Boyfriend
Matt suffered the disappointment of Sister Maggie again at Sunday mass. She knew (nuns always know) that he’d been to confession on Friday evening and had expected him to take communion rather than ask for a blessing. At least sat back down in their pew he could pretend he wasn’t aware of the set of her lips; moving his ankles out of the way of her very sensible shoes was just coincidence.
He couldn’t understand why it was so important to her. Then again, he wasn’t sure how she’d take the news that he probably needed to go to confession again after his very private meeting with Father Castle. Mass was over for the fifth week in Ordinary Time. Go in peace. Thanks be to God. Thanks be to God.
People milled around waiting for their time with Father Castle after the service. Those who wanted a few words of encouragement, or to let him know how they were getting on. Those who wanted to be seen with him in public to make their point about this and that. One set of people he gave his time to – often with a notepad and pen that appeared like magic from under his chasuble. The others would be reminded of his email address and office hours, or times of the public meetings if they wanted to discuss the ongoing purchase of buildings so Saint Agnes could expand day care and offer housing to homeless veterans.
“He says we should all go at our own pace.” Matt stood to one side and spoke to the Sister without looking at her. Instead, he faced in the direction of the tall priest – well out of earshot – having a quiet and thoughtful disagreement with a parishioner trying to upbraid him for the discreet rainbow piping on his stole.
“Well, he is too lax with you.” Margaret Grace watched the same interaction. The body language was clear even if she couldn’t hear the words. Father Castle was steadfast on inclusivity. Maybe for her next craft project she would add the more obvious colours and design of the progress flag. Sister Margaret Grace had surprised herself by how comfortable she felt with the new flags. “You’re quick enough to take him up on coffee.”
“That’s your fault for training him too well.” This time Matt beamed a smile in her direction. “Let’s go get started on a bucket of latte for him, he’s going to need a drink after seeing off that lot. And I might have heard a rumour that you made a batch of biscotti.” He offered his elbow for the nun to lead him to the kitchens.
“Your father might have taken a while to get used to the idea. He’d say something wrong but wouldn’t mean it. Always so proud of you and how you got on with everything after the accident. Your grandmother on the other hand …” Matt prepared himself for the inevitable condemnation. The nun leant towards him; he caught the wicked smile that bloomed on her face. “Your grandmother would have been over the moon. Oh, the delight that her grandson was going out with a priest! All those snooty types who thought her son was common for being a boxer and then … and then taking up with your mother and her being younger than him …”
Matt had checked that the room was empty before making a timid comment – not quite a confession – that he might have more than friendly feelings for the absent cleric. He'd never really thought about how old Sister Maggie was. Could she have known his family? There didn’t seem to be anyone else around that remembered them other than the wild tales of seeing ‘Battlin’ Jack’ in the ring. He’d never thought to ask the older nuns if they’d known his parents. The sisters hadn’t really existed for him until he found himself inside Saint Agnes permanently. “What do you think my mother would have said?”
“I know (nuns always know remember) that she would be happy that her handsome, clever, son had found someone who he wanted to be with.” She patted his knee. The outrage of the situation seemed to be of no concern to her.
“What about you?” Without his dad, and no Father Lantom … who else had known him the longest? Foggy didn’t count, Foggy was biased. Anyway, Foggy and Karen had got the memo even before Matt had realised it himself. They had accepted the madness of the situation as just another part of the wacky world of Matt Murdock. Okay, he hadn’t quite told them everything; he was just waiting for the right time.
“I’m … with your mother. I just want you to be happy Matthew. You’ve been through so much and had to fight so hard just to get where you are – you deserve a shot at being happy. And like your grandmother, if it upsets thems as think they’re better than the rest of us then that’s just a bonus.” The pat was repeated, decisive. It marked an end to the discussion.
“What’s a bonus?” Frank walked in on the last words. His vestments set aside he looked like a man in black boots, black jeans and a black linen shirt. A model for a photo shoot rather than a priest. He saw the biscotti waiting next to a very large cup of coffee. “Ah, yes, that’s a bonus.” His first draught from the cup was accompanied by a sound that priests were not supposed to make.
Matt, out of practiced habit, didn’t notice the blush that coloured Sister Maggie’s cheek. As a nun he thought she wasn’t supposed to recognise the sound.
“My apologies Sister Margaret Grace, would it be okay to take this young man of yours out for lunch? Theres rumours of a nice day out there and he looks like he could do with some fresh air.” The priest’s tone carried a hint of devilment, caffeine, and biscuit crumbs. And what seemed like such obvious affection that Matt had had to double check the large room in case anyone else might have overheard. Children running round on the floor above, the life of Saint Agnes going on around them, but no one close enough. He also couldn’t help but hear the odd thing that Sister Maggie’s heart did at ‘this young man of yours’.
Lunch? Lunch out alone with Father Francis? … no, he wasn’t wearing his dog collar, this would be lunch out with Frank. Matt let himself be urged upwards and out towards is overcoat and the street door. Frank shrugged into a long back duster coat and scooped up a duffle bag, both left discreetly in an alcove. Matt recognised the same chemical smells from their rooftop meeting. Why would they need the Punisher’s bullet proof vest for lunch?
