You liked to people watch. It had intrigued you since you were young, the things you could tell about a person just from the way they walked, the clothing they wore, a slight accent on certain words that could tell you where they or their parents were from before they moved to the city. People watching was free entertainment, and you loved fabricating intricate stories for the strangers that walked into your coffee shop. It also meant you liked to meddle a little when you thought some people could use some extra help.
Black coffee, ordered with a no-nonsense tone at 7:00 in the morning, just before the rush? You happened to call out that customers name at the same time as the young woman who ordered a latte tall, blonde, and sweet. And leaving a pastry bag that neither of them had ordered meant you could tell them just to split it - on the house of course.
And if they had started to order together a few days later, who were you to say anything? You liked to play matchmaker, and while it usually went off without a hitch (your best friend claims you have some kind of magic power), you couldn’t for the life of you set yourself up with someone. But that was okay, you told yourself. Maybe you were meant to help make other people happy. So when strangers smiled at you lightly, a bit more of a spring in their step than normal, you enjoyed it. Took it as a little personal win, even.
***
The rush had just ended on Monday, meaning the only people you’d see in your little cafe before lunch would probably be Mable, and she’d probably only have the youngest of her three kiddos - the littlest baby you’d ever seen in your life - with her. The other two would be at school, and her husband at work. Mable claimed she liked the cafe for its softness, and claimed little Isabelle never seemed to get fussy when they were there, which made her a consistent regular at around nine in the morning.
So it was only natural that you assumed it was her when the bell over the door jingled, and didn’t bother looking up from the counter top you were wiping before you started talking.
“Morning Mable! You want the usual? I can get some whip cream for Izzy if you-” Looking up to smile at her while offering her baby something sweet, you pause. It’s definitely not Mable, and you flush red at the two men looking at you in confusion. The first one is wearing red-tinted glasses and is looking straight ahead, and thankfully, he seems more amused by your minor mixup than put out, if the small quirk of his lips is any indication.
Glancing at the second man makes your heart flutter a little, as he’s smiling widely and.
Oh.
No.
He’s just about the cutest thing you’ve ever seen and now your heart is beating way too fast than is necessary right now.
“We’re so sorry that we’re not Mable, but we’re hoping you’ll still serve us?” The cute one says, running a hand through his shoulder length hair, and you have to clear your throat before you can be sure you’ll be able to speak without making a fool of yourself.
“Yes, absolutely, sorry about that. Mable usually comes in at this time, so that’s who I was expecting,” You smile politely at them, and they approach a little closer from where they had previously been standing, frozen in confusion. It doesn’t take you more than a second to realize why the brunette man is hanging off the other’s arm, if the cane is any indication.
“I could read off the menu?” You offer, a little unsure how to handle the situation. You’ve never served a blind customer before, just a deaf one, and Jamie had started with just writing down his order until you learned his usual. In exchange he taught you some remedial sign, but you were still pretty slow. “Do you have something in mind?”
“You don’t have to read it off, Matt here likes his coffee black, like his soul,” the cute one says, and based on the way the brunette - Matt, apparently - snorts and tips his head, he’s not offended, so you offer a small giggle at the joke.
“And you have a sparkling personality in comparison, yes?” Maybe you were flirting a little bit. Sue you, he was cute and he seemed sweet and you were allowed to have fun sometimes too.
“I like this one Matty, she understands me,” he smiles brightly and glances over the menu. “What would the expert suggest to try?”
“If you like something sweet-” Me. “-you could try any of the mochas for hot and sweet, or a frappuccino for cold and sweet, if that’s your thing. We also have some lovely pastries, baked by yours truly fresh this morning,” you offer, gesturing to the glass case.
“There’s a display case,” the cute one says, and for a moment you’re confused, before you remember his companion, and then your heart swoons when you realize he’s narrating. Matt cocks his head again and then smiles like he knows something you don’t.
“What’s in it?” He asks, and you take over from the cute one (ugh, what was his name), explaining the different muffins, cookies, and other pastries within the case, differentiating between the typical breakfast ones, and the ones for a bit of a sweet tooth.
“I also have slices of cake, chocolate and lemon curd, though I’ll be honest in saying the cakes are a day old. They’re kept under glass domes to stay fresh though,” you explain quickly. You hated to waste the cakes, and they’d be gone by tomorrow or the next day, so it wasn’t a huge issue.
“You know, I’m really feeling one of the chocolate croissants,” Matt says, and the cute one’s face breaks into a grin.
