Dad felt taller than ever these days, and not just because Matt spent more of his time laying down or sitting on the floor than usual.
He felt weird.
He smelt weird.
The picture he made in Matt’s head seemed hotter and brighter than before.
But Dad himself didn’t seem to have changed all too much. Even if he was doing the horrible things he did when he got worried like, all the time now.
Matt was too big for picking up and carrying.
Matt was more than capable of reading his own books.
Of knowing when he was tired or hungry.
Dad was kind of being a lot right now.
It’s a brain injury, old man. Not a death sentence. Chill for a minute, would ya?
Dad was kind of dumb sometimes, but not in a bad way. Just in an adult way.
Old people made a lot of assumptions.
They thought that a cracked skull, for example, and lots of uncalled-for sleepiness during the day, meant that Matt couldn’t stay awake at night.
Wrong. Super wrong. Like, Captain America levels of wrong-ness.
Matt’s brain was hot all the time and his skin hurt all the time and his ears felt like giant satellite dishes from sun-up to sun-down—sirens never stopped, doors were constantly screeching and slamming, their sound and the sound of cats fighting down in the alleys around the apartment all got mixed in with those from the lady in 108A, whose baby cried all the time.
At nighttime, the baby was more or less asleep. The cats, not so much. But compared to daytime, nighttime was kind of peaceful and Matt would be damned if he was going to miss it.
Still, though. Dad thought he was asleep. He didn’t seem to get that Matt knew the sound of their home door’s hinges better than any other in the building. He didn’t seem to understand that Matt could hear his breathing all the time and so knew what it was supposed to sound like.
When the front door closed, Dad’s breathing changed.
Sometimes, it slowed way, way down.
Sometimes, it got loud and harsh—like a bull.
The bull wore boots.
Dad never wore these particular boots during the day.
He came home smelling bitter and salty. He always appeared hotter—brighter—in Matt’s head when he came home. But as soon as he saw Matt at the table, the bull would sigh and the sharp tang under the bitter and the salty smells would start to go away and he’d say something like ‘what am I gonna do with this kid?’
The answer, every time, seemed to be ‘pick him up like a baby and put him back in bed.’
Matt didn’t want to go back to bed. He wanted to know why Dad was still fighting.
Who Dad was still fighting.
He was a retired pro, now. That’s what he said. He said that they had a chunk of money to live on now, although he also worked all day putting new floors into peoples’ homes and fixing their windows and the like.
Dad said that his new job was as a ‘contractor,’ which meant that he was one of the guys who made homes nicer and less broken around the city. He’d fixed a lot of things in their apartment to practice and to make things less of a ‘hazard’ for Matt with all he had going on with his wily arms and legs these days.
Matt had met his new boss—one of Fogwell’s nephews who smelled like the wood aisle of a hardware store.
Dad smelled a little like that too when he wasn’t fighting.
Matt wanted to ask him why. He just wanted to know why. That was all. He wouldn’t ask again.
But he wasn’t so good at talking right now. And he wasn’t supposed to sleep at the table anymore. So he kept mum and let Dad the Bull carry him back to bed.
Matt was pretty, pretty sure that Dad was the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen.
He was sure because Dad the Bull was not very subtle.
He tried, though. Matt thought that he thought he was doing a real good job, too, so he decided not to remark on it.
But yeah. No.
Dad the Bull was way, way too strong and too hot and mad and fast these days to just be fixing floors and drywall.
You don’t crack your knuckles buffing floors for a living.
Dad actually thought he was hiding it really well, too, but there was a lady who was always in their house lately and Matt could hear her threatening Dad six ways to hell at least twice a week over his ‘antics.’
“You’re going to get yourself killed, Jack,” the lady Dad called ‘Grace’ always told him. “Matty needs you. He doesn’t need revenge. He needs his father.”
Matt didn’t really like to think about it like that since he didn’t really need anything. What he needed was for people to stop talking about him while he could hear it.
And maybe some more physio.
