vxmpire-Aww, thanks! I can tell you what she gets up to: murder. Murder, drug running, and reading internet articles on the Winter Soldier going, 'yeah, if he needs a job, he can be my new personal bodyguard because goddamn.'
Matt considers himself a very forgiving, peaceful person.
Apart from, well, beating up crime in alleyways, but when it comes to neighbourly rage, he's...lenient. It's not their fault he has...exceptional...senses.
But if ever he were going to murder somebody, it might be his downstairs neighbour. Matt's never met him-he's just dubbed him 'He Who Has No Indoor Voice'. He likes to sing, this neighbour. But...if Matt's going to be generous...well...the guy shouldn't quit his day job.
His voice cracks on a high note and Matt pulls his pillow over his head. At least in college, he could rely on any singers passing out drunk in short order. Not so anymore.
Why me?
He tried going out tonight-he's not that bad off-but he was halfway out the window when he started coughing and couldn't quite stop, and then it occured to him that maybe that would ruin any hope he had of stealth.
Also, Foggy's hypothetical gramma and premature grandchild are not helping.*
So on top of feeling sick, he's feeling ridiculously guilty-somebody already got mugged a few blocks down, but they at least survived-and his neighbour is not helping.
Screw it. Apartment law says banging on the floor is totally acceptable in this situation.
He gets up-ugh-and fetches the mop and proceeds to bang it on the floor a little harder than strictly necessary. The singing stops abruptly and there's a strangled, "Sorry!"
His throat's too sore to answer and he makes his way back to bed, grateful for the silence and a little sorry he had to interrupt He Who Has No Indoor Voice's night. It's only nine, he really shouldn't complain.
His phone informs him he has a text and he shuffles back to his room. The text is from Foggy-STAY IN TONIGHT, you don't want to infect that poor great gramma.
He considers not answering, but then he might find his apartment invaded without warning.
I'm not.
If you come in with so much as a papercut, I'll know you went out and I'll tell Karen that story about the goat.
I'm staying in. Night, Fog.
His phone stays silent after that and he crawls under the covers, trying-and failing-to block out the radio downstairs and the bar fight down the street and-
Everything.
Matt's startled out of a semi-sound sleep by pounding footsteps-light, short legspan-and a scream of, "Ayúdame!"**
Child's voice. He can't ignore that one, they'll just have to risk getting sick.
He's down the fire escape in record time and it's actually really really cold and where is that kid-
That way. Now that he's actually outside, he can hear another set of footsteps, and muffled swearing.
They're closer than he thought-literally, they're like a block away-and he gets there just as the kid comes tearing around the corner-and runs smack into someone else.
"Me puso! Me puso!"
"Hey!" Oww...maybe no more shouting. "What do you think you're doing!"
"Shit."
"Go, go!"
One of them drops the kid on the sidewalk and they both book it, their footsteps wet and heavy on the rainy cement. He should give chase, but...he's not in the mask and there's the child-a little girl, he thinks-to consider.
"Hey." He won't be speaking tomorrow. "You okay?"
Panting, a gasp of surprise. Then, in accented, broken english, "Thank...you."
"Está herido?"
"No." Frightened, though-her heart's going a mile a minute. "No, quiero que mi mamá..."
"Shh, shh. Te llaman. Cuál es el número?"
She rattles one off and he remembers he left his phone-both of them-on his bedside table. He can't very well leave her here, but if he tries to take her up there she might panic and run. Or he'll be arrested for kidnapping.
There's a coffee shop a little ways back, they'll go there.
"Vamos."
No one's here apart from one overtired waitress, and at first she doesn't say anything, but then she must get a good look at them because she bustles towards them as though she might knock him out if he appears to be doing anything to the little girl.
"What can I do for you?" Yeah, suspicious.
"I rescued her from a kidnapping." he explains softly. "I need to call her mom, she's scared out of her mind."
That pulls her up short. There's more noise-cups clinking and coffee-no, hot chocolate-being poured and then a cell phone is being pressed into his hand.
"I need you to type in the number." he says.
"Oh-right, I'm sorry..."
"It's fine."
He gives her the number, hears her type it in before handing the phone back. Then she kneels in front of the little girl and makes cooing noises before offering her a mug. Then someone picks up.
"Hola?"
"Hola, mi nombre es Matt, tu hija..." How to go about this?
"Esperanza?" The woman's voice is high, frightened, and there's a flurry of movement in the background. "Dios mío, qué ha pasado?"
"Nada, nada, ella esta bien, pero ella está asustada. Estamos en una cafetería..." He breaks off. "What is this place called?"
"Lalla's."
"Thanks. Ah, estamas en Lalla's, en Pine Street."
She doesn't even thank him, just hangs up. She won't be long.
"Her mom's coming."
"Shouldn't we call the police?"
He shrugs and promptly sneezes. She pours another mug-coffee, this time-and gives it to him.
"Thanks."
"You brave, sweet thing-"
"It's nothing-"
She huffs at him and all but drags him to a booth.
"Sit down right here, I'll see about some pancakes."
"Really, I-"
But she's gone and he's left alone with Esperanza.
"Tu mamá en su camino." he says. "Ella estará aquí pronto." She doesn't answer. "Qué ha pasado?"
It takes a while, but she eventually tells him that she was coming home from her friend's house when a woman asked her the time, and then tried to grab her.
Well, well. Isn't this interesting.
Her mother arrives just as they're finishing their pancakes, and there's much crying and hugging. He gets dragged into the hugging bit.
The waitress offers to take him home, but he insists he's fine and by the time he gets back in he's got her number-great-and it's around midnight.
Foggy, he thinks tiredly, is not going to be very happy with him tomorrow.
*Heh. See? Foggy's had practice at this, probably started in college. 'Uh, Matt, you've been out of the hospital for like, twelve hours, maybe you shouldn't give pneumonia to the pregnant lady behind you, okay?'
**Spanish, in order: 'help me', 'put me down', 'are you hurt?', 'I want my mom', 'I'll call her. What's the number?' 'come on/let's go', 'hi, my name is Matt, your daughter...' 'my god, what happened?' 'nothing, nothing, she's fine, but she's scared. We're at a coffee shop...' 'your mom's on her way, she'll be here soon'. It's cobbled together from Google translate, high school, and general living in an area with a lot of Spanish speakers (Arizona), but if there's errors, lo siento.
