Hahhaokay I am actually impressed with myself for getting the next chapter up in just a little over a week.
Still, this story has been a really good writing exercise. Not gonna lie, I was really excited by the positive reception!
To all the lovely people who reviewed the first chapter, you're amazing! To all those who followed/favorite: you are also amazing!
Glad you're interested in Iris and her story!
Not gonna lie, she's been fun to work with!
The Devil I Thought I Knew
The boy's father was sprawled out onto the pavement, clearly only half-conscious, groaning softly and curled in on himself. Iris approached him cautiously, kneeling beside him. His face was all blood and budding bruises, a disheartening swelling over his right eye, fattened and split. He had a gash on his left cheek that would no doubt require stitches. Tears—probably a combination of pain and panic—were making streaks down his face, making little clean tracks in the mess of scarlet.
"M-my son," he whispered when Iris came into view. Her heart withered at the brokenness in his voice. "They took..."
"The man in the mask," Iris knelt down by his side. "He's gone after them. He'll find your son."
The reminder, Iris uttering it aloud, made the poor man shudder again.
"You trust him?" he asked.
Trust? She wasn't so sure about that. It was hard to trust someone you barely knew. She'd thought she had a pretty good idea about Matty, her chipper and optimistic little brother, but time had changed a lot. Iris couldn't scrub the image of him, standing tense and ready. It wasn't any version of Matty she knew. The pissed Matty, the closed-off and guarded Matty, she could handle. But The Mask was something new entirely.
"He'll get him back," Iris said the only thing she knew for sure. Theirs was a stubborn breed. Heaven help and hell welcome anyone who got in the way of a determined Murdock. "Be careful of them Murdock boys," their grandma used to say, "they got the Devil in them."
Matty standing there, blood trickling down his mouth, dead on and unfazed by a fist to the jaw.
Iris picked herself up, slinging the man's arm around her neck. Admittedly, her petite build made things a bit of a challenge. "What are you doing?" he asked, though he didn't fight her off. She started towards the van.
"I'm going to clean you up. And then we're going to wait this out together."
"You don't…."
"The Mask asked me to," Iris cut him off. "Besides, I need to settle my head. And you're gonna need someone to stich you up. Think of it as mutually beneficial." They got to the car, the man fishing the keys out of his pockets. The vehicle made a little chirp as he unlocked it.
Hell of a getaway car.
Iris would have found it slightly comical, if she wasn't current supporting a bleeding man, hadn't almost gotten her throat slit by Russians. Hadn't just discovered her brother—her blind baby brother—was a vigilante.
The father went for the driver's seat, but Iris moved to block him. "No," she said. "You're in no shape. I'll drive."
After they settled in to the van, Iris hastily called Andy, making up a food-poising story to cover herself. She almost really did throw up lying to her boss. Andy didn't deserve that, but the man didn't deserve to spend the night alone worrying about his son.
They swung by Iris's apartment first so she could grab her suture kit, and then the boy's father was giving her directions to his place. At first she was a little worried about being tailed, but the Russians really didn't seem to give a rat's-ass about the boy's father. "This is bigger than you…"
"Shit," Iris swore, her hand slamming onto the horn, her charge jumping at the sudden outburst. She was being unusually profane—her not-so-inner Catholic reeling with every cuss word she spoke or thought—but profanity seemed to fit her current situation.
"What?"
"Don't you find it a little funny the Russian's just…let us go? These guys don't like witnesses, people who give them away. Leaving us would be like leaving a trail…."
"A trail for The Mask to follow."
"He's walking right into a trap," Iris's throat closed around her words, hands tightening on the wheel.
Matty, don't get yourself killed. Of course, trying to do the right thing regardless of the danger…that was a Murdock family trait too.
The phantom sound of a gunshot rattled in her skull.
Of course, the information wasn't settling well with the father either. If the man supposedly rescuing his son was about to head into a trap, then…
"Is The Mask someone important to you?" he finally asked, obviously trying too ward off that very thought.
Iris paused, not sure how to answer. She was pretty sure Matty wouldn't appreciate anything along the lines of, "Yeah. He's my brother. Matthew Murdock. Works at his own firm. Want his business and home address?" But even giving tiny chunks of that information could be flirting with disaster. Such was the slippery slope of knowing someone's secret identity.
"You could say that," she muttered.
"This is the place," the man nodded to a nice little townhome. Pleasant, homey. White-picket-fence-y. Iris parked the van, rushing around the driver's side before the father could get any ideas about walking into the house without help.
The inside was about as "American dream" as one could get. Almost straight out of an Ikea catalogue. The living room's carpet was plush and quiet beneath her feet. Throw pillows with cheesy inspirational quotes decorated the leather couch. Iris tossed aside one that told her to, "Dream big" and set the man down. She dragged the footrest in front of the nearby arm-chair closer to her, setting up a perch right in front of him.
"My sister sends me one of those for every Christmas and every birthday," he explained.
Iris said something indistinct and noncommittal, popping open her suture kit. "You got a wash rag? I should clean away some of this blood so I know what I'm working with."
"Bathroom's down the hall," he nodded. "You've done this before?"
She let out a deep, shuddering sigh. "Not since I was a kid. But I did it all the time. It used to be some sort of competition, before my brother's acc—" she cut herself off, realizing she was about to say too much.
The father raised his eyebrow, a rather morbid expression with all the swelling and bruising. "What kind of childhood did you have?"
A beat. She stood, goose bumps peppering her arm. "A happy one."
"Did he win?" An eleven-year-old Iris looked over her shoulder when Matty came shuffling into the kitchen, face dejected. She was standing at the stove, two grilled cheese sandwiches simmering in the pan, satisfactorily golden brown. She gently lifted them with a spatula, setting them on plates.