“I know, I know. But—” Dad would start every time.
“No. Jack. Jackie. Listen to yourself. Look at what you’re doing. Who are you trying to save? Who? Matty isn’t out there. He’s here, in this house.”
Who was this lady that she felt like she could call him ‘Matty?’
Only Dad and the gym guys could call him ‘Matty.’
“They nearly killed him, Grace. Nearly—I can’t fucking sleep, girl. Every time I close my eyes, I see his fuckin’ coffin—God help me, Grace. I almost had to pick—”
“Jackie, look at me. He’s not dead. You got there in time. You saved him, hon. Who are you saving now?”
Yeah, Dad.
Who?
Dad didn’t ever seem to have this answer.
This Grace lady was a nun. And she bossed Matt around a lot and she bossed Dad around even more and Matt was 99% sure that if she could, she’d live in their apartment with them so that she’d have maximum bossing privileges over the both of them.
He’d never been more glad that nuns lived in convents.
Sister Grace seemed to always, constantly, forever be washing Matt’s face.
He didn’t get it.
His face wasn’t dirty. He touched it to make sure. He would have been able to feel if it was dirty. He’d started to be able to pick out all kinds of textures with his fingers these days that he hadn’t been able to before. They’d started to fall into categories.
Slick and thick and kind of gummy textures were usually chapsticks or lipsticks or salves and ointments. He could smell them. Some smelled kind of meaty under their fake perfumes, others smelled a little bitter like chemicals.
Salty and coarse things were usually some kind of food.
Rough, bumpy and craggy things were scabs around wounds.
It was slow going, but his fingers and ears were making more sense of the world than a few months ago, when everything had gone dark and empty and screaming.
Now the world was full, right to the brim. But the more his fingers figured out, the less full it got.
Matt couldn’t wait for his fingers and ears and nose to categorize more things.
He was hoping to bring the cup of water that was the world down to a glass half-full. Then he could start filling it with things that he actually liked and cared about again.
And he didn’t know how, but he felt like Sister Grace was watching him as though she could read his mind.
Go away, Sister, he thought. It’s Nun-ya business.
“Daddy,” he said seriously, because this had to stop.
“Matty,” Dad said smoothly on the other side of the couch where he was reading something that didn’t sound like a newspaper.
Matt’s brain decided to disconnect from his mouth for a minute. Dad noticed him struggling, though, and set down the not-paper.
“Easy, honey,” he said. “Take your time.”
Easier said than done.
Actually. No.
Easier done than said.
He couldn’t really contain the frustrated sound at the back of his throat and he really hated that because it was like flipping a switch in Dad’s head that made him launch into babying mode.
“I gotchu, pal. We’ll run the gamut—hungry?” Dad said.
UGH. NO.
“Daaaaaaad,” Matt managed to whine.
Oh thank god. Alright, back on track.
Dad laughed and came in closer so that he was right next to Matt. Kneeling in front of him. Matt could feel him kneeling—feel? Him kneeling?
That was kind of new?
How could he—
No. Shut up. Focus.
There were punishments to be handed out right now.
“You’re—you’re,” Matt stammered.
Seriously?
Come on. We were doing just fine.
“I’m?” Dad coached.
Unnecessary, big guy. You’re in trouble. Matt glared at the place where he felt Dad’s head in front of him.
“Troub—trouble,” he snapped. “You’re trouble—you’re in trouble.”
Dad’s heat and heartrate jumped lightly.
Matt didn’t know how or why his brain translated that as surprise, but it did and he was glad for it. Good to know that some part of it was doing its damn job.
“I’m in trouble?” Dad repeated. “Any particular reason, champ? Is this about the mustard? I already said I’d never betray you like that again—”
“No,” Matt whined at him. “You’re the D—the D—”
COME.
ON.
“Devil,” he managed to creak and then the floodgates finally, finally opened. “Devil of H-Hell’s Kitchen. You’re the devil of Hell’s Kitchen.”
Silence.
