug. Castle let him have it and he wrapped shaking fingers about the cheap ceramic, both out of necessity to steady it and to soak in the warmth. When Castle was satisfied he wasn’t going to drop it, he went and fetched a heavier blanket from somewhere to drape over his shoulders.

Gradually Matt’s shivering calmed as he took careful sips of broth. Castle fiddled with the thermostat and a rattly furnace groaned to life somewhere in the basement. Soon it was almost comfortable in the apartment in spite of his still-damp hair intermittently dripping water down his neck. Castle tromped in and out, coming in with things from the van. He could hear the distinctive clack of his armor plates in one round, hoped that there was some sort of radiator to set them over.

After awhile, Castle settled into a chair opposite and announced, “Well, your lips aren’t blue anymore. I don’t think Hell’s freezing over quite yet.”

The mug now empty, Matt set it aside and drew an experimental breath. His chest still hurt but his throat didn’t feel quite like he’d been deep-throating a cheese grater anymore, so he risked speaking. “Where am I?”

“Hoboken. Near Castle Point. One of my safehouses.” He wasn’t likely to get a more specific answer out of Castle than that. “What the hell were you doing, blowing up a deal between Vasilevsky and O’Callahan? Wrong noise at the wrong time and those two paranoid assholes would have taken out a block mowing each other down.”

“Guns for girls, Castle. Was trying to find out -- where they’re holding them.” Matt coughed, tasting Hudson River water at the back of his throat like a curse. “Got something about near Holland Tunnel before you showed up. Wasn’t me blowing up that deal.”

“If I hadn’t had to save your sorry pasty ass, I’d have gotten that information.” He could hear the scowl. “Fuck. Working on this job for three weeks and you waltz in with your pansy-ass costume, screw the whole thing up.”

“Sounded like you got the results you wanted,” Matt said. “Did you leave anybody alive to interrogate?”

“In case you haven’t noticed, Daredevil, we’re not in Hell’s Kitchen. Your pussy rules don’t apply here.” Castle grunted, displeased. “One or two got away when I went after you.”

“Thanks for that, by the way.” That, at least, was genuine. Matt flexed his fingers and toes. The pins and needles feeling of returning sensation was no longer quite so sharp, reduced to a persistent tingling instead of actively painful. “I might even get out of this without losing anything to frostbite.”

“Right. Explain to me how a blind civilian runs around the rooftops of Hell’s Kitchen like you do,” Castle said, then paused and asked suspiciously, “You are blind? The glasses and cane aren’t just for the most asshole cover story in existence?”

“I am blind,” Matt said. “That’s real. It does help my cover, though, you’re right.”

“Because there’s no way a meek blind baker is actually the infamous Daredevil.” Castle snorted. “No, seriously. How the hell?”

“There are other ways to see,” Matt said. “I work with what I have.”

“Right.” There was no way he found that a satisfactory answer but Castle let it go with no more than another snort. “Your clown suit is drying and I’ve got some spare clothes you can wear home. Your night’s over. I’ll find the girls.”

Matt’s lips twitched in a faint smile. “Careful, Castle. People might think you actually have feelings.”

“I fish your horned ass out of the Hudson on the coldest night of the year and this is the thanks I get?” Castle stood up, moving further into the apartment. Matt heard him rummage around in another room and he came back with an armful of musty-smelling cloth, which he dumped on the couch beside Matt. Matt reached out to sort through the pile: cotton and denim, shirt and pants and underwear, socks. There was even a battered jacket and a woolen hat. The clothes would hang on his smaller frame but they’d suffice to get him back across the river to Hell’s Kitchen.

“Get dressed. There’s a bus station nearby. The 126 will take you to Port Authority -- after that, you’re on your own.”

Matt shucked enough of the double blanket layer to shake out the shirt. “Thanks. Your next croissant is on the house.”

Castle’s huff was sardonic but amused. “Throw in free coffee and we’re even.”

Chapter Text

As predicted, Matt came down with bronchitis and barely avoided pneumonia. By now Karen knew where he lived but Foggy showing up to his door to fuss along with her was a surprise, though not an unwelcome one. Karen had a care package in hand consisting of upscale teas and honey and crackers, while Foggy was hauling a quart of Nana Nelson’s famous chicken soup with dumplings. “Secret family recipe,” he said as he ladled out a portion for Matt. “Feel honored, I had my dad special-order organic free-range chicken just for you, you utter food snob.”

“Thanks.” The broth was meaty and rich, redolent with aromatics and full of body, the dumplings light and fluffy. “I feel better already.” He could feel Foggy beaming.