"No," her brother flopped into his usual seat.
"Darn," Iris sighed. "Dad had him on the ropes, didn't he?"
"Yeah, but he let his gloves drop. Price tagged him and it was over from there," Matty leaned back in his chair as Iris carried over the plates.
"Grilled cheese again?" he narrowed his eyes at the sandwich. It was the only thing Iris knew how to make, so on nights when she didn't have lessons at Aldridge and she was in charge of dinner, it was typically the only thing that got served.
"Eat it or starve, Squirt," Iris went rummaging in the fridge, fishing out two Cokes. She popped open the cans and by the time she got to the table, Matty had already dug in. Despite his earlier complaints, he wolfed it down in record time, leaving nothing but scattered crumbs as evidence.
"You get your homework done?" Iris asked, clearing away the plates.
"I don't know, Mom, did you?" he folded his arms.
"As a matter of fact, Counselor, I did," Iris turned on the sink. "But get your butt over here and help me and I won't rat you out when Dad gets home."
Matty took the offer, scrambling to her side. The breakfast dishes awaited them too, but they made quick work of it.
They were a perfectly efficient pair, the Murdock children. Their lives, at this moment, were untouched and uncomplicated. Just two kids living in a world that was small and happy and uneventful.
The lock turned in the front door, Matty the first to hear it. He dropped his half-washed dish in the soapy water, bounding to greet his father. Iris followed at his heels.
"Dad!"
"Hey, Iris, Matty. Hey!" he knelt down to receive them both, carefully embracing them. "Careful now, careful. Don't get blood on you."
Iris broke the embrace first, frowning at the bleeding cut above her father's eye. He offered her a small, reassuring smile before half-limping into the kitchen. He was moving slowly, breathing ragged. But, Iris had seen him in far worse shape before. Still, he was wearier than she'd even seen him, his every step clearly requiring the fullness of effort.
"You gotta keep your gloves up," Matty declared sagely.
"Shoulda had you two in my corner."
Matty frowned, narrowing his eyes at his dad's injuries. "Does it hurt?"
"Don't tickle," Jack shook his head. "One of you get the kit."
"It's my turn!" Matty declared, already rushing to the drawer where the kept they first-aid kit.
Jack found his spot at their table, wincing as he muscles pulled and strained against the newly formed bruises. He closed his eyes, a silent sigh rippling through his body. His left hand found his right shoulder, gently massaging the muscle. Iris noticed a general….off-ness to him. She'd seen her dad lose plenty of times, yet he'd never been this….resigned about it.
"Daddy," Iris said quietly.
"Hmm?" he lifted his head, eyes slowly fluttering open.
"Pan's still warm," she said. "Want me to make you a grilled cheese?"
"Sure, Sweetie," he offered her a smile, but it didn't quite reach his eyes. While Iris got to work on the sandwich, Matty started on the cut.
"You shoulda had him," the younger Murdock declared, carefully dabbing the wound with an alcohol-drenched swab. "Price is a bum."
"Hey," Jack scolded. "Anyone who's got the guts to step in that ring deserves respect. Don't you forget that."
"Even Price?"
"Even Price."
Iris chanced a moment away from the pan, turning around to watch her brother work. "Sorry you lost, Dad," she muttered quietly.
"Just wasn't my night," Jack shrugged. "Hey, hey. Easy with the cotton swabs there, Doc." He tried to gently brush Matty's hand away.
"Gotta get in there," Matty said. "Don't want it to get infected."
"Stiches?" Jack guessed.
"Oh yeah."
"Iris, get the scotch."
Obediently, the elder Murdock child knelt down, pulling the bottle out from under the sink and bringing it over to the table, sliding it towards her dad. He pushed it in Matty's direction. "No. It's for him."
Matty grinned. "Really?"
"You think I want your hands shaking like last time? This is my face we're talking about."
"My hands don't shake when I suture," Iris said.
"Yeah they do!" Matty shot back.
"Alright, alright," Jack grinned at his children. "I've been part of one brutal fight tonight. Don't need another on my hands. Just a little sip, Matty. And, Iris, make sure you don't burn down the apartment, Sweetheart."
"Oops!" she squeaked, trotting back to the stove.
"You two watch the fight?" Jack asked, trying to distract himself as Matty began stitching.
"Matty kept me updated while I made dinner," Iris nodded.
"You're supposed to be doing your homework."
"Got it done first," Iris plated the grilled cheese, bringing it over to the table. She sat down in her place, watching as Matty finished up.
"Both of you? All of it?"
Matty's gaze shifted to Iris, which told their father everything he needed to know.
"I want you to finish up before you go to bed," Jack spoke through gritted teeth, hands balled into fists as he tried not to cry out. Whenever she wasn't the one suturing, it was always a little painful for Iris to watch the stiches yank at her dad's skin.
"I'll do it tomorrow," Matty tried for negotiation.
"Tonight."
"Before school?"
"Tonight."
"Alright."
Silence. Iris watched her father's lower lip quiver, his whole body shaking as the younger sibling started on the next stitch.
"Dad?" Matty asked, clipping off the excess. "We gonna have enough for Mr. Morris this month?"
Jack paused, tossing an unreadable look between his children, before presenting a stuffed envelope. "He will get his rent on time."
Iris snatched it up, peering inside, fingers tracing over the large wad. "You got all this for losing?" A sour feeling settled into her stomach, something about the situation not quite sitting with her.
Jack's already unstable smile faded, avoiding her gaze, "Sometimes, even when you get knocked down…you can still win."