“Matty,” Dad said in the dad-iest tone ever heard by man. “You tired, bud?”
“I’m—mm—not stupid, Dad,” Matt gritted out. “I can—I can—”
COME ON COME ON.
“I can feel it,” he breathed.
Dad’s heat and heartrate stayed very, very even.
“Uh-huh,” he said.
WOW.
“Daddy,” Matt pleaded. “L-Listen to me.”
“I’m listening, honey, I just don’t know what you want me to say,” Dad said.
He wasn’t, though. He was listening without hearing. Like everyone else. Like everyone else.
“Baby,” Dad sighed, “Don’t cry. Don’t cry, come here. You’re okay, we’re okay.”
They weren’t though.
Dad was lying.
Lying and hurting himself.
For someone who Matt didn’t even know.
Maybe even for the Matt who Matt wasn’t anymore and could never be again.
It made him feel sick.
Very sick.
Too sick.
“Tell him,” Sister Grace said in the other room late that night.
“Grace—”
“That is my fucking son, Jack Murdock. And I won’t have you lying to him like this.”
Sorry, what now?
“Grace—”
“I trusted you with him—”
“Grace, sweetheart—”
“Don’t you ‘sweetheart’ me, Jack. I trusted you. And you told me it would be okay—is this okay? You’re hurting him, Jack. Us. You’re hurting all of us with this obsession. With this godforsaken pride. This is exactly what happened before. This is exactly how we got here in the first place. Can’t you see that? What are you trying to prove, Jack?”
Dad sighed.
Matt could barely hear him over the sound of his own heart racing, rushing in his ears.
Sister Grace was…his mom?
“Daddy,” he said the next day, ducking under Dad’s arms where he had braced them against the counter in the kitchen.
“Matty,” Dad said without moving.
He sounded sad.
Matt poked around his chest a little bit to find his ribs and then latched his arms around them as tight as they could go.
“Daddy,” he said, “I think I got superpowers.”
A jolt.
“What?” Dad said in a weird tone.
Matt shrugged.
“Got superpowers,” he repeated simply.
He did. What else could it be?
“Matt—”
“Are you the devil of Hell’s Kitchen or no, Dad?” he asked.
It was a great talking day. He was going to take full advantage of it before physio that afternoon made him feel like he wanted to sleep for the rest of forever.
Dad’s heart told him what he needed to hear before his voice did. It sounded really fast, but it didn’t stutter like it usually did when Dad told him something that obviously wasn’t true.
Yeah.
Yeah, that was about what he’d figured.
“Matty, honey—”
Matt tipped his head up so that his chin was against Dad’s chest, so that he was facing the space where his brain told him Dad’s face was.
“Why?” he asked.
Dad was all stiff.
“I’m not—”
“You’re lying,” Matt said. “Is Sister Grace my mom?”
Dad’s heartbeat went through the roof.
“Why would you think that?” he gasped like he was trying to breathe after swimming a mile.
“’Cause I’ve got superpowers and I heard her say it through the wall the other night,” Matt told him.
Really, it was an a-ma-zing talking day. He should mark it on a calendar or something.
“Right,” Dad said in a weirdly high-pitched tone.
“Is it bad for a nun and a devil to have kids?” Matt asked him. “Does that make me like a halfway monster? Like a Furby?”
He appeared to have broken Dad.
His breathing was crazy and he was making a weird, high-pitched sound in the back of his throat.
“Grace, I’m going to die,” Dad whispered into the phone when he thought Matt was napping after physio. “This is it—this is how I go—I’m going to die.”
“I’m sorry, at what point was I supposed to care?” Sister Grace said back over the line.
She was pretty mean for a mom. And a nun.
And just a person, if Matt was being honest here.
He didn’t get why his dad had gone out of his way to have a baby with her. He certainly wouldn’t have.
“Margaret, I need sympathy right now,” Dad said into the phone. “He just asked me, in the same breath, girl, if I’m the devil and you’re his mom—he thinks he’s got superpowers, Grace. What. Do. I. Do?”
