Max Fogwell's head jerked up at the familiar squeak of the gym's door swinging shut. Looking beyond his dimly lit office, out into the gym itself, he was able to pick out a familiar lean figure slowly making its way to the ring-side benches, and he frowned to himself. Only two days… Part of the old trainer had been hoping the kid would take more time off, but the other part had wanted him to show, if only to let Max confirm his suspicions. Tilting back in his chair, Max could see how the Murdock kid's head tilted as the chair squeaked. Is that how you do it?
"Hello?" Matt called out, gripping his cane. "Is anyone there?"
I think you already know the answer to that one, kid. Max pushed back his chair and eased himself upright. "Don't mind me, kid. Just catching up on some bookkeeping." He made his way out of the office and into the gym. "Could use a break though… Get all cross-eyed starin' at all those numbers for too long. How've you been doin'? Haven't seen you 'round for a while. That practice of yours been keepin' you busy?"
The young man smiles and nods as he searches for a bench. "We're getting more clients every day. Some can actually afford to pay us money instead of in baked goods." He laughs, and—there—Matt hides it well, but Max picks up on the tiny flinch and the way Matt's body freezes for a moment when he goes to drop his bag on the bench. "We should be able to make rent this month for a change."
Max looks closer and in the dim gym light, he can see Matt's heavily scabbed over knuckles, looking like he had gone 12 rounds a few days ago, which if Max's suspicions are correct, he had and then some. "And how about you? Looks like you've gotten a little roughed up…"
Matt freezes as he shrugs out of his hoodie and forces himself to relax and shrugs. "Oh, uh, a client…her ex didn't take kindly to her accusations. Figured the blind guy would make an easier target. I'll be fine." He leans down to unzip his bag, and there's that flinch again.
Max shoots him a look—for a lawyer, Matt has a terrible poker face. "I doubt that, kid…"
Behind his glasses, Matt blinks. "What…?"
Time to put all my cards on the table…enough screwin' around. Max sighs heavily as he lowers himself onto the bench, "…Look, kid…Matt. I've been involved in boxing for almost 60 years. I know pretty much all the boxers in the Kitchen, and in the surrounding neighborhoods, and even a few assholes from Brooklyn, and I've gotten pretty good at recognizing a certain trainer's style. And Jack only ever trained one person: his own son. So, imagine my surprise when video starts poppin' up, showin' the Kitchen's own Daredevil laying out jerks with a vicious right uppercut that Battlin' Jack was known for…" Max looks up at the younger man in front of him—who looks like he's two seconds away from rabbiting—and smiles, not caring that Matt more than likely can't pick it up. "What you're doing out there…Jack would be proud of you, kiddo. We all are. How many kids from the Kitchen can say they've gone to Columbia, got a law degree, set up his own practice to help his neighborhood, and then ends up kicking the gangs out of Hell's Kitchen, and stands with the likes of Captain America and Iron Man? That's something to be damn proud of."
A slight blush had started to creep up onto Matt's face as he had started to relax, at least until he realized something, and then he was right back to hiding his panic. "Wait. We? Who else knows?!"
"Not countin' me? Just two more—couple of old boxers like me, who still remember your old man. Few drinks down at the bar and even Sherlock Holmes's got nuthin' on us. And Francine. She's got a good eye on her, and you can't hide anything from her anyway, but she can keep a secret…we all can, Matt. Though after seeing your last scrape, I had to stop Francine from finding your place so she could go all Mother Hen on you—didn't think you'd appreciate that…"
"…S'not that bad…only a few cracked ribs…" Matt muttered, his arm unconsciously curling protectively around his injured side.
Max stood, pulling in a hissing breath in sympathy. Leaning over, he zipped up Matt's bag, slung it over his shoulder, and held out the young man's hoodie to him, who numbly took it. "Exactly. Francine's never gonna let me hear the end of it if I allow you beat up that punching bag when you should be taking a moment for yourself. Now, come on…" He tossed Matt's cane at him, not surprised when he snatched it out of the air. "Let's head down to the bar, and us old farts can treat you to a coupla drinks while we lie through our teeth talkin' about our glory days…" Draping an arm around Matt's shoulders—Matt tensed for a moment before allowing his shoulders to slump under the comfortable weight—Max started to guide Matt out of the gym. "And then maybe you can tell us what it was like beatin' the tar out of that Fisk asshole." Once outside, Max grinned, "Better yet, you tell us what that Black Widow gal is really like…"
.
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A/N: They totally drink the eel…
(And holy cow...I'm not dead and submitting stuff that ISN'T depressing)