"It ain't about how you hit the matt," Matty agreed.
"It's how you get up," the three Murdocks finished together.
"Alright," Jack took the envelope back up. "Go hit the books."
Matty's shoulders slumped. "Can I take the bottle?"
"No," Jack half-laughed, though he wasn't really committed to it. The weariness still lingered in his eyes. "Just…go on."
Matty shuffled towards his room, but Iris lingered for a moment, blinking slowly at her father. "Daddy, is everything okay?"
"Yeah, yeah," he attempted to fix his smile, to paste it back on, but the effort fell flat. "Actually, Sweetheart, I've been meaning to talk to you about that special lesson you wanted to take at Aldridge."
Iris squirmed around a little, the sting of disappointment still not fully subsided. "I understand, Daddy. Things are tight right now. Besides, if I can't make it somebody else gets my spot. Maybe Angela won't be so pissed at me if she gets to take the lesson with Dr. Manson. She was next in line after me."
Jack tapped his finger on the bottle of scotch. "I've found a way to cover it."
Iris's breath hitched. "What?"
"You're going to get your private lesson with Dr. Manson."
"Daddy!" she squealed, flying out of her chair and throwing her arms around his neck. "Thank you. Thank you so, so…" she paused, eyes wandering to the envelope on the table. Her excitement subsided as quickly as it came.
"How did you get so much for losing?" she whispered.
Again, he refused to look at her. "Go make sure Matty's doing his homework."
"Daddy…"
He sighed, tucking the envelope back into his jacket. "Go check on your brother, Iris."
He didn't even look at her as she disappeared back to her bedroom.
A few stiches and two Advil later, the father's living room had settled into silence. The stranger watched her as she cleaned up her mess from suturing, frown deep- set on his face. "I'm in good hands," he muttered, so quietly she almost missed it at first. "Barely felt a thing."
Iris raised an eyebrow, picking up the bloodied washrag she'd used to clean the his face. "You don't have to lie. I know getting stiches hurts like hell without being on anything."
"So, on the subject of the fact that you know how to do this…."
"I'm gonna toss this rag in your machine," Iris cuts him off. It's sort of dumb to just throw a damp washrag in without another load, and it's not her responsibility, but she'd take any out she can get. Even appealing to her extremely latent domestic side. The conversation was leading down a slippery slope than ended with Matt's identity right out in the open.
"Laundry's just off the kitchen," the man sighed, slapping his hands on his thighs. A little gesture to ground himself in reality, she guessed. She felt a little tang of guilt bubble at the back of her throat. He was searching, trying to grapple onto any distraction he could get. And she was dancing around his attempts for comfort.
The washing machine vibrated under her fingers when she slammed it shut. The hiss of water, and she was leaning against it for support. All she could really think about was Matty out there somewhere….wandering right into a trap. She doubted he'd call her for updates. She wasn't going to hear anything until he stumbled here...she hoped he'd stumble here. She hoped he wasn't bleeding out in warehouse somewhere. Hoped is body wasn't floating in the Hudson. Hope was all she had to go on. And faith.
She found herself whispering prayers to every patron saint she thought might fit this messed up, totally unreal situation. St. Iris Murdock of New York, she thought sarcastically, patron saint of vigilante brothers who may be dead in a ditch.
"I don't know if you drink, but…" the man appeared in the doorway, his voice drawing Iris out of her thoughts. She took the glass without hesitation. The wine tasted like it more than likely came out of a box, but that was decidedly not the worst thing she'd experienced that night, so she sipped gratefully.
"Patrick," the man finally said.
Iris paused. "What?"
"Patrick Kent. My name. If we're going to keep this weird vigil together, I figured names would be helpful."
She debated for an hour-long second over the risks of telling him her name. Iris Murdock led to Matt Murdock….and Matt Murdock apparently had a few things he'd rather people not know. If Matt Murdock survived the night.
She tossed back another sip, trying to block out the image of tomorrow's news cast. "Blind Masked Man Fished out of Dumpster."
The drink rolled down her throat all jagged and fiery.
"Look," Patrick swirled his drink around in his glass. "I don't really know….whatever it is you and the Mask got going on. But, you're clearly shaken up. And, frankly, I'm….not doing so hot myself. You said you wanted this whole thing to be mutually beneficial, right? So…can we just….stop dancing around each other?"
She shivered, images of Matty in a hospital bed—eyes bandaged, thrashing and groaning and shivering—flickering around in her mind. Heart breaking as she cleaved to her dad's side, unable to do anything for him. Only able to wait for the terror to fade, for the world to find some semblance of normal for her baby brother.
Apparently, The Mask was the normal he'd found.
"Iris," she said. "My name is Iris."
A few weeks after the fight with Price, and a few more shocking losses on the part of Jack Murdock, Iris was ready to receive her promised private lesson with Dr. Manson, principal oboist with the New York Philharmonic. When Mr. Aldridge had announced the fact that Dr. Manson had reached out to the conservatory wanting to teach private lessons to a select few, it had been Iris's dream. She'd picked up the oboe about a year prior, Mr. Aldridge kind enough to find one for her to borrow.
Iris was asked to dress up for the occasion, and Mr. Aldridge himself introduced her to the man of the hour. Dr. Manson was austere, salt-and-pepper haired and smelling of expensive cologne. He wore a hand-tailored suit for the lesson, making the dress Iris borrowed from her upstairs neighbor seem like a trash bag. Still, she kept her focus during the whole half hour. He was stern, stopping her every few measures to correct. Iris took each critique in stride, attacking each playing with a trademark Murdock tenacity. When the lesson was over, she stood, cleaving to her oboe like a life-line as the man's gaze raked over her.