Sister Grace laughed really hard over the phone. It kind of made Matt smile a little bit. He flopped over and snuffled down into the sheet Dad had thrown over his head before making a speedy getaway from the room.
For the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen, he wasn’t very sneaky with Matt.
“Believe him,” Sister Grace eventually said. “Why not? We’ve come this far. You’re a madman who runs around at night in a mask and I’m the second worst nun in history—why shouldn’t he have superpowers? He might even be the antichrist.”
“Grace.”
“I’m just sayin’.”
“Oh my god, Grace.”
“I’m serious, Jackie. Let him have his peace. He’s already been through enough. And anyways, it’s better that he get confirmation from you than anyone else.”
Yeah, Dad.
You heard the lady.
Mom-lady.
Nun-lady.
Whatever she was—Matt didn’t know, this was all kind of complicated and Dad was making that high-pitched distress call again.
“I regret everything,” Dad sobbed, “How do I take it back?”
Sister Grace laughed again.
Dad was being supremely awkward which was how Matt knew that they were going to have a talk.
He didn’t need superpowers to figure that one out.
He did, however, need superpowers to turn this day into a good talking day. Otherwise, things were gonna be real awkward for everyone.
It didn’t want to happen, though.
Sounds were hard.
Sounds appearing in the order that his brain put them into were even harder.
So unfortunately, when Dad said, “Matty, listen. Remember the other day when you called me—when you said I was. Ahem. The uh. Er. Devil of Hell’s Kitchen? Well, pal. I don’t want you to be scared, but—you were maybe a little on the money there, but I just want you to know that I would never, ever hurt you, okay, buddy? And if that scares you—if anything scares you--you just say the word and I’ll hang it all up, right now. No questions asked, okay?”
All Matt could really do in a sensitive kind of way was hum enthusiastically.
It was obviously not the response either of them were hoping for.
It made Dad even more awkward. And when Dad got uncomfortable, he launched in babying mode and Matt wasn’t having that today.
Not!
Today!
He wrapped fingers around the arms that came his way to manhandle him into whatever position the unknowable elves in Dad’s head decided he needed to be in. He squinted hard at the place where he thought Dad’s face probably was.
And he gave as sharp of a head shake as possible.
Dad cleared his throat and backed off, super self-conscious.
“Right,” he said.
Matt hummed and flexed his fingers on his arms.
“Okay, so, uh,” Dad said. “You asked me before ‘why.’ Did you still want to know why?”
Obviously.
“Right. Of course you would. So, I uh. Goddamnit. Come here, kiddo—give me this one, okay? Daddy’s fragile.”
UGH.
Fine.
Matt rolled his whole face to show how he felt about this whole thing, but allowed himself to be collected and moved into Dad’s lap so he could then be suffocated in a hug that was more of a squash.
Dad smelled like aftershave.
It was probably supposed to smell nice, but to Matt it just smelled like acid and toothpaste.
Dad pet his hair and rubbed a big hand across his back in an annoying way. His stubble was very pokey against Matt’s cheek.
Like sandpaper.
Aigh.
Exhausting.
Can we hurry this up, big guy?
“I—” Dad took a deep breath. And then let it out. One of his ribs sounded weird. Like old, rotting wood grinding against itself.
“Matty, when those guys hurt you, I thought I lost everything,” Dad murmured next to his ear. “I thought I lost you, baby. There was so much blood and—” he cleared his throat. “They hurt you because I was selfish, Matt. I wanted you to hear me win in the ring. And I thought—I had it—” Dad was really having a hard time breathing. Like, he sounded like—wait.
No.
Dad wasn’t the one who was supposed to cry.
That wasn’t allowed.
Dad had already cried plenty in the hospital—one two whole separate occasions even.
“It was supposed to be me who they shot, baby,” Dad hiccupped.
What.
“I—the—they were supposed to shoot me. And everything that was left, the money from the fight, that was supposed to go into an account for you—for when you grew up and wanted to go to college.”