Thankfully the days Matt was bedridden fell into the period where the bakery was closed for the holidays. When he reopened, it wasn’t quite as busy at the shop. Sales always dipped a little after New Year’s, what with people making weight-loss resolutions after a holiday season spent gorging themselves. Matt made concessions to the trend by offering fruit-studded quick breads and un-iced tea cakes and cutting back the displays of lavish holiday treats.

Frank Castle still came by Jack’s but now there was always a fraught moment where he and Matt greeted each other with even-handed politeness (“Murdock.” “Frank.”), so much that Peter asked him very seriously if the Punisher was giving him trouble, because if he was he could -- do nothing himself but he would totally call in a favor with the Avengers. To which Matt sighed; at least Peter knew his limits. He assured him that nothing was wrong, no, really, Peter, don’t you dare try to trail the Punisher to make sure, either he’ll wing you or you’ll catch your death of cold.

Not that Peter was the only one to notice. It wasn’t as if the various heroes and law enforcement didn’t know Castle’s face -- if Peter recognized him, the others definitely did -- but a carefully-maintained plausible deniability forestalled any full-on fights to take him in on the premises, and Matt appreciated the détente between all parties. It seemed that absolutely no one wanted to start a dust-up anywhere in the vicinity of his bakery, much less inside his bakery, that could lead to it being closed down for any length of time. Oh, and not to mention the major and constant civilian presence which meant potential for casualties. Priorities. Whatever kept his bakery in one piece, Matt supposed.

Of course, that got blown out of the water when Deadpool marched in one day declaring that he should be the foremost unhinged killer of Matt’s heart and if Frank-o-matic here had designs on the cutie who whipped his cream and buttered his buns, positive or negative, he needed to take it up with the Complaints Department, staffed by him, Bea, and Arthur. This turned into an entire scene given Captain Rogers and Sam Wilson were both still in the shop at the time. It ended up with Castle making an escape through the back door -- having lost his coffee to hurling it at the merc but with half-eaten breakfast roll still in hand, which Matt was perversely amused over -- and Wilson (“The inferior Wilson! Yeah, I went there, although we’re both cooler than Owen Wilson no matter how much I love The Wedding Crashers--”) hauling a scalded Deadpool out before he got the interior of the shop declared a biohazard and/or crime scene by getting shot in the head. Less damage than he would have expected, if he were honest.

... save to his dignity when Rogers stayed behind to awkwardly ask him if Castle was, in fact, making Matt uncomfortable. How was that for a euphemism -- like he was standing too far in Matt’s personal space instead of possibly putting him in his crosshairs. The last thing, the very last thing that Matt needed was for the Avengers to have cause to wonder just what the goddamned Punisher might find of interest in a civilian baker. No, sir, Frank Castle is not threatening me. No, sir, he’s perfectly cordial when he drops by. Not the most personable but polite enough. Thank you for the concern but nothing’s going on.

At one point Rogers inquired, more bluntly than anything he’d said leading up to it, if he was really okay serving the Punisher, knowing who he was and what he’d done. Been accused of, charged with, but not convicted, Matt pointed out -- mostly because every time the police caught him, he broke out of prison before they could get him into a courtroom and shanked a few inmates along the way, which half the time was what he’d intended to do from the beginning. But no, sir, selling coffee to the man didn’t mean he condoned his tactics or use of lethal force.

It was a razor-thin justification even to himself, and Matt probably did have a moral obligation to turn Castle in -- not that previous attempts had gone all that well -- but he wasn’t breaking any of Daredevil’s established rules and the Punisher absolutely could not be civilian Matt’s problem. What was he supposed to do, take him down with a whisk in hand instead of his billy clubs? Not that he wouldn’t give it a go if it became necessary but so far, Castle hadn’t made it necessary. Thank God.

In the end, Matt reiterated his policy that anybody behaving themselves in his bakery was treated as a customer, no more and no less, which Rogers took with begrudging acquiescence; Deadpool copped a two-week ban over starting shit on the premises, which was accepted with much more contrite good grace than Matt expected; and getting publicly called out by one of the few people who had no qualms about straight shooting him in the face in a public area seemed to spook Castle because it was a while before he turned up again, during a rare lull with no other customers present. From the smell on him, he’d acquired a dog in the interim. Matt gave him a sample of the doggy-safe treats he was trialing (“C’mon, boss, imagine the advertising. ‘A treat for both you and your furry friend to share!’” “Peter, have you tried these?” “... okay, maybe not to share, dear god why was carob invented, but still!”) and, secure in their privacy, didn’t bother to stifle a smirk at the surprised noise.

“Didn’t think I’d see you around again, Frank.”

“Yeah. Well. Best croissants in Manhattan.” He actually sounded embarrassed.

