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“Learn to do good; Seek justice, reprove the ruthless, defend the orphan, Plead for the widow.” Isaiah 1:17
Steve’s fingers graze the surface of the holy water in the small fountain at the entrance of the chapel. He crosses himself, and a fat bead of holy water rolls down his forehead from where his fingers made contact with his face, but he doesn’t wipe it away. The perpetual adoration chapel is quiet. Not many people frequent as the night encroaches, so it was empty save for the last person penciled in to keep watch.
He likes taking the night watch for reasons unexplained. He seldom overstays his hour, but there’s something about the stillness of the chapel that draws him in; it acts as a refuge from the noise outside, from the sounds of the city around him. In regards to its nightlife, he reasons, New York City hasn’t changed much since his time, but he supposes the city itself won’t ever sleep.
The person previously keeping watch is just about to leave when Steve shows up. He’s dark-haired and fair, his body tall and lean. It’s not until he genuflects towards the altar that Steve notices the red-tipped cane at his side, and it’s not till he turns around that Steve takes his red-tinted glasses into account, but it’s easy to conclude he’s blind. Still, though, he gives Steve a small smile of acknowledgment as he exits the chapel. Steve returns the gesture despite knowing it would go unseen. The sound of a tapping cane bounces off the chapel’s wooden floors.
Steve, too, genuflects and proceeds to take a seat in one of the pews when he notices the blind man left his belongings. Hastily, he goes to retrieve them, but the tapping is gone. He left a rosary—a really nice one at that; the beads are red glass, and the chain and cross are silver—and a prayer card to Saint Michael. Steve runs his fingers over the rosary beads, still warm from being used, but then frowns as he looks down at the prayer card. It’s made of thick cardstock and covered in glossy plastic, making wonder why a blind man would be in possession of something he can’t read.
He pockets both items with no intention of keeping them. Rather, he hopes to run into the man at Sunday mass so he can return the possessions. Maybe then, with a reason to go, he’ll finally attend mass for the first time in months.
The cushion is soft and familiar. A stack of Bibles sit on the far end of the pew, the leather covers worn and the silk book marks frayed, releasing the scent of old books into the warm air. The floors creak. One of the hanging lamps on the ceiling squeaks. With the rosary and prayer card feeling weightless in his pocket, Steve closes his eyes and lets the chapel swallow him whole.
He feels kind of awkward tracking down the man at church, but it’s not like it it’s a difficult task—he stands out like a raven in a flock of doves with the cane and the glasses. Steve finally finds him seated on the bench outside. His hands curl tightly around his cane and he seems to be focused, as if he’s listening to the heartbeat of the city.
“Excuse me, sir?” He says, hoping not to startle him.
The man tilts his head towards him ever-so-slightly. “Yes?”
“Do you keep vigil at the chapel? Ten o’clock on Fridays?” Steve asks, his hand closing around the rosary in the pocket of his slacks. The prayer card is tucked safely into the breast pocket of his jacket.
He nods. “I do.”
“You, uh, left your rosary and prayer card there.” Steve explains, withdrawing the rosary from his pocket. “Thought I might give it back to you rather than leave it there.”
“Oh, well, thank you.” A smile reminiscent of the one offered on Friday night tugs at the corners of his lips. He holds his hand out, the palm facing upwards, prompting Steve to return his things. “It’d be disappointing if it were gone by next Friday. Not very Christian to steal from a church.”
Steve chuckles. The man stores his rosary inside his own pocket, but Steve watches curiously as he runs his fingers over the laminated prayer card—over the image of Saint Michael—and speculates its importance.
It’s Friday again, and Steve is at the chapel. His hour is up, and the next person keeping vigil has already replaced him. He exits, dipping his fingers into the holy water, but the chapel ledger catches his attention. He pauses in the lobby, and crosses over to a small table to pick it up. The brown leather is pliant against his fingers, and the pages are crisp with ink. It’s is open to the vigil schedule. Steve picks up the pen to sign himself out, but the name in the 10:00 slot catches his eye.
Matt Murdock.
The penmanship is a thing of atrocities; it’s crooked, straight, loopy, and angular at the same time, a visible paradox. It barely stays on its line. It’s so bad, in fact, that Steve can only assume it belongs to a blind man.
Steve runs into Matt Murdock the following Sunday. He’s late to mass and is compelled to take a seat in the last pew, arriving just after the Lord’s Prayer, his slacks rumpled and his costume peeking out from the top of his barely-buttoned shirt. It’s downright embarrassing, showing up so late to church (and he’s certain it’s something his mam wouldn’t be proud of), but the world needed saving (again), and the Avengers seemed to be the only ones capable.
“Let us offer each other the sign of peace.” The priest says, and the congregation ripples with movement as people reach across pews to shake hands and whatnot. Steve rushes to button the top button of his shirt right before the people in front of him turn around with kind smiles and outstretched hands.
“You’re a little late.”
Steve isn’t even aware he’s sharing a pew with Matt Murdock till he offers him his hand. He shakes it, noticing the rough callouses on his fingers and scar tissue on palms. “Peace be with you, too.”
