A/N: I LOVE writing about Matt Murdock and Catholicism. I don't think it's Catholic guilt-I think it's human suffering being dealt with through the strength and challenge of faith. Here is perhaps a more accurate confession scene.

Three o'clock. Father Lantom slipped the stole over his shoulders, surveyed the silent lengths of the pews, empty of souls, and sighed.

Another day with the breviary, he thought, and shook his head. Sacraments, grace—they were alien concepts in a world too often chained by its own ambition.

He had unlatched the half-door of the confessional when he heard the sound, and paused, grasping the heavy velvet curtain.

Tip, tap tap. The cane. He knew it well, and turned with a smile, remembering a second later that his visitor couldn't see it.

"Matthew."

"Father." The young man's face creased warmly, even though his eyes were ever-inscrutable behind the dark glasses.

"Here for confession?"

"If you'll have me."

They settled in, a grate between them, and no sound but the young man's hitched breathing. He seemed weary, the priest thought. Weary, and almost pained.

"Bless me, father, for I have sinned. It has been—two weeks. Since my last confession."

"Tell me your sins."

"Nothing you haven't heard before." A breath, rasped in and let out more quietly. "I've let anger control me—I've hurt people. I was bitter, against…against others and against God." He blew out another breath. "I'm—I suppose you could say I'm struggling. With the line."

"The line?"

"Between justice, and vengeance."

The priest nodded. Remembered that he could not be seen, and said, "Justice can only be man's if it is also God's."

"You know, Father—" and behind the grate, the priest heard the faint huff of a laugh, "They say justice is blind."

The priest smiled, working the smooth beads of the rosary tangled in his fingers across the pad of his thumb. He noticed the feeling more in the dim, unseeing light—and he wondered if the man behind the screen would sympathize, being always in darkness. "They say the same thing about love," he countered. "But you can't depend on Shakespeare there entirely, Matthew. Is love blind because lovers won't see each other's flaws? That's a shallow sort of sentiment."

'It's a different kind of seeing." There was a touch of strain in the young man's tone now. "Unchecked by petty distractions and general bull—I mean—"

"Nonsense?"

"Yes." A brief pause. Then—"I know I'm no poster child for perfection. But you're a believer in these things—don't you think—don't you think this could be a sign? The grand design for my life."

"The Lord's design for every man is salvation," Father Lantom answered. "You make the choices that lead you there, or not."

"A hard road," Matthew said. "Even though I'm used to being blind."

"You're not blinder than the rest of us," Father Lantom said. "Not here. And here, too, we have the greatest opportunities for sight. Don't you remember the apostle Thomas? Faith without sight is the greater gift. You have a practical kind of faith everyday, don't you? Living without something most of us take for granted."

"You think that should translate that to religious faith?" Matthew shifted. "I—I do have it. Faith, I mean. But it isn't always something you feel."

"That's just it," Father Lantom said. He thought of adding, 'son', but that didn't seem fair. Not to Matt Murdock, fatherless for years. "You told me your father used to get up off the mat. Every time. You have to do that too. Why do you think Peter was made pope? He was far from perfect! He betrayed his Lord, but he got up again. And again, and again."

"Is that it?" the young man asked softly. "When I cross the line, do you think a cock will crow for me?"

"Don't you think the cock crows everyday? We slip and fall and betray in small ways, and in big ones. What we do about it makes the difference between Peter and Judas. Do we repent, or do we despair? That's why I am glad you're here. It means you want to get back up again."

"What if I'm neither?"

"Peter nor Judas?"

"Yeah. What if there's a third option—meaningless, futile, and just…just being. Neither a great saint nor a great sinner."

"Well, that would be easier, wouldn't it?" Father Lantom passed the beads over his palm again. "Simpler, to think that the world was large and you were small, with nothing to be done about it. But I don't think that's what you're really grappling with. You can see the veil drawn back, even a little. Better than a lot of people. And—you see the injustice, and you want to fight it. Whether greatness is in your reach—and how it is—well, that's something you'll have determine. Through prayer. Through suffering."

"I've got some mileage on both fronts."

"Get some more. In prayer, that is. I think the suffering will come on its own."

Matthew chuckled. The priest couldn't tell if it was ironic. "I imagine it will." He leaned forward. "Will you absolve me, father?"

"Are you repentant, for your sins?"

"I am."

"And do you resolve to sin no more?"

"I'll do my best." Even in the darkness, the priest could see that the young man had his face in his hands. "But you'll see me again."

The priest rested his hand against the grate. "And I will be here." He shut his eyes. "Now, say a good Act of Contrition."

In a whisper, stilted and taut, Matthew began. "Oh my God, I am heartily sorry, for having offended thee…"

The priest raised his hand. "God, the Father of mercies, through the death and resurrection of his Son has reconciled the world to himself and sent the Holy Spirit among us for the forgiveness of sins; through the ministry of the Church may God give you pardon and peace, and I absolve you from your sins in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit."

"Amen," the young man said. He rose, hand closing around his cane. "Thank you, Father."

"You're welcome," the priest said, stepping out into the light. "Until next time?"

A smile twisted the young man's lips. "Yes. Until the cock crows again."