That was horrible.
Matt hated that.
Hated it so much it made his belly turn in circles. It made his throat tight and his eyes hurt.
He didn’t want to hear this. This wasn’t his dad talking. He would never do that.
Matt couldn’t stop the hiccup from escaping and the hands on his head and back clutched him tighter to Dad’s chest, but he didn’t really mind so much this time.
He didn’t know where else to turn or what else to do to make himself stop feeling this way. To make his dad stop feeling this way.
Dad’s hands were rough, calloused on the inside and out. They smelled bitter on the outside from antiseptic and a little like wood and salt from the splinters on the part of his palm right under his fingers.
Those fingers pressed against Matt’s face and scraped tears away from under his eyes.
Matt felt like he needed to say something—his throat ached and burned from how badly he needed to say something.
But he just couldn’t.
It made him hiccup more and feel light-headed.
Dad hugged him hard and close and rubbed wide circles into his back.
All Matt could do was shake his head.
Dad sucked in a breath of air and then let it out and somehow, that seemed to start to get his breathing back on track. His body started to feel less hard. And that made Matt’s body and brain feel less stressed. And after a couple minutes of breathing and loosening hugs, Dad pulled all the way away and rasped a thumb over Matt’s cheek.
“I’m sorry, honey,” he said. “This is all my fault. But I can’t go back and change it and I’m sorry, I’m so, so sorry that you’ve had to suffer like this. There’s nothing I can do to change things for us, Matt, do you understand? All we can do is try to move forward and—” Dad swallowed hard, “And repent. I’ve just gotta say sorry to God for hurting you in all the ways I have, do you understand?”
Kind of.
Matt kind of understood. He wasn’t sure he agreed, but he understood.
Dad’s thumb stroking under his eye was kind of making it hurt worse, but he didn’t dare point that out.
“I thought that if I could help anyone from ever having to make the choice that I did,” Dad sighed, “Then the world would be a better place and maybe God would forgive me. Maybe I could finally move on from this, and we could finally be normal but—I don’t even know how to describe it, Matty. It’s like there’s another person inside of me and he ain’t wanna stop. When we get to crunching and punching, he likes it, honey. I don’t know how to stop him.”
Matt sniffed and wriggled out of Dad’s arms so that he could sit next to him.
This seemed like a serious conversation. And Matt couldn’t think if he was all crammed up in Dad’s arms. That was a bad place for thinking. A good place for feeling. But ultimately very bad for thinking.
“M—maybe,” he found his voice willing to say hoarsely, “You just need some h-help?”
He could feel Dad staring blankly at him.
Matt huffed. His throat hurt from all that crying and carrying on.
“Help,” he repeated.
“What, like, head help? You tellin’ me to see a shrink, kiddo?” Dad asked.
Dumb.
Dad was dumb sometimes.
“No,” Matt rasped. “Help.”
Dad sighed.
He wasn’t getting it and Matt’s brain-to-mouth blockade was frustrating him. It was frustrating Matt, too.
“Matty—”
“A team,” Matt croaked.
Dad’s heat went all weird and confused.
“A team? What do you mean, pal?” Dad said.
Matt wasn’t quite sure yet.
He needed more time to think.
He woke up two days later and had it.
He skidded out of his room and did not fall (A+ for physio) and scrambled out into the kitchen where Dad was drinking coffee over the sink before he headed off for work.
Matt dug hands into his shirt and stood on the toes of his steel-toed work shoes.
He could tell he had Dad’s attention. And judging from the silence, probably a raised eyebrow.
“A+ for physio,” Dad noted.
“Imma be a devil, too,” Matt chirped up at him.
“Uh-huh,” Dad said after a minute.
Rude.
“No, Dad. Imma be a devil, too,” Matt said. “I got superpowers. You’re just—you’re you. Like, the first guy. Like Obi Wan Kenobi.”
Dad was definitely giving him stank face.
“You ain’t being a devil, Matthew,” he said.