Matt had to grin. “Enough to risk getting arrested for? I’ll take the compliment.”

That earned him a snort but Castle still put something in the tip jar before he left. Even though he muttered “Muffin Man” as he did.

What with the hours Matt spent in the bakery six days a week on top of going out as Daredevil, Karen working only a little less than that, and Foggy’s own after-hours client meetings, both time and energy for group socialization was scant. Still, they found the occasional availability to pile around a table at Josie’s. It turned out that Foggy knew a lot of the same locals that Matt did, his family’s butchery even more of a Hell’s Kitchen institution than Jack’s, and a few people called him out as the fancy “lawyer Nelson” -- “In contrast to the hardware Nelsons or the bresaola Nelsons which make up the rest of my sprawling family tree,” Foggy explained once over his beer.

“‘Bresaola Nelson’ is the name of my next band,” Karen said solemnly before dissolving into giggles.

“Sounds like the name of a country singer who only covers opera music,” Matt opined. “Or a stripper who also runs the town’s combined gas station and finishing school.” Karen snorted as Foggy immediately began speculating on what songs she’d dance to.

Matt didn’t often feel the need to be social but he could admit being able to talk with people outside of a work-related context served as a nice change of pace, and the topics of conversation always ranged interestingly at these alcohol-fueled get-togethers. One time, a couple of rounds in, Karen posed a question: “Hey, Matt. Matt. How much would it take to get you to eat a Twinkie?”

“Your two weeks’ notice,” Matt said promptly, expression going appalled. The other two burst into giggles.

“No, I’m serious,” she insisted after recovering. “You read about these, you know, these celebrity chefs who go home and feed their kids McDonald’s and shit, or like, dinosaur chicken nuggets.”

“Shoeless cobbler’s children,” Foggy agreed. “Though I submit the argument that dinosaur chicken nuggets are not to be considered as settling for lesser. I’d put that shit up against the Tavern on the Green any day.” The three of them promptly got sidetracked discussing particular cheap childhood favorites (Eggo waffles with American cheese for Matt, fried bologna-and-potato-chip sandwiches for Foggy, and Cheerios in chocolate milk for Karen; everyone else’s choices were roundly mocked) before Karen returned to her original line of inquiry.

“My point is -- my point is--” She hiccupped. “One, Twinkies aren’t actually all that bad--” Foggy made noises of agreement while Matt pulled a face. “--and two, if you won’t eat Twinkies, what other off-the-shelf snack do you find accep--acceptable?” She gestured expansively. “Is that Matt Murdock’s secret shame? Does he crack open a can of Pillsbury Grands in the privacy of his own home? Does he kick back with a box of Ding Dongs and call it a day? I refuse to believe you make everything you eat from scratch.”

Truth to tell, Matt had a well-hidden soft spot for Twinkies. They weren’t anything he’d deign to eat these days if he could help it but as a rare treat on his father’s sometimes unsteady earnings, he appreciated what they represented to him and many others. Not that he’d admit it on pain of death now; he had a reputation to uphold. “I’m not Amish, Karen,” he snorted. “I enjoy a commercial baked good now and again. Just... not Twinkies.”

“Even the Amish go through drive-throughs,” Foggy put in. “Better question: what do you bake at home just for yourself? Inquiring minds want to know. And possibly try.”

“Honestly? I don’t. All I want is a palate cleanser.” He tipped his beer bottle in their general direction. “And not to bring work home.”

“Aw, c’mon, there’s got to be something extra special you use to treat yo’self. The ultra-exclusive off-menu Matt Murdock Private Reserve.”

“There is,” Matt allowed with a smile, “but it’s definitely not individually-wrapped snack cakes.”

“Now I’m really curious. It must be something really good.” Foggy sounded wistful, to which Matt simply shrugged with another smile.

Another occasion brought up a subject particularly close to home: “And there goes Spider-man,” Foggy commented. “On the news,” he added for Matt’s benefit. “Looks like he stopped a bank robbery?”

Matt stifled an internal groan. Peter had just been talking about needing to study for a Spanish exam earlier that day, what was he even... Don’t kid yourself. You know what he’s doing and why he’s doing it. “Yeah?”

“Yep, there’s a strung-up bundle of some thoroughly-foiled ski mask-wearing dudes hanging from a street light. They’re gonna need pruning shears to cut them down.” Matt cocked his head, trying to focus on the TV under the assorted noises of the usual Josie’s revelers. It sounded like the news crew was wrapping up at the scene, Peter long gone, and Foggy reclaimed his attention as he tsked. “I don’t know, buddy, this city gets weirder and weirder by the day.”