"Promising," was all he said.
She found it odd her father wasn't there to greet her after. He'd promised to take her and Matty to Ethan's after to celebrate. Éclairs and hot chocolate, their favorite way to ring in special occasions. Figuring he was just running behind—sometimes his training sessions ran behind and he was late picking up Matty from school—she went to the recital hall to wait. The other carpool kids swarmed around her asking her question after question, but her mind still buzzing from the half hour. It had passed in a blur.
"Iris," she turned her head when Mr. Ramirez—who taught the violin and Iris only knew by name—came up to her, and Iris's stomach turned to stone. His eyes were wild, the rest of his face twisted into some strange unreadable expression.
"I'm supposed to drive you to Metro-General."
"Metro…" Iris trailed off.
That was a hospital….why….
The world narrowed around her, a ringing in her ears. Too many scenarios crowding around in her mind, fighting for her attention. A ragged, panicked squeak pushed it's way out of her throat.
"It's your brother," Mr. Ramirez knelt down to her level. "He was in an accident." Another retched sound. The teacher frowned, catching Iris's horrified look. "He's alive. He's alive. Don't worry, he's alive."
The drive was awkward, tense. Iris's stomach was churning the entire time, as she sat in silence, praying for Matty. And odd, disjointed memory of being with her grandmother and father at mass. Grandma Murdock shushing her and Matty when they were whispering to each other during prayers.
As soon as they reached their destination, Mr. Ramirez handed her off to a nurse, who escorted the panicking eleven-year-old through the pandemonium of Metro-General. Her father rushed to intercept her, enveloping her in a bone-crushing hug. "Iris, Sweetheart."
She guessed the hug was supposed to comfort her, but his panic seeped right into her. She wondered maybe if he were just trying to hold onto her tight. He'd come close to losing one child, it would make sense if he tried to cleave to her for dear life. To keep her safe.
"Matty," Iris said thinly. Tears, which she'd really been working to keep back, finally burst forth. She sobbed loudly into her father's shoulder.
"He's gonna be okay," her dad assured. "He pushed someone out of the way of an on-coming truck. There were chemicals, they…..his eyes." He cried too, scooping her up in his arms and carrying her into the room.
Matty was unconscious, all wires and sweaty, clammy skin. Iris shrank into her father when she saw the bandages around her brother's eyes. Jack set her down and she rushed right up to Matty's side, squeezing her brother's hand.
"Matty, I'm gonna be right here. Every step of the way. I'm here for you," she fervently whispered.
They were in the hospital for hours before Matty woke up. A well-meaning neighbor had brought a change of clothes for Iris. She was in her pajamas and comfortably curled up in an arm chair, half-asleep, before her brother's screams fill the room.
"I can't see!" the terror-filled proclamation drew Jack out of his stupor, sending him flying to his son's bedside. He reached out for a thrashing Matty.
"Matty, Matty, it's me. It's Dad, I'm right here."
Iris's heart contracted jaggedly. Her dad's words of comfort seemed to fall on deaf ears, Matty kicking and screaming and struggling futilely against the hospital-issue blankets.
"I-I-I can't see," Matty whimpered.
"You were in an accident. Do you remember?" Iris could tell her father was trying not to lose it. She got up off the chair, quietly shuffling to join him at her brother's side. "You're in the hospital, but we're right here with you. Me and Iris."
"Everything's so loud," Matty panted. "Everything…"
"I'm here," their dad repeated. "It's Daddy. Here." Jack grabbed Matty's hands, placing them right onto strong outlines of Jack's cheekbones. "Feel my face. Feel my face."
For a brief second, Matty could only hyperventilate. But then recognition finally dawned on him, and he took a shuddering breath, hands hungrily searching the rest of Jack's features. "Dad," Matty blubbered.
Now that he wasn't thrashing around, Iris figured it would be safe to crawl in beside her brother. To do her part. It was a typical thing for them to do, to curl into each other for comfort. Whenever he had nightmares, she'd come to his room. Whenever she was scared by a thunderstorm, he'd come to hers and settle under her comforter. Making her laugh with silly stories. Their dad's profession—the late night's it required—meant the Murdock siblings had learned to turn to each other for comfort. Nights spent side-by-side braving their fears as one.
Matty was, at first, startled by her presence at his side as she snuggled up next to him, but the familiarity of the situation calmed him. "Iris," he choked, voice shuddering. His breathing was too quick, inefficient, but he managed to suck in a few decent breaths, grounded by the presence of his family.
"Right here, Matty," she said.
"Me and Iris," her dad agreed. "Right here."
"I…" Matty sobbed raggedly. "I can't see."
"It's alright," Jack assured, obviously at a loss for what to do.
"Dad, I can't see…"
"I know, Matty. I know," Jack spared a glance at Iris, the helplessness shattering her heart. Iris's dad had always been so sure, so strong. This…this was….
"It's alright. It's alright," Jack kept muttering. "I'm here. We're here. It's alright…We're here.."
It wasn't too long before a nurse came in, re-administering meds. Poking, prodding. Matty, to his credit, took the whole thing with only minimal complaining, but Iris had to restrain herself. All she wanted to do was make everything better. To take away Matty's fears and pain. But all she could do was hold him by her side, let him doze off in her arms as the new dosage of meds worked through his system.
When Matty was out, Jack finally relaxed, stumbling back to his chair. Iris stayed where she was, determined to make the first sensation her brother found when he woke up again the familiarity of her presence. Her dad sat hunched over, head in hands. She didn't think he was aware of her. Aware of anything except those heartbreaking moments of Matty's sheer terror.