“Matty, you read my mind.” You smile as you grab two while they chat about something - you hear the words ‘client’ and ‘case’ so you draw a few connections and assume they’re lawyers. The cute one doesn’t give his name for his coffee order - why would he, they’re the only two in the shop, there won’t be any mistaking their orders - and if you slip an extra sweet or two into the bag, their none the wiser until after they’ve left the shop.
***
Matt and his cute friend - Foggy, you learn, short for Franklin (you swoon again and Matt makes that calculating face that you have yet to interpret) - become regulars around your shop. Sometimes they order a third coffee or sweet for a woman named Karen, who you learn is their secretary. She doesn’t join them for their morning walk to the office, but she apparently loves the cherry bomb cupcakes, so you start to keep a couple behind the counter so you don’t run out before the boys come in. They always come in at the same time, right before Mable, who then lets you whine about how cute Foggy is and how you’re sure he’ll never look twice at you. Mable simply laughs and lets you hold Isabelle and tells you to write your number on his coffee cup.
As if you’re brave enough for that.
You learn a lot about Foggy and Matt’s law firm, and how Nelson and Murdock are currently doing pro bono work - only pro bono, as in they probably can’t afford to pay for the coffee and sweets they are constantly buying from you, which only causes you to slip them stuff more. Everytime Foggy says something sweet about one of his clients, you have to tell yourself that kissing one of your regulars who hasn’t shown any interest in you whatsoever would be bad for business.
The banter that comes with their visits becomes something of a routine, and you start to look forward to when they come in, always together and always seeming happy. They climb your short friend list, and Foggy always asks you how you’re doing - he makes a point to get to know you, and it’s endearing. He asks if you own the shop, and why, and what the name means and you answer his questions. And if, when he explains why he chose to be a lawyer, and the answer if full of truth and justice and kindness, and your heart skips several beats, well, no one has to know.
Matt’s lips adopt a small smirk that is missed by both parties.
***
This was bound to happen at some point. Living in Hell’s Kitchen meant you were exactly safe, ever, and as you hadn’t bothered learning to protect yourself, it had surprised that you hadn’t been mugged until this point. It was a very short walk from your cafe to your apartment building though.
The knife in your face makes you gasp, and the man that growls for your purse quickly receives it, and you hold your hands out when a masked man - Daredevil, you realize with a start - lands in front of you, successfully creating a body barrier between yourself and the mugger.
“It’s not nice to steal from a lady,” he says in a low grovel, and you’re frozen in place, torn between running and watching. The man holding your purse turns white in the face and drops it onto the ground before turning tail and running off in the opposite direction. Seems the Devil’s reputation proceeds him.
The man with horns - literal horns attached to his mask, w h a t - scoops your bag off the sidewalk and holds it out to you.
“Miss? Are you hurt?” His voice seems softer than just a minute ago.
“I- no, I’m fine, thank you,” you reply shakily, and dammit, you hadn’t even gotten hurt and you still had all your stuff, why were you so close to crying? “Sorry,” you sniffle lightly, “I’m a bit of a weakling when it comes to scary stuff,” you laugh, though it sounds harsh even to your ears.
“Hey, that’s okay. We’re not all equipped for the worst,” he offers the words of solace gently. “Do you need me to finish walking you home?” You pause. Part of you wants to tell him no, and let him get back to his odd night job, but the other part of you is scared. And it is really late …
“If you wouldn’t mind?” You ask shyly. “I’m a little shaken up,” you say, embarrassment clear in your tone.
“Not a problem.” And then you’re walking down the street with the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen, and it’s so mundane it makes you laugh. The Devil lifts his head in confusion, and you shake your head.
“Sorry, just- this seems so weird. Just walking down the street with someone who’s such a shadow,” you admit, and he offers a coy smile.
“Well, it’s my job.”
“Walking home wimps who can’t even recover from one of the least impactful muggings ever?”
“Walking home young women who are scared after having a crime committed against them at knife-point.” He sounds like he’s reprimanding you almost, and you have to laugh. “Why are you walking alone so late anyway?”
“I own a cafe down the street, I close at ten and have clean up and next day prep until about eleven fifteen, and I’m not gonna take a cab a couple of blocks,” you shrug. “It’s pointless and a waste of money.” He seems to nod in understanding, and you let your thoughts drift for the next few minutes. You had seen Foggy this morning, and he had such an official looking suit on. Matt had one on as well, and while you could admit he looked handsome, seeing Foggy in a suit had made your heart leap in your chest, and it did so again. The Devil’s head snaps up.