“Spider-man being out there doing good is a brand of weird I’ll take any day.” Matt toasted the general direction of the TV with his empty glass and made a mental note to congratulate Peter on his collar during his next work shift before inquiring, admittedly not without some vested self-interest, “So what are your opinions on our local crimefighting crowds?”

“How local do you mean? The Avengers? Spider-man? Heroes for Hire?” Foggy’s frown came through clearly. “It’s not like I like what they do, especially without any oversight, but I can recognize the reality of the world we live in. Especially when that reality includes people who have the ability to pick up your standard crosstown bus and use it as a hand weapon. Like the police are equipped to stop that.”

He lapsed into silence but from his breathing pattern, Matt could tell he had more to say on the subject. “But...?” he prompted.

Foggy heaved a sigh. “But, then there are guys like Daredevil.”

That was not heartening. Matt had to ask, he couldn’t help himself. “What about Daredevil?”

If anything, the frown audibly deepened. “I’ve got a contact down at the 15th precinct who sometimes reads me in on what’s going on. Most of the police hate his guts because he makes them look bad -- as if they need help in that department, in this neighborhood -- but they’ve got a point about his methods. Or lack thereof. Dropping off beaten-up petty crooks like the world’s most demented milkman may score points in the short term with the public but vigilantism is still vigilantism.” Foggy blew out a more concerted breath. “There’s a method to enact change, real, wide-reaching, effective systematic change, and going perp-hunting in a Halloween costume isn’t it.”

Of course Foggy would think that, he was a lawyer, but still, a tiny part of Matt had hoped... “Would you rather Daredevil not do what he do, then?” Asking that was sort of like prodding a bruise, that same sense of exploratory masochism, but thankfully he was delayed from having to hear Foggy’s reply when Karen returned with the next round.

“What about Daredevil?” she asked, sitting down in a click of new glasses. “That guy kicks ass.”

Foggy snorted in clear disapproval. “Don’t tell me you’re a fan. Just because he puts on a mask while doing his thing doesn’t give him the legitimacy of Captain America. There’s a reason he covers his face. Otherwise the police would just throw his ass in jail for aggravated assault and battery and call it a day.”

Oh boy. Matt winced when he heard Karen suck in a lungful of air. “You know he saved my life, right?” she said sharply.

As expected, that took the wind out Foggy’s sails. He gaped. “Shit, are you serious?”

“Do I look like I’m joking?” She certainly didn’t sound like it, an edge of asperity limning her words.

“Wow. Sorry, I didn’t know. What happened?”

From the shift of hair and cloth over her shoulders, she’d shrugged. Her voice emerged forcibly even. “I found out something shady where I used to work and my ex-employers didn’t want it getting out. They tried to kill me for it and Daredevil stopped them.”

“Geez...” Foggy sounded appropriately somber. “I’m sorry, that must have been...”

“Yeah, well.” Karen shrugged again, taking a deliberate swig of her fresh drink. “It was a while ago.” And a touch more complicated than she was making it out to be, not that Matt was about to reveal that. “So yeah, Daredevil might leave a few assholes spitting their teeth but as far as I’m concerned, they probably deserved it.”

“Maybe, but there’s still a proper way of going about things, and--” Foggy cut himself off with a sigh, pulled his own drink toward himself with a scrape of glass over scarred wood. “And I can tell when I’ve lost juror number one. What about you, Matt?”

For a breath, Matt considered possible responses. “Well, I’ve never liked the look of the guy,” he finally quipped.

“Yeah, the horns are kind of -- oh, you asshole.” Something hit his arm, from the sound and feel of it a wadded-up napkin. “I’m being serious!”

“So am I.” Foggy grumbled and he grinned, incorrigible, before sobering. “I think,” he said, more carefully, “that whatever his actions, he’s trying to do his best for the city.”

“Yeah, well, so’s the Punisher and that guy’s a pure whackjob.” Ouch. He had to physically fight not to yell in protest. Meanwhile, Foggy turned back to Karen. “So you actually met the Devil? What was he like?”

At that, Matt’s outrage died in favor of curiosity and he pricked his ears up for her answer. “Intense,” she settled on after a moment of due consideration. “He seriously kicks ass, though.”

Matt hid his smile behind the rim of his new glass while Foggy hummed. “Well, I guess I can give him a pass this once, seeing as he personally saved the life of my favorite coffee slinger,” he finally allowed. “And at least he’s not the Punisher.” That was being damned with the faintest of praise, but at this point Matt would take it. Then Foggy snickered. “You think he’s come by the bakery as a customer, Matt? It seems like everybody else in Hell’s Kitchen has, why not the hometown hero?”

Matt couldn’t have stopped his smirk if he’d tried. “Who knows. It’s not like I could ID him if he did.”