Iris let her father sit in silence, her own exhaustion making her eyelids heavy. Matty's calm breathing was almost hypnotic. And the adrenaline rush of his startling awakening, yanked into a new terrifyingly blank state of consciousness, had torn through her like lightning, left her shaking and weary. She fell asleep at her brother's side, vaguely aware of her father's tears as she drifted off.
The silence was no less heavy then before. The two near-strangers had unsuccessfully tried the small talk thing. Unfortunately, it was a little hard when Iris was still being tight-lipped about almost anything. One would be surprised how quickly basic conversation fails when one half of the dialogue was barely even comfortable saying her name.
Iris was now leaning against the kitchen counter, watching as Patrick rummaged through his cupboards. She had no idea what he was trying to accomplish. He probably didn't either. She stared into her half-finished second glass of wine, trying to find words to say. It was about as good of a distraction as aimlessly searching through kitchen cabinets.
Iris stared at the framed pictures, the little pastoral scenes surrounding profound quotes. "Maybe I should get your decorator to do my place," she said. "Mine has a distinct lack of feel-good motivation."
Patrick managed a half-laugh as he slammed the last cupboard. "This is all my sister," he shook his head. "She and my brother-in-law own the property. They're renting it out to me while I try to get back on…" he cut himself off, casting a side-long glance at her. "Never mind."
He leaned against the counter, focusing on the drawing's on the refrigerator. Iris followed his gaze. They were all obviously done by a child's hand. Mostly of a boy and a father. No evidence of a mother at all.
"What's your son's name?" Iris asked.
"Ian."
"Hmm."
He watched her as she examined the drawings for a moment before deciding he dislike the silence, "More wine?"
Iris looked at her half-downed glass. It wasn't helping for forgetting Matty. In fact, it may have been making matter's worse. Of course, the carefully guarded way she was handling her interactions with Patrick probably was doing more to drive her inward, to revel in memories and possibilities. To let her imagination do its worst. "No thank you," she finally said.
"You know what," Patrick put down his own glass. His was empty. "Here's how we're gonna do this. I get it. Tied to a vigilante. Can't really tell me much. Can't get too close to the Mask's identity. But…innocent stuff, you know? Random, unusual facts."
Iris snorted, but anything had to be better than just…waiting. Staring. Taking up space.
"I can read Braille," she shrugged. In retrospect, that may not have been a good first fact. Follow up questions could lead to Matty. Thankfully, the "why/how did you learn" is not what followed.
"Really?"
"Learned when I was a kid. I'm kind of rusty, but…"
Patrick stared at the oven clock, then quickly snapped his gaze back to her. "Can you…I don't know…teach me a little about it?"
Iris resisted the urge to check the time as well. It was not going to do her any good. "Yeah. Okay."
After the accident, the Murdock family had rallied together, picking up the pieces and trying to assemble them into a new way of life. Matty, for his part, took it as best he could. He was hurting, struggling with the idea of a sightless life, and Iris often woke up to the sound of her brother's tears. Or her father's. Or even her own.
But, Murdock's usually could get back up after any hit. And so they plugged away.
"You're getting faster," Matty said, once Iris flipped the Braille book closed. When Matty began learning, Iris was determined to study alongside him, preserving the solidarity that the two siblings had always shared. In the two month's since Matty's hospitalization, she practiced when she could, especially by reading to him before bed. It wasn't something they did before, but it had become a comfortable new tradition.
"Not as fast as you, Squirt," Iris ruffled his hair.
"I have necessity on my side," he said, smile fading.
Iris sighed, looking at the book on her hands. "I know, Matty," was all she could say.
"Iris…" he started, and the elder sibling instantly perked up. He had that tone…
The one that meant he was about to tell her something….well, the only word she could describe it as was uncanny.
The first time was just a week after the accident. She was getting ready to leave his room when Matty had gotten very quiet and asked his sister, "Iris, can I tell you a secret?"
"What's up, Matty?" she'd asked, not really sure where the conversation was about to go.
He'd sighed, twisting the blankets in his hands. "Since….you know….I've been able to hear things. Things far away. Taste things, without them being in my mouth. Smell stuff that I shouldn't be able to."
Iris's reaction had been the expected one. She paused where she was, shivers working their way up and down her spine. "Matty…."
"I…it sort of just…wanders in and out. But if I really concentrate, I can hear whole conversations, even in our neighbors' apartments."
Since that night, he'd told her little things. Stuff he happened to catch. And, whenever he was about to tell her something, it was always that tone that let her know she was about to be given a glimpse into Matty's new, terrifying version of reality.
Jack, and every trauma recovery therapist, all equated Matt's increased nightmares and sudden debilitating headaches to the shock of it all, but if she was experiencing all the things Matty told her in secret…yeah, her head would probably pound incessantly as well.
She set the book aside. "What'd you hear, Matty?"
"Today at Fogwell's, when you were at Aldridge…two men pulled Dad aside. They got him a match with Creel."
"Creel?" Iris gasped. "That's huge…"
Matty shook his head. "They say they'll make more money if he throws the fight. They want him to go down in the fifth…"
"He took the offer, didn't he?"
Matty sighed. "Yeah. Yeah he did." He paused, shuddering a little. "Has…has he done this before?"
"Since Price, I think. He's never told me, but I always suspected."
"Why? Why would he do this? It's wrong…it's…"
"It's what he has to do to take care of us. Cover rent. Food. Matty, he's doing what he can."
"I always thought…you, know…that our dad was untouchable. That no matter how bad the city seemed…"
"Our dad's a good man, Matty. This doesn't change that."