“What?” You ask, having flinched at the sudden movement.
“Are you alright? Your heartbeat jumped.” You flush red and dodge his question.
“You can tell that?”
“Yes, just like I can tell that you don’t want to answer my question.” He smirks and your curse him in your head.
“I was just thinking about a … friend of mine,” you say quietly, running a hand through your hair. “He’s a regular at my coffee shop and he’s … “ cute, sweet, adorable, “ … kind.”
“Just kind?” The Devil asks. Your blush deepens and you can feel the tips of your ears get red.
“Okay, kind and sweet and really, painfully cute,” you mumble, shaking your head as you reach your apartment building. “He’ll probably never notice me, and he’s super oblivious.”
“Hey, you never know,” the Devil says critically, and you get the feeling he knows something you don’t, which sets off an all new set of questions in your head. You brush them off. The man is secretive, and maybe a little enhanced, and he probably doesn’t want to bare his soul to a stranger. And given his kindness in walking you home, you aren’t inclined to push him.
“Yeah, well Foggy is way out of my league-” the vigilante perks up, but you don’t notice, still thinking of the man of the hour, “-and that’s okay.” You pause to fish your keys out of your bag. “And hey, if the Devil of Hell’s kitchen ever wants some coffee or something sweet to eat, let me know. My cafe is open to him, and I’ve got some treats in my kitchen here too. On the house,” you grin at him and head up your steps. And right before he disappears, you hear a quiet hum of agreement.
Your grin widens as you close the door behind you.
***
You haven’t seen Foggy or Matt for the past couple of days, and it makes you bored. And worried. They were lawyers, maybe they were in some trouble? Or just working on a particularly tough case?
Either way, you were worried about them. And you didn’t have their numbers, or even where their law office is. A quick google search remedies the latter, but before you can gather your courage to go for a visit, Foggy finally comes in.
He looks terrible.
“Oh, Foggy,” you say to yourself when he comes in, bags under his eyes and dragging his feet. And alone.
Foggy was never alone. He was always with Matt.
Your worry spikes.
He gives you a glance and you gesture for him to go ahead and sit, and he nods gratefully. You fix him the sweetest drink, adding some extra espresso pumps and topping with a lot of whipped cream and chocolate drizzles. You bag up several pastries you know are his favorite, including a slice of a new type of cake (baked yesterday and frosted this morning), and call his name.
He looks surprised and thankful as you push the bag and the drink into his hands. “On the house.”
“I can pay, you know,” he protests weakly.
“Foggy Nelson, if you so much as think about pulling out your wallet right now, I will never serve you again,” you threaten, and his small smile seems genuine as he thanks you and heads out.
***
Foggy comes in several more times by himself, still sad but mostly looking better. You find out that he’s having some sort of feud with Matt, and you wanna give him a hug every time you see him. It’s a bright Wednesday morning when he comes in, this time with Matt holding his elbow gently. He seems much happier, and you grin.
“Good to see you again, Mr. Murdock,” you say, and his smile matches your own as he returns the sentiment. The boys order, and Matt takes his drink before making his way to the door, not waiting for Foggy. You tilt your head in confusion as Foggy pays (you allow him to, this time) and collects his drink and the bag of pastries you hand him.
“Is Matt okay?” Foggy groans quietly and it looks like he’s … blushing?
“Yeah, he’s just- that’s just him being a meddler,” Foggy says, setting the coffee cup and bag on the counter again.
“What’s he meddling about?” You ask curiously, and Foggy scrubs his hand down his face. Instead of answering, he asks an entirely different question.
“Do you want to go on a date with me sometime?”
You freeze, staring at him in confusion.
“You want to go on a date. With me.” You say for clarification.
“Uh … yes? Unless you don’t want to go on one, I mean I totally understand that and I absolutely would not want to make you uncomfortable, and we don’t have to be weird about ir or-” Foggy’s rambling, and his hand is resting on the back of his neck. You lean forward and press a kiss to his cheek to shut him up.
“I’d love to,” you interrupt, and then you’re writing your phone number on a napkin and shoving it at him with a stupid grin on your cheeks, both of you blushing like idiots.
And if Foggy fistbumps the air outside the coffee shop when he thinks you can’t see him, then he doesn’t need to know.