Rude, rude, rude.
“You’re a devil,” Matt pointed out, thrilled and thrumming with this amazing talking day. “I’m a Furby. That’s your fault. I didn’t ask for a weird nun mom. You gotta teach me how to be a devil now ‘cause what you really need is more brains to help more people. I got brains, Dad. If I study hard and go to college and become a lawyer, then when you catch the bad guys, I can put ‘em away in jail for good and eventually, you’ll get old and then you can retire and me and my superpowers can take over. And then I can be the devil and put the bad guys away for good. It’ll be like a family business.”
Dad was absolutely giving him stank face. The strongest stank face ever.
Whatever.
These were his choices. Matt was just here offering him a way forward for the both of them.
“Matt, you don’t have superpowers,” Dad said.
This guy. Talk about a Debbie Downer.
“I do,” he said.
“You don’t.”
“I do.”
“Matthew.”
“I do and you know it, and you’re just mad you don’t got ‘em.”
Dad sighed like he’d never been so tired.
“You know what?” he said. “Fuckin’ sure. Why not? You got superpowers. You’re a baby devil. Let’s start a family business. One which involves you going to college, you hear me?”
Clear as a bell.
“You ain’t going out with me, Matty, do you understand?”
Mmmmmmm
Yet.
“Ever. You ain’t going out with me ever. I do this until you go to college. That’s seven-eight years, here. After that, you become a fancy lawyer and start putting these folks away in a legitimate sort of way. Then I retire and we never speak of this again. Alright? We got a deal?”
Mmmmmmm.
Fine. Sure.
On everything except the first part.
“Oh my god.”
“I need a suit,” Matt bubbled.
“Matt.”
“I want a suit.”
“You’re not coming.”
“I want a suit!!”
“You’re too dramatic and tiny.”
“DAD.”
“You got school, devil child. Go get dressed.”
Matt scowled and relinquished his grip on Dad’s shirt.
School sucked, but he now had a bargain to keep up here.
“You ain’t seen the last of me,” he threatened Dad, feeling around the wall back to his bedroom.
Dad didn’t say anything but Matt could tell that he was shaking his head.
“Grace. Don’t be mad.”
Matt hunkered down into the sheets and tried to hide his smile in them as he eavesdropped on the kitchen.
He’d had a great day. A great talking day. A great moving day. A great superpowers day.
Things were really looking up over here in the Matt Murdock department.
“I’m furious,” Sister Grace said over the line. She sounded busy. Like she was doing other work while talking on the phone.
“Perfect,” Dad said. “Matt’s decided that he’s going to be the next Devil of Hell’s Kitchen.”
Silence on the line.
“Uh-huh,” Sister Grace said in that horrible adult way. “That’s cute.”
No one appreciated Matt around here. Really.
“He’s pretty serious about it,” Dad sighed. “I told him that I’ll hand over the mantle or whatever when he goes to college to become a bigshot lawyer who can put the city’s shitheads away like a real decent person.”
Sister Grace seemed to take a minute to think about that.
“Are you telling me you’re giving yourself term limits?” she asked.
Term limits?
What did that even mean?
“I guess,” Dad said.
Sister Grace took a minute to think about that, too.
“You know where I stand on this,” she said.
“I do,” Dad sighed.
“You’re still an idiot, Jackie. This is dangerous. Reckless, even,” she said.
“I know.”
“You could die at any moment.”
“I’ll just have to be extra careful then,” Dad said.
Another pause. This one dragged on for what felt like an eternity.
Dad cleared his throat.
“Great. Glad we understand each other. Anyways, just so you know, Matty definitely has superpowers and heard you the other day you were here and,” Dad sighed like he was exhausted, “Has decided that the damned offspring of a devil and a nun is a Furby.”
The crackly bark of laughter at that was highly pleasing. It made Matt’s whole chest warm with pride.
He yanked the sheet over his head and squeezed his eyes closed.
He was allowed to sleep after all that good work.
One small step for mankind and all that.