Frank turned back to assure the nun that he would return Matt back to his own apartment safe and sound, but he had some business in the city and wasn’t sure when would be back to Saint Agnes. She waved them off with a whispered sigh about men keeping secrets. She watched their progress in the Sunday sunshine – the tall dark man taking care to lead the slightly shorter red head in the direction of Central Park. There was no one to hear her mutter how Frank reminded her of Battlin’ Jack. No one to hear her admit that it was no surprise that Matt had fallen for him, she’d felt the same attraction to that danger when she’d been a girl.
If Matt had stumbled at the end of the block, just as they turned crosstown, that was just a coincidence. He was too far away to hear. Frank, attentive as ever, caught him and pulled him into a quick embrace. He would keep her boy safe. However dangerous he might seem in the odd moments when his mask slipped she was certain that Matt would always be safe.
“Well, have you?” Karen flicked her hair behind her ear, did her best to look casual as she glanced around the bar.
“Have I what?” They settled into their usual seats next to Foggy, coats over the backs of their chairs and considered the two rounds of drinks already set up before them.
“You know … with him. Have you, with him?”
“Matthew Murdock, answer the question or be held in contempt … of Josie’s.” Foggy had already started before Matt and Karen had arrived. Karen had been waiting for Matt, and Matt had been late. Marci might – correction, would - make him regret it in the morning, but for now he thought he was having fun. Matt had been much later than usual. “Oh c’mon Matt, you are the least risk averse person we know. Tell us, have you moved on in your relationship with …”
“The Pope’s hitmanTM?” Karen couldn’t resist twisting the knife. Winding Matt up could be fun some days. And at least she’d whispered that damn stupid name they’d started using for him.
“No.” He emptied the beer bottle – slowly – and set it down before continuing. “And he’s not the Pope’s hitmanTM”, Matt made the air quotes as sarcastically as he could and grinned, “… remember the guy who took out a load of gangsters – what – ten years ago - and then just disappeared? The Punisher? That was Frank, he’s the Punisher.” Ha! Let them try making a scene in public.
“Well shit. You absolute madman.” He could tell Karen was smiling but Matt wasn’t certain if her tone meant approval. Foggy’s reaction, meanwhile, seemed to indicate a sudden allergy or asthma attack. Karen slapped him on the back and absent-mindedly offered him her drink, most of her attention was on whatever bombshell the blind man would drop next.
“I repeat, no we haven’t moved on yet. You think it’s easy trying to do the day job, the night job, and find time to sleep with a priest who lives in a building filled with nuns and kids?” Matt appreciated the background noise in Josie’s, and that the regulars were used to tuning out whatever secrets were discussed at their table. “And … well, I guess he might be hitman adjacent …” Foggy’s eyebrows braced for impact, “… he’s got diplomatic immunity through the Vatican.”
“Brilliant!” Foggy was hanging on to something that sounded like it could be good news … or at least not obviously bad news. Foggy was happy for anything that didn’t sound like a threat to their law firm, or lives. “I have absolutely no idea what that means in practice, but I’m sure the paperwork is on very nice card stock.”
“We did go out for something to eat today, kind of incognito, up near Central Park.” His friends ‘oohed’ and made sounds about things being ‘cute’. “And we had a walk in the park. It was nice without anyone watching us …” he pretended to look over his glasses at Karen, “… or making comments. Then he took me to see a guy. I don’t know how Frank found him but he’s discreet, accepts cash, and he seems to know what he’s doing … he’s making me a suit … for the night job.” He didn’t need eyesight, he probably didn’t even need his heightened senses, they were both staring so hard everyone in the bar could probably hear it. He shrugged, accepting an old argument. “You’ve both said that I should be more careful so Frank’s buying me my very own … er … superhero costume … Hope to get the first version of it delivered by the end of the week. Anyway, he was very thorough with measurements and how I wanted it to work and stuff. That’s why I was late getting round to your place and Foggy got a head start on us.”
“Are you going to have horns? Please tell me you’re going to have little devil horns.” The snorted giggle told Matt everything about Karen’s reaction. “A utility forked tail?”
“Now Karen, this is progress, don’t put him off.” Foggy’s words were punctuated with a wagging finger. “I mean knowing our absolutely barking mad friend as we do, that’s about the most romantic thing anyone has ever done for him. Hearts and flowers and Kevlar. There’ll be a section in Hallmark soon enough. I’m not sure what’s the strangest thing about it – that the Devil is getting armour, or whatever, for Valentine’s Day, that he’s getting it from the Punisher, who is now a priest… or that all of it seems so entirely plausible.”
“Anyhow, if a box gets delivered to the office from Gladiator Tailoring then it will be for me.” Matt fumbled in his coat pocket and passed a business card over to Foggy. “Officially he makes specialist costumes and weapons for film and tv, some theatre stuff. Day to day he makes money from a fancy fancy dress shop. And, it turns out, he kind of has a night job too.”
“Isn’t trusting some random delivery guy being a little optimistic in the circumstances?” Karen clinked her bottle against Foggy’s. They were used to teamwork where Matt was concerned.
“Will be a personal delivery not some Hermes guy dropping it in the trash. Either Betsy – long dark hair, petite, lots of curves – that’s Mrs Gladiator Tailoring, or the man himself. You get a huge bald guy, muscles on muscles with a box for ‘Mr Horne’ then that’s Melvin. Don’t worry Foggy, he’s actually a really nice guy, the appearance is part of his brand.”