Did she hate that this was how things had to be? Of course. But she also knew her dad had to do what he could. He was still her hero, regardless. She could be proud of him, even like this.
Matty said nothing, just slid off his tinted glasses and set them on his nightstand. Iris got off Matty's bed, pulling the covers up to his chin. "Get some sleep, Squirt."
"Favorite flower?"
"Irises."
"Yeah. Okay yeah. That's kind of a given, isn't it?"
Iris had lost track of the hours, and that wasn't exactly a bad thing.
After teaching Patrick a few basic facts about Braille, they'd found themselves on the living room couch, playing a bizarre game of "what's your favorite" while she cuddled the "dream big" pillow to her chest. The third glass of wine she initially declined was now filled in her hands. All the questions were, as promised, delightfully shallow. Stupid, trivial little things. Enough to pass the hours. The eternal hours.
"Favorite Avenger?" Patrick asked.
"Captain America."
"Seriously?"
"Why not?"
"Spangle-y outfit, Frisbee throwing guy?"
"Correction. Classically handsome, moral compass set with a ridiculously true north. Not to mention, my dad had a few of his comic books. Used to love to read them as a kid. Read them to me when I was little. So. Yeah. Captain A-Frickin-'Merica."
And then there was Iris's cell-phone, drifting from her purse. Her heart stalled for a half-second, wondering—hoping, really—if Matt was calling her for an update. She set down her wine on the coffee table, trying not to appear too eager as she headed toward the source of her sound.
She frowned at the caller ID, the unknown number, stomach clenching. Her first thought was the worst one. Ransom call? The "we have your brother" or, worse still, "we killed your brother…."
Iris was aware of Patrick's stare, his thoughts obviously taking him to similar places. She braved the call, offering a shaky hello into the receiver.
"Iris," the voice on the other line was slurred, bubbly. At first Iris was relieved, and once that emotion ran its course, confusion settled in. "Foggy and I are….we're going to the fish market."
"Karen?" Iris tried to let the relief be too obvious in her voice. Though, Iris doubted Karen would notice. "How did you….how did you get my number?"
"We drank the eel, Sister-We-Don't Discuss. Come out with us," Foggy's voice proudly declared. There was a scuffling, the two battling for control of the phone. Karen evidently won.
"You wanna come out with us? We're not thinking!"
"I gathered as much," Iris sighed. Great. First vigilante brothers, now drunk lawyers and legal assistants—both of whom barely knew her. "Seriously, though, I'm still on the how you got this number thing…."
"Took it from Matt's phone," Foggy again. "Gotta look after him. Don't really trust you yet."
"And yet you're inviting me…"
"To the fish market," Foggy cut her off. "Karen's idea. The inviting you, not the fish market. Fish market was me. I am the king of good ideas. Karen is the queen of 'meh' ideas. She says I should get to know you."
"Foggy, I'm at…" she almost said work, but she didn't trust Karen and Foggy not to show up at Ethan's. So she went with the same alibi she fed Andy. "I'm at home. Food poising. It's bad."
"Can't come, Karen," Foggy said. "Puking her guts out."
There was indistinct chatter, laughter. "Gonna call Matt then. Have fun ralphing the night away!"
"Foggy, wait!" Iris said. If Foggy went looking for Matt, what would he find? Could Iris really let that happen? But the line went dead.
"Who was…?" Patrick asked, though he abandoned the question half-way though, obviously learning by now Iris wasn't too keen on answering personal questions. He sighed, trying a new angle. "Forget it."
There was dead space, Iris scrambling to quickly fill it. "Favorite sport?"
"Boxing."
She almost choked on her wine, just barely saving herself from a spit take. Of course, of course, that would be the answer. She was starting to regret the third glass. She wasn't a huge drinker—she was known to partake sparingly on special occasions, pair nicer dinners with a decent red—but her insides were starting to feel warm, fuzzy. Something hot was stinging at her eyeballs.
"Something I said?" Patrick asked.
"Nope," Iris shook her head fervently.
"Good, for a minute, I thought you were about to tell me you didn't like boxing. That would put a damper on our current relationship." He shrugged. "Whatever that is. But, anyway, I grew up here. Used to follow all of the local legends."
The Russians—out of all the people in the city—had to pick the guy who was a fan of boxers. Worse still, local boxers….
"Iris, are you….crying?"
"No. Everything's fine." She tossed back another sip of her drink, her world all cheap fermented grapes, sour and cutting like the memories that it kept stirring up.
"There is a price to be paid for division and isolation," little Matty's hands were flying across the page, a proud smile on this face. "Democracy cannot flourish hate. Justice cannot take route amid rage. We must dissent from the indifference. We must descent from the apathy. We must dissent from the fear."
Iris handed her father a sopping, freshly-washed plate, the last dish of the night. "Now don't ask me to read all that yet," she said as Jack began to dry.
"I'm not sure if you're actually reading that or if you're making it up," Jack whistled. "I'm not sure which is more impressive."
"It's Thurgood Marshall," Matty shrugged.
"Starting Centerfielder for the Mets, right?" Jack laughed, going to the freezer and pulling out a quart of ice cream. Iris followed him to the table with three spoons in hand.
"You know who Thurgood Marshall is," Matty snorted. Iris placed a spoon in her brother's hand.
"School wasn't my strong suit." Jack grabbed the package he'd leaned up against the kitchen wall, setting it before his children.
"That the stuff you ordered, Dad?" Iris was the first to tackle the treat, licking every drop of ice cream from her spoon.
"Came today," he agreed. "Had to do a lot of convincing to get Matty to let me wait until you got home."
Matty held out his spoon, silently asking for guidance. Iris slid the quart closer to him. "So let's get it out!" the youngest Murdock declared around a mouthful of mint chocolate-chip.
"Sure, sure," Jack began untying the strings that enveloped the brown paper, whistling when he saw what was hidden inside.
"How's it look?" Matty let his spoon clatter to the table, forgotten. Iris sat on her knees, craning to see.
"It's….red. It's very red."
Red indeed. A proud, silky scarlet robe, "Battlin' Jack Murdock" etched onto the back in beautiful gold lettering.
"You know when Mrs. Henderson upstairs gives us those cherry popsicles? We used to stick out our tongues at each other, because they turned them red. It's like that," Iris offered, trying to be helpful. She slumped back into her chair, taking another bite of ice-cream.
Matty, bless him, chuckled at the comparison. "Can I, Dad?"
Jack hesitated, a sympathetic look crossing his features for just a second, before he slid the robe across the table for Matty to feel. The nine-year-old moved his fingers carefully across the gold lettering. "Good thing about red. Can't see how much you're bleeding."
"Whose says I'm even gonna get hit?" Jack punctuated this point by stealing a bite of ice-cream.
"We're Murdocks," Matty slowly brought his hands to his lap. "We get hit a lot."
Jack sucked in a sharp breath at that, his gaze flickering to the ground. "Yeah…I guess we do." Iris reached across the table for his father's hand. He gently shied away from her touch.
"But we get back up. Right, Dad?" Matty added. Jack bulked at that. Iris looked at the quart of ice-cream, suddenly not in the mood for the treat. "We always get up."
"We do," Jack agreed, though his heart wasn't in it. He glanced side-long at Iris, then at Matty.
"Iris, you practice tonight?" he sighed.
"I had my lesson today…"
"Go get your oboe. You got that recital coming up, right?"
"Yeah. I do," Iris muttered, defeated.
"And, Matty, bath time. Iris will come put you to bed when you're done."
"You're gonna come say goodnight, right?" Matty hopped off his chair, coming to Iris's side.
"Always," Jack agreed. "Night, Kids."
"Night," they chorused.
Iris lingered in the doorway, silently watching her father. He was staring blankly at the package. "Daddy," she said, quietly. He startled.
"Hey, Sweetheart. What's up?"
"You take good care of us, Matty and Me," she muttered. "I love you."
He let out a shuddering breath. "I love you too, Iris."
She could have sworn she saw tears in his eyes before she went back to her bedroom.
They'd been silent for a good five minutes, five very long minutes. Patrick hadn't dared to ask what had gotten such a tense reaction out of her when the subject of boxing was brought up. He hadn't bothered to come up with another question either. Her wine was gone, and she was now most definitely buzzed. Stupid, sloppy wet tears were pouring down her face. Patrick was watching her, silent and looking on the verge of crying himself.
"The Mask," Patrick murmured. "He's….all you have left, right?"
Iris snapped her head up, terrified at the truth he'd just uttered.
"Ian's all I got too. Him and my sister. Ian's mother…" he shook his head, darkness overshadowing his face.
"My dad was a boxer," Iris whispered. She instantly felt like she'd said too much, especially if this guy followed the locals. But she'd committed. And there it was, lingering between them. "I lost him when I was young."
"How did…."
"He was supposed to go down in the fifth. It would have been so much simpler if he went down in the fifth."
"When I got older, they started releasing a lot about corruption scandals like that…"
"He did what he had to," Iris cut him off. "What he could with what he had. But, he just wanted us to witness people cheering for him. To be proud of our name. To be proud of him. But…we already were. Hell, the man was my hero. I think he knew that, too. Felt like he needed to earn it. But he didn't have to earn a thing. I loved him for trying."
Is that why Matty did what he did? Their father had failed trying to do the right thing. Was Matty taking up the gauntlet to make sure it wasn't a sacrifice made in vain?
"I hope one day, when Ian talks about me, he'll be talking the way you are about your dad."
"I hope Ian never has to talk about what it's like to lose you. At least not until he's got near-grown kids and you lived a full life," Iris shuddered. "When The Mask brings Ian back, hold him tight. So tight. And when he hugs you back, realize how much he loves you. And please don't think you have anything to prove to him. Just….being there is enough."
Matty and Iris watched their father's match with Creel in their living room, the whole apartment swelling with their frenzied excitement. Iris hadn't bothered with dinner, somber at the idea of watching her dad throw another fight. But when the fifth came and went and Battlin' Jack was still on fire, the Murdock children instantly went from resigned to electrified. They still weren't hungry, but their appetite was a victim of sheer excitement now.
"Murdock lands another! And another!" the announcer's voice crackled from their old TV. Matty was bouncing at the edge of the old recliner, face lit up like Time Square on New Year's.
"Get him, Dad! Get him!" he declared. Iris smiled, her own heart banging at her ribs.
"Creel is rocked! Murdock won't let him out of the corner. The younger creel seems stunned by the ferocious display by the more seasoned Murdock." A beat. "And it's over. Creel goes down. Battlin' Jack Murdock has defeated Crusher Creel!"
"Yes!" Matty hopped to his feet. "Yeah, Dad! Yeah!"
"Matty, the neighbors!" Iris warned, but he didn't register.
"Iris! Dad beat Creel! Dad beat Creel!"
"I know. I watched the same fight, Squirt," the laughed, roping him to her side. "You hungry? Dad left money for takeout. I'll get us something special, too."
They ordered a large pizza from their favorite local joint—pepperoni and sausage, just like always—and two fresh baked brownies to celebrate. On paper plates, so they wouldn't have dishes to worry about after. While they ate, Matty recounted the fight, crawling out of his skin in anticipation of their dad's return.
"I'm going in to practice," Iris said when she finished off her dessert. "I'm assuming you're waiting up for Dad?"
Matty nodded vigorously and Iris laughed, ruffling his hair, before heading into her room. As she ran through her recital piece, she tried to remember Dr. Manson's notes. She'd taken almost everything he said to heart, wanting to preserve the lesson as much as possible. He'd proved an effective teacher, and it was an opportunity she thought she could only pray for again.
She was running through her hardest section when the sound of a distant gunshot roared through her apartment. It took all the breath out of her, and she carelessly tossed the instrument onto the bed. "Matty!" she screamed, tripping into the kitchen.
His spot at the table was empty, the only evidence his glasses, sitting alone and forgotten. "Matty?"
She headed for his room, checking by his bedside where he kept his cane, and found it gone. Heart beating in her throat, she tore down the flights of stairs, screaming her brother's name as she hurried along the side-walk. The world skittered to a screeching halt when she saw cops gathered in an alleyway just a few buildings over from their apartment.
She heard crying. Matty's crying. Iris sprinted up to the officer, seeing just beyond them her brother on his knees, sobbing over….
"You can't go…" one of the cops said to her.
"M-m-my brother," she skirted around them.
Matty was feeling their father's face. A bloodied version of their father's face. "Daddy," he sobbed. Iris almost threw up, tripping onto her knees. "Daddy!"
"Matty," Iris scooted closer to him, hand on his shoulder. He roughly shrugged her off, cleaving to their dad's belly-up form.
"Matty, Matty, shhh," Iris sobbed, prying him away. She held him in an iron-tight hug. He fought her—really fought her, with every ounce of Murdock stubbornness—but then he slumped into her, wailing, defeated. Traumatized. Traumatized for the second time in his short life.
"Iris. D-d-daddy, he…"
"I know," Iris shivered, forcing herself to look away. To bury her face into Matty's shoulder and stay there. To let her tears fall onto his shirt, to force herself not to drink in the scene of her shattered life. She was, just for this one selfish moment, jealous of her brother's blindness. "Matty, I know."
Iris hadn't realized she'd fallen asleep until the clattering came from the kitchen. She was face down in the stupid "dream big" pillow. Patrick had found his way over to the recliner at one point, dozed off at an awkward angle. He snorted awake too, confirming that Iris hadn't imagined the crashing sounds from the kitchen.
She scrambled to her feet, Patrick right at her heels. She wanted to yell at him, to tell him not to follow her lead and rush headlong into potential danger. But then a single, tiny little voice silenced everything she was thinking about saying.
"Daddy!"
Ian's form flew right past Iris, launching into his father's waiting arms. "Hey, kiddo," Patrick let out a sob of relief, face scrunched with freely-flowing tears. "Hey."
"You waited with him," Iris's heart skipped when she heard Matty's voice in her ear. He was slumped, hunched. Holding his side and panting. Pain etched into every visible part of his face.
"I knew this is where you'd come," she said. "I wasn't going to be alone, wondering if you were going to turn up dead."
She wanted to hug him, to pull him right into her embrace and never let him go. She'd fought so hard to come back here, to get him back. And she'd come so close to losing him...
"You smell like a vineyard," he muttered.
"Don't be so dramatic," she said. "It was three glasses."
"Walk a block down the street," he said. "I'll tail you from above, make sure you're not followed. If I don't show up to tell you otherwise, take a cab to my apartment."
All Iris could do was numbly nod as slipped out of the back door.
When Iris got to Matt's building, she texted him to let him know she was there. He was downstairs—dressed in sweats, a hoodie, and his tinted glasses and looking so different from the menacing figure in black she'd seen earlier that night—in almost an instant. Like he'd heard the cab riding up. Probably had.
Before she could protest, Matt shoved a handful of cash into the cabbie's hand, muttering some sort of thank-you, and then pulls open the back door. Exhaustion and alcohol finally caught up with her. He offered her an arm and she took it, leaning on him as he led her up the rickety stairs.
Matty's apartment was strange at night, a florescent light bathing the whole thing in a neon glow. Some bill-board leaking its advertisement right through Matty's windows. "Don't worry," he said. "I'll sleep on the couch."
"Matty, I can go back to my apartment, you don't have to…."
"It was a trap," Matty's voice shook a little. "I walked right into a trap. Ended up in a dumpster. Almost died. A woman, a nurse, she found me. Stitched me up. I…slept. Dreamt a lot. About….I dreamt about Dad, Iris."
"Shit, Matty," Iris choked on a sob.
"Let me, uh…make up the bed for you," he said, skirting around her. She didn't protest.
She fell asleep that night on silk sheets, buried in very soft, very unscented bedding. If she listened hard enough, she could hear Matty breathing out in the living room. She knew he was listening for her as well. She could pretend they were kids again, under her covers and braving a thunderstorm.
"Goodnight, Squirt," she muttered into the pillow. She knew he heard her.
When she finally slept, she dream of them as kids, dozed off on the couch, waiting for their father to get home.
Okay, "Cut Man" as an episode destroys me every time I see it, so needless to say this was...interesting for me to write.
These are looong chapters for me. All my original stuff has chapter lengths of about 4k-ish, but my original stuff is all YA.
Well, hope you enjoyed this chapter.
I certainly enjoyed writing it!
Until the next update
-Moonlit
P.S For some reason, two of my "(Section Break)" placeholders didn't get changed in the first posting. Whoops. My bad. It is fixed on.