He almost says his name, but then realizes it would look strange because they never introduced themselves.
Sharing a pew becomes a thing over the span of a month. During that month, names are exchanged and something akin to a friendship is formed. Matt eventually introduces Steve to the priest, Father Lanthom, and the three sit down for lattes one Sunday after mass. It’s nice and informal, though Steve finds it strange that Matt is so close to his priest. Maybe it’s because he’s a bit of a rehabilitated Catholic whom only started regularly attending Mass as of recently. The other Avengers treat his newfound spirituality like an elephant in the room—everyone knows where he disappears to on Sundays, but no one talks about it—and Steve isn’t exactly sure if he should tell them about Matt. After all, his life doesn’t just revolve around the team (even if it damn well seems like it at times), and he likes his new friend because he establishes a bit of normalcy in his life.
So, they go out for lunch. And for dinner. And they hang out at Steve’s place in Brooklyn because the view from Matt’s apartment in Hell’s Kitchen is enough to blind anyone. Matt is never open about himself, but Steve gradually comes to string his life together from the little puzzle pieces he drops within their conversations. He now knows that Matt is an orphan, like him , who lost his father, like him , and fought against all odds to get to where he is today, again, like him. Even if he doesn’t like talking about himself, it seems to Steve that Matt’s life revolves around other people, namely one other—his friend Foggy. He tells him about their law firm, about their lack of paying clients, and their desire to make some sort of difference in the world, to stand up for those who can’t stand up for themselves. In turn, Steve tells him about Brooklyn in the forties, about picking fights with the neighborhood bullies, and Bucky. He doesn’t leave out Bucky.
One day, after Mass, they talk about their Catholic upbringings. Matt tells him how his father used to take him to this very same church every Sunday, and Steve talks about his little parish in Brooklyn that was torn down in the seventies. Steve learns that Matt’s confirmation name is Michael, after the archangel, not only because it’s his middle name, but also because Saint Michael the protector-- the prince of angels, the champion of the heavens-- is always shown with a sword in his hand and the devil underfoot. He figures it makes sense for Matt, a defense attorney, to choose such a famed defender as a confirmation saint.
“The nuns at St. Agnes made us read the Bible as part of the theology curriculum,” Matt comments casually on the subject of faith. His hands wrap loosely around his cane. “So, I have a good half of the New Testament memorized.”
“My mother couldn’t read much,” Steve responds. “But she could read the Bible. Used to read it to me at bedtime, or when I was sick. I don’t really remember much but the old stories—Samson and Delilah, David and Goliath, Moses and the Israelites, y’know—but I remember this one verse... Isaiah, I think. Goes something like ‘learn to do good, seek justice, reprove the ruthless—“
“Defend the orphan, plead for the widow.” Matt finishes. There’s a small smile on his lips. “Isaiah one, seventeen. Yeah, I remember that one, too.”
“It struck something with me.” Steve admits, shoving his hands in his pockets. “It still does.”
“I know."
Daredevil isn’t what Steve would call a team player. From his inferences, he can conclude he’s a recluse that confines himself to the murky alleyways and dark corners of the city. Truth be told, no one know where he comes from, who he is, or if he’s even human. The man is shrouded in so thick a veil of rumor and speculation that even the Avengers haven’t a clue who they’re really teaming up with on the rare basis.
Tony comes up with a couple of theories regarding the Devil. One of them is extremely sacrilegious—”he’s probably actually Satan, who knows”—but Steve is too desensitized by aliens and killer robots to really even care at this point. The rest of them are Tony’s usual brand of paranoid—“I’m telling you, he’s got to be some sort of alien”—but there’s no way to validate them because Daredevil is such an isolationist.
However, no one would suspect Daredevil to be a blind lawyer.
It’s a brilliant way to protect an alias, really. It’s just so out there that most people would laugh if someone said that Matt Murdock, the blind lawyer from the Kitchen, was Daredevil. Steve’s got to give it to Matt—it’s a risky way to play, but it somehow seems to work because Steve himself still has a hard time believing it.
Yesterday, they’d run into Daredevil, who was, as usual, being reclusive. He did, however, lend a helping hand in helping subdue the threat-of-the-week, leaving all of them grateful. But he was gone before Steve could express his gratitude.
However, he just so happened to leave a prayer card, a laminated prayer card to Saint. Michael, which must’ve flown out of his pocket.
It’s Friday. Ten minutes till eleven. Steve comes to adoration a little early tonight with the intent of seeing his friend Matt. He takes a seat next to him, and it’s with irony that he realizes he’s sharing a pew with the Devil.
“Hey, Matt.” He whispers, his voice loud in the stillness of the chapel. He pulls the prayer card out of his pocket, and slides it towards him. “You left this.”
Matt feels around for the card with scarred hands. His knuckles are raw and scabby. He pockets the card quickly.
“Thank you.” His voice is curt, soft, and leaves Steve wondering whether he’s grateful to have his card back, or because his secret is still safe.
They sit in silence for the remainder of Matt’s hour. Then, he leaves Steve to contemplate the irony of why the Devil chose Saint Michael as his